The hours had passed, and the sun was once again hiding behind the horizon. The sound of labored breathing and the body heat of Thamuz filled the air as he knelt with his arms extended at his sides.

His hands were in a complete mess: his nails had been torn off, cuts grazed his palms, and bruises covered his fingers.

The bonkam stone still stood, with small scratches barely noticeable to the eye, so much so that it seemed as if it had not taken any damage at all.

Even so, Thamuz rose again and began striking the rock, this time with no strength or energy left, causing him to fall to his knees once more, gasping for air.

“You’ve done enough for today,” Vixkard’s voice echoed in his ears. “Let’s leave this for now and focus on your recovery.”

Vixkard left the scene with his arms crossed, heading back to his house, while Thamuz watched him disappear. Even so, he stood up again and struck the rock.

Tawnylon approached him and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it firmly as Thamuz turned his head to look at his father with a hint of defiance.

“You’ve heard the old man. Stop hitting the rock, just look at your hands,” Tawnylon remarked.

Thamuz glanced at his hands and saw them so battered they were barely recognizable. He stood, struggling to catch his breath, and made his way to the stone stairs, where he sat, staring at that rock that still stood as if all his efforts had been for nothing.

Korro approached Thamuz and sat beside him, observing the defeated posture of his companion, but also noticing a glint of fury in his demeanor.

“You know, the fact that you kept hitting that rock for so long is really impressive,” he said, trying to encourage his friend. “If I’d been hitting it, I would’ve broken my arms on the first strike.”

But Thamuz glanced at him briefly before lowering his head again, staring at his hands and clenching them tightly, causing them to bleed.

“That stone has to fall,” he said through gritted teeth, hatred lacing his voice.

Tawnylon approached them and knelt in front of his son, studying the way Thamuz was trying to calm himself.

“Tell me, son, how does defeat feel to you?” Tawnylon asked.

"Defeat? What do you mean by defeat, Father?" Thamuz questioned. "I have never lost a fight to even wonder what defeat feels like."

Tawnylon caught his son's message and looked back at the rock, gesturing toward it with his thumb for Thamuz to see.

"That right there is your first defeat; it didn’t even move, yet you lost against it. To me, that’s defeat," he said, trying to provoke his son.

"That isn’t even a living thing I can fight. Stop saying nonsense, Father; I’m not in the mood for games," Thamuz replied, lifting his head to meet his father’s gaze with fierceness.

"Defeats aren’t just against a rival or someone you hate; defeats will always be present in your life in many forms, whether it’s when nothing goes right or when you feel like you’ve lost something important," Tawnylon said calmly. "But they aren’t meant to make you feel lesser or like a failure; they’re meant to make you improve."

His father’s words echoed powerfully in Thamuz’s mind. The fierceness in his eyes began to cool, and his rage diminished significantly. Even so, he felt frustration within himself for being unable to complete the training.

"I want to improve, Father," Thamuz said, his voice cracking.

"You will, son. You’ll improve greatly as long as you stay surrounded by us, so much so that you’ll even surpass what I was as a fighter," Tawnylon said, spreading his arms emphatically. "But to do that, you need to learn how to handle defeat and know how to overcome it."

"How do I do that?" Thamuz asked.

"First, don’t let that fury out on others; you could cause more harm than what was done to you. And second..." Tawnylon said, extending his hand. "Always accept the help of others when it’s offered."

Thamuz looked at his father’s hand and slowly extended his own until he grasped his father’s firm grip, letting out a faint groan of pain in response.

"Let’s get you some bandamena water so you can recover," Tawnylon said, walking alongside his son.

Korro watched the two leave and let out a small sigh, perhaps out of envy as he noticed how Thamuz had the privilege of a father who was always there to support and guide him. Even so, Korro knew he needed to be strong to stand out again in the world.

His thoughts were interrupted by the crunching sound of a fruit being bitten. He turned around and saw Vixkard slicing what seemed to be a round fruit with blue and orange stripes. Using a knife, Vixkard cut off a slice and brought it to his mouth.

"You know, Thamuz is very resilient for someone so young," Vixkard said, gently licking the juices of the fruit left on the knife.

"Too much, I’d say," Korro added. "Although I saw him really angry when I sat next to him."

"That’s normal when you haven’t experienced much in this life. Defeat is something no one wants to feel, but it’s crucial for learning. Even during my first defeat as a fighter, I threw a tantrum like he did. But instead of comforting words, they calmed me down with punches," Vixkard recounted, slicing another piece of fruit.

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"Still, how do you think Thamuz will manage to destroy that rock?" Korro asked, curiosity evident in his voice.

"Come, let me show you," Vixkard said, tossing the remnants of the fruit aside, where it landed on a plant, and walking toward the rock.

Korro followed him, and they arrived at the rock, observing the imposing height that cast its shadow over them.

"Do you know what Bonkam stones are made of?" Vixkard asked, running his hand over the rough surface of the rock.

"No, I don’t," Korro replied.

"They’re made from a special stone called maginoket. Unlike the rocks you see on paths and around you, this stone has the unique property of being up to three times heavier despite its size," Vixkard explained. "If a regular rock the size of my hand weighs five kilos, a smaller or similarly sized maginoket stone could weigh up to fifteen kilos."

"So that’s why they last so long and hurt so much when hit," Korro said, looking at one of his palms.

"Exactly. The more weight, the more durability they have. But besides that, when gathered in large amounts—and when I say large amounts, I mean something immense like this rock beside us," Vixkard emphasized, lightly knocking his knuckles against the giant Bonkam stone, "something very peculiar happens."

"And that would be?" Korro asked, intrigued.

"It becomes hollow, very hollow. To give you an idea, even the mere passage of wind can create a faint melody as it passes through the stone," Vixkard explained.

"So, does that mean the only way Thamuz can destroy the rock is by whistling?" Korro asked, confused by Vixkard’s explanation.

"No, of course not. We’re made for pure physical combat. energy attacks or long-range nonsense is garbage to us. What I’m getting at is a small reaction," Vixkard said, placing his palm on the stone. "Hit the rock with your palm; it doesn’t matter if it’s hard or soft."

Korro hesitated when he heard Vixkard’s order, recalling what he had said to Thamuz about his arms breaking on the first impact. However, Vixkard’s insistence made him give in, and he stepped in front of the stone, preparing to strike it with a palm strike.

A dry thud echoed, and Korro was sent flying through the air. He had hit the rock, but its hardness instantly caused pain to his arm, making him spit out a bit of saliva from the shock as he landed on his knees on the ground.

"It hurts quite a bit to hit it, doesn’t it?" Vixkard asked, looking at Korro.

"What do you think, old man?" Korro responded with sarcasm in his voice.

"Alright, what did you use to hit it?" Vixkard asked.

"A palm strike. Did you forget already?" Korro replied, thinking Vixkard was being sarcastic.

"Exactly. And what did Thamuz use to strike the rock?" Vixkard questioned again.

"A palm strike as well," Korro answered as he slowly got up from the ground. "What’s the point of these questions?"

"Palm strikes are designed to spread the impact and disperse the damage over a larger area. But since this rock is hollow, that dispersion dissipates over time, making palm strikes ineffective against it," Vixkard explained with a grin.

"I see. So that’s why Thamuz couldn’t break it, even with his brute strength," Korro said, rubbing his chin with his hand.

"Exactly. We need to teach him that not everything can be solved with brute force. While the roots of the shamonak have always been based on strength, it’s good to modernize a bit," Vixkard said as he positioned himself in front of the rock.

"So, how can that thing be broken?" Korro asked.

"There’s only one way: either with greater brute strength than Thamuz or with a special strike. It’s simple to do, but I’m not going to show you right now," Vixkard explained.

"Come on, old man! You can’t explain all those concepts and leave me wondering. At least show me a little of what it looks like," Korro protested.

Vixkard stroked his long beard while Korro’s words buzzed in his ear. He began to hum a tune and nodded his head.

"Fine, but I’ll only show you what needs to be done—not the strike itself," Vixkard replied, getting into position to demonstrate.

Vixkard’s combat stance was unusual: one hand was extended forward with the palm open, while his other hand rested by his waist with a clenched fist. However, the middle knuckle of his fist protruded above the rest, resembling a knife.

Then, a strong breeze swept through, and Vixkard struck the stone—not as forcefully as Korro, but with enough strength to achieve what he was trying to demonstrate.

The sound of the stone resonated, almost like a melody, but in truth, the pressure of the strike traveled within it, hitting its internal walls as if trying to escape.

"That’s what the strike is supposed to do: a small area can generate significant vibrations when it receives a blow of exact magnitude. The strike I used is called Heartshatter. It’s almost the same as the original strike, but much harder to execute," said Vixkard. "That concludes the way Thamuz could destroy the stone."

Night fell, and everyone was safely sheltered in the house, sleeping soundly and snugly, except for Thamuz, who lay awake, his mind buzzing with thoughts about the stone.

"I’ve never felt so much frustration," he muttered to himself, getting out of bed and sitting on its edge.

He glanced at his father, who was sprawled out on his bed, snoring like a beast, his arms twitching as though lost in some dream—or perhaps a nightmare.

Thamuz got up and made his way to the yard, where he spotted the stone, still in its place, like a guardian protecting something.

Looking at his hands, which were still healing despite the rapid effects of the Bandamenas water, he stood in front of the stone—not quite close enough to touch it, but almost within reach.

He began throwing palm strikes into the air toward the stone. He didn’t intend to hit it but rather to imitate his strikes, searching for a weak point or simply imagining a scenario where the stone crumbled under his overwhelming strength.

At one point, he envisioned the rock taking on the form of Gigantino, Zarakel’s bastard son. He recalled how Gigantino had treated Shandam, how easily he had defeated and humiliated him.

But suddenly, the cold night air seeped into the wounds on his palms, causing Thamuz to shut his eyes in pain, his fingers retracting just as he was about to throw a palm strike.

At that moment, a whistle echoed through the air. Thamuz immediately opened his eyes, searching for the source, but saw no one; it was just him and the stone, alone in the yard.

Puzzled, he began striking the air again, but once more, the cold forced his fingers back, the pain causing the whistle to sound again.

The same question gnawed at Thamuz’s mind. The whistle wasn’t being made by anyone. Looking at the rock, he wondered if it might somehow be producing the sound.

He stepped closer and raised his palm, fingers retracted, stopping just centimeters before striking. Then he noticed that the wind from his movement caused the whistling sound.

"How strange," Thamuz murmured to himself. "Could it be...?"

An idea formed in his mind. He decided to test something and prepared to throw a palm strike with his fingers retracted, using only his wrist to hit.

With strong conviction, Thamuz struck the stone again, delivering a devastating blow with his wrist.

Pain surged through him at first; he grabbed his wrist with his other hand, unaccustomed to this new technique. But then his ears filled with the sound of the stone’s whistle, and small fragments of debris began falling from it.

Thamuz continued striking the stone, not with an open palm but with his wrist.