Thamuz slowly emerged from unconsciousness, his heavy eyelids gradually revealing the familiar image of his room. Beside him, Tawnylon sat on a carved wooden chair, one leg crossed over the other, intently scrutinizing a parchment.

“Father...” Thamuz whispered weakly.

Tawnylon immediately lowered the missive and turned his attention to his son, who extended a trembling hand toward him. Without hesitation, the father intertwined his fingers with his son's, conveying warmth and strength through that simple gesture.

“Hello, son. How are you feeling?” Tawnylon asked while gently stroking Thamuz's hair.

“In pain, Father, so much pain,” he replied with a faint groan.

“It’s understandable. Rarely have I seen such a brutal training session, but at least you’ve learned fundamental techniques that could save your life in combat,” Tawnylon reflected.

Thamuz examined his battered body, wrapped in bandages that extended from his chest to his back. The wrappings emitted a sharp scent and were soaked in a mysterious liquid.

“What is this?” he asked, puzzled.

“These are bandages infused with bandamenas water to speed up your recovery,” Tawnylon explained, reaching for a crystal glass on the bedside table. “Drink some more; it will help you greatly.”

With great effort and his father's support, Thamuz managed to sit up on the edge of the bed. The twilight filtered through the window, bathing the room in shades of purple and gold.

Tawnylon gently held his son’s chin as he helped him drink the bandamenas water, ensuring every drop was used until the glass was empty.

“What time is it, Father?” Thamuz asked.

“It’s already dusk, son. See how the shadows stretch over our land,” Tawnylon replied in a calm voice.

Though the pain lingered, Thamuz slowly stood up, feeling the soothing effect of the bandamenas water coursing through his body. He placed a hand on his chest, where the whip's impacts had left their deepest mark, and hobbled toward the window to watch the night’s veil gradually cover the landscape.

"They will be fine, especially your mother. She knows I am with you, so there’s nothing for her to worry about. In fact, I’ve been writing her a letter, even including our address," Tawnylon replied, resuming his examination of the parchment in his hands.

"Can I see it?" Thamuz asked, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

"Of course," Tawnylon nodded, extending the document.

Thamuz approached and took the letter carefully. As he examined it, his face twisted in confusion; the content seemed to be a tangle of scribbles and deformed symbols with an ancient appearance.

"I can’t make sense of this, Father," he admitted, handing the missive back.

"It’s a secret code your mother and I created to communicate during our youth," Tawnylon explained with a nostalgic smile. "In those days, the guards monitored my every move to prevent me from approaching her. So, I began writing letters that looked like mere ink tests, but in reality, each scribble and drawing was a letter meant for her. I would crumple them and leave them in trash baskets near the palace. Your mother recognized them by a small drop of paint marking the edges."

"Why keep using that code now? Her father is no longer around to stop you from communicating," Thamuz questioned.

"It’s something intimate that we still do, a way to keep our love alive," Tawnylon replied, folding the letter with reverent care.

"I see," murmured Thamuz, returning to his bed.

"It’s time to rest, son. Vixkard mentioned you’ll resume training when the sun begins to scorch the skin," Tawnylon announced as he made his way to his own bed.

"Do you know what kind of training it will be?" Thamuz inquired.

"There’s no way to know. Vixkard is unpredictable in his methods. When I was his student, he might order endurance exercises one day and focus on strength the next. All we can do is wait," Tawnylon explained, settling on his side. "Sleep well, son."

"You too, Father," Thamuz replied, turning toward the wall.

The hours passed as the night cloaked the room in its frigid veil. Thamuz curled up, trying to shield himself from the cold seeping through his slowly healing wounds.

The first rays of dawn roused Thamuz, stinging his weary eyes. The morning heat compelled him to sit up, releasing a yawn so long it seemed his jaw might unhinge.

Turning his gaze, he noticed his father’s bed was empty, as usual. Surely, he was already in the courtyard.

With notable effort, Thamuz rose from his bed and headed toward the courtyard. This time, the pain had subsided enough to allow him to walk with relative ease.

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As he crossed the main hall of the house, he spotted Korro in the distance. The young man was repeatedly striking one of the massive stone pillars that shamonak fighters used to strengthen their palm strikes. The intensity of his training was such that his hands had begun to bleed.

Thamuz approached the training area and observed Vixkard, who was seated in a rocking chair, wrapped in blankets, and seemingly overseeing Korro’s practice.

“Good morning, Mr. Vixkard. I’m ready for the next training,” Thamuz announced, his voice carrying renewed vigor.

However, Vixkard remained motionless, giving no indication he had noticed Thamuz’s presence. Puzzled by the silence, Thamuz tried to get his attention again, but to no avail. Stepping closer to the elderly man, he discovered Vixkard was fast asleep, emitting loud snores.

“He always falls asleep at the most convenient moments,” Korro’s voice rang out from a distance. “Let me wake him.”

Without further ado, Korro picked up a small stone from the ground and hurled it with precision at Vixkard. The projectile struck the elder squarely on the forehead, jolting him awake. His head darted in all directions as he searched for the culprit.

“What? Who? What happened? Who did that?” Vixkard stammered, his voice still thick with sleep.

“You old sleepyhead, Thamuz has been trying to talk to you for a while! He’s ready for training!” Korro shouted.

Vixkard seemed momentarily confused, but as he sensed the presence before him, he understood the situation. With laborious movements, he rose from the chair and stood before Thamuz.

“Good morning, young Thamuz. Forgive the delay; my old body can no longer stay awake for long,” Vixkard apologized. “However, I still have enough energy to begin your next training.”

With these words, Vixkard descended the stone steps leading to the courtyard, closely followed by Thamuz, until they reached the combat arena where Korro continued his practice with the stone pillar.

“Go on, young Thamuz, position yourself in front of that stone,” Vixkard instructed, absentmindedly pointing in the wrong direction.

Understanding the intent despite the mistaken gesture, Thamuz made his way to the pillar and positioned himself before it, observing the bloodstains left by Korro’s palms.

“Do you know the name of these stones?” Vixkard asked as he heard Thamuz’s footsteps pause.

“I remember my father made me train with one when I first began shamonak, but I’ve forgotten its name,” Thamuz replied, running his fingers over the rough surface of the rock.

“They’re called Bonkam. They are fundamental for those starting in shamonak combat—perfect for developing the power of our strikes,” Vixkard explained.

“So that’s what they’re called,” Thamuz murmured, lightly tapping the stone with his knuckles.

“Yes, it’s basic, but I want you to perform a simple exercise with it,” Vixkard said, stepping beside Thamuz. “I want you to strike it.”

Thamuz nodded, preparing to deliver the blow. He adopted a stance that would allow him to harness all his strength, and with an outstretched palm, he unleashed the built-up pressure in a single strike that echoed throughout the courtyard, even reaching Korro’s training area.

“Excellent. That was a great palm strike, but it’s missing something. You need to use your muscles to their fullest capacity,” Vixkard pointed out.

“I see, muscle control, right?” Thamuz asked.

“Exactly,” Vixkard confirmed. “If you tense your muscles at the precise moment of impact, you can generate much greater damage.”

“So I haven’t been striking with my full strength this entire time?” Thamuz wondered aloud.

The question echoed in his mind as a faint smile appeared on his face. He turned to face the stone again, preparing himself once more, this time focusing on pushing his muscles to their limit, feeling the tension pulse beneath his skin.

In an instant, his strike hit the stone like lightning, producing a thunderous sound akin to an explosion that could be heard outside the house, startling passersby.

Vixkard burst into laughter, clapping with a vigor uncharacteristic of his age.

“Bravo, Thamuz! That’s how a strike should be executed!” he exclaimed.

As the dust cloud cleared, the stone was revealed, nearly split in two, crumbling slowly.

“My apologies, Mr. Vixkard. I think I’ve destroyed your Bonkam,” Thamuz said, embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about that; I have more stored away. What you’ve achieved is extraordinary—few of my students have managed to break a Bonkam with a single strike,” Vixkard reassured him. “But now, a new challenge awaits.”

"Which one is it?" asked Thamuz curiously.

The sound of heavy footsteps drew everyone's attention to the courtyard entrance. There stood Tawnylon, carrying on his shoulders a colossal bonkam stone that tripled his already imposing height of three meters.

"Here's the stone you requested, Vixkard," announced Tawnylon as he deposited the gigantic block on the ground.

The stone stood out for its peculiar bluish coloration, which contrasted notably with the characteristic blackness of common bonkam. Its surface was covered with runic inscriptions forming a pattern of horizontal lines crossed by straight strokes, similar to a plus sign.

"Thank you. Now come, Thamuz," indicated Vixkard.

Thamuz advanced toward the stone alongside Vixkard, greeting his father as he passed. Upon reaching the monolith, he extended a hand to check its consistency.

The texture was incredibly rough, similar to touching carbonized grass. The roughness was such that Thamuz instinctively withdrew his hand, closing his fist with discomfort.

"These are special bonkam stones, reserved for those most advanced in shamonak," explained Vixkard, positioning himself behind Thamuz. "Hitting it is like striking a bag full of sharp, dense rocks. This will be your training today: you will strike until your hands break."

Thamuz swallowed at these words but accepted the challenge. He adopted the same previous posture, tensing his muscles to the maximum, until the air vibrated with another sonic boom as his strike connected.

This time no dust rose; it was a dry impact that caused Thamuz to instantly retract his hand to examine it.

"It's extremely hard," he muttered, flexing his fingers cautiously.

The pain was intense, but he strived to maintain composure. Without hesitation, he returned to his attack position.

Another boom resonated, more powerful than the previous one, but barely managed to raise a thin layer of dust around.

Strike after strike, the stone remained intact, while his hands became covered in increasingly deeper lacerations.

He momentarily stopped to examine his palms, now swollen and reddened from the continuous violent impacts against the colossal rock.

Tawnylon approached and poured bandamenas water over his injured hands. Thamuz simultaneously felt the sting and relief of the healing liquid.

"This will accelerate your recovery, son. Continue with the training," indicated Tawnylon before retiring alongside Vixkard, where both remained with crossed arms.

The two masters attentively observed how Thamuz intensified the force of his strikes against the rock, while Vixkard kept in mind the next lesson he should impart.