Leon crashed into the ground, spitting out a mouthful of blood and snow. His whole body ached, ears ringing, head pounding, the cold biting into his skin. But beneath it all, there was heat—a searing fire burning deep inside him, rising with every breath. His Skill, [Anger, My Warmth], kept the bitter cold at bay, but it did nothing to quell the fury raging within him.

Behind him, a heavy shadow loomed. Old Khazarg, the Howling Berserker, stood tall, his enormous frame barely moving as he watched Leon struggle. There was no pity in his pale, scarred face—just a cruel amusement dancing in his white eyes.

"Get up, human," Khazarg rumbled, his voice deep and mocking. "Is that all the rage you’ve got? Pathetic."

Leon’s blood boiled. He dug his fingers into the snow, pushing himself up, trembling with the effort. Every word from Khazarg was like fuel, feeding the fire inside him. The urge to lash out, to strike, overwhelmed his senses. He could feel it—his vision narrowing, his muscles tightening, the familiar surge of uncontrollable anger clawing its way to the surface.

Before he even realized it, Leon was on his feet, charging at Khazarg with everything he had.

Khazarg didn’t flinch.

In an instant, the Berserker’s hand shot out, faster than Leon could react. He was thrown back, crashing into the ground, the air forced from his lungs. He lay there, stunned, his body screaming in pain. And still, Khazarg’s voice cut through the haze.

"You think your rage makes you strong? You think it’s enough to fight someone like me?" Khazarg’s tone shifted, the mockery replaced by something far colder—something terrifying. His entire presence darkened, the aura of controlled fury radiating from him like a storm waiting to break.

Leon could barely breathe. Fear gripped him, but it only made the anger worse. It twisted inside him, blending with the terror, until it was impossible to tell one from the other. He tried to get up again, but Khazarg was already moving.

The next blow came hard and fast. Leon didn’t even see it coming.

Then—darkness.

The days blurred together after that. Each morning, Leon found himself standing again, facing Khazarg’s unrelenting assaults. Each day, the Berserker pushed him to the edge, beating him down only to demand that he rise once more.

But it wasn’t just about the physical beatings. Khazarg was teaching him something more—something deeper.

"You let your rage control you," Khazarg had said one night, his voice low as they stood by the dying embers of the fire. "You think it’s a curse. Something you need to suppress. But you’re wrong." He had looked Leon in the eye, his white gaze piercing. "Rage is a tool. A weapon. If you learn to master it, it will serve you. But until then, it owns you."

The words had stuck with Leon, haunting him as he struggled through the brutal training sessions. Khazarg taught him the basics of every weapon—axes, swords, spears, even hammers. The Berserker was a master of them all, though he had a certain preference for axes.

The lessons were never kind. Each mistake earned him pain, a harsh reminder of how little control he had.

And yet, Khazarg had noticed something, and had told him.

Leon was different when he fought with his bare hands—dangerous. There was a ferocity, an instinctual precision that seemed to come naturally to him. It was as if he knew exactly where to strike, where to grab. It was raw, unrefined, but the potential was undeniable.

At first, Khazarg had thought it was chance—some fluke or simple reflex. But as the training continued, it became clear that this wasn’t something Leon had simply stumbled upon. He had a certain talent for hand-to-hand combat that went beyond what he had been taught. Of course, Khazarg did not use any of his Skills when training the human, but the Gnoll Berserker was not one to ignore potential, especially when it presented itself so plainly.

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One night, long after the fire had dimmed and Leon was deep in exhausted sleep, Khazarg stood at the entrance of the hut, staring into the frozen night. The wind howled around him, but he was lost in thought. He had an idea, one that might awaken something in Leon.

Without a sound, Khazarg left the hut, his heavy footfalls barely disturbing the snow as he made his way to the [Forgemaster]’s quarters. He knew what Leon needed. The young man needed to gain a Skill that matched his instincts for hand-to-hand combat. But it had to be earned, pushed to the surface.

Khazarg returned just before dawn. In his pouch, he carried a pair of strange weapons—small blades, their handles designed to be gripped in a fist, with the sharp steel extending between the fingers like some kind of deadly claws.

Come morning, Khazarg had tossed them at Leon’s feet. “Pick them up,” he had ordered, his tone as rough as ever.

Leon had hesitated for a moment, looking down at the weapons. He had knelt, picking up the blades and holding them awkwardly at first, unsure of their purpose. But as soon as he had closed his fists around the handles, the design had clicked into place. The blades had fit perfectly between his knuckles, like extensions of his own body.

Khazarg had grunted in approval. “Fight with these,” he had said, stepping back. “You’ve got the instincts for close combat. Let’s see if you can turn that rage into something… useful.” His pale eyes gleamed with a wild, cruel intensity, reflecting the predatory nature of a hunter sizing up his prey.

Leon had gripped the blades tightly, the cold steel a strange comfort in his hands. After that, the trainings became twice as hard.

Varra visited him when she could. She had learned the rhythm of his training by now, knowing when Khazarg would release him for the night. They would sit together by the small fire outside Khazarg’s isolated hut, sharing whatever food Leon had managed to hunt or trap that day. For Khazarg never shared his food with him. Leon had to fend for himself.

It was part of the lessons.

“You’re looking better,” Varra would say, though her eyes betrayed the concern she still felt. Leon had changed—he was leaner now, all the excess weight burned away by constant physical trials. His muscles were taut, his body hardening under the relentless pressure.

“I feel… different,” Leon admitted one evening, staring at his reflection in the blade of a knife. There were no mirrors in Khazarg’s hut—only weapons. “Like I’m becoming someone else.”

Varra smiled softly. “You’re becoming stronger. That’s all. Old Khazarg is harsh, but he knows what he’s doing.”

Leon didn’t know yet whether to agree or not.

Even Kallia had come to see him once. But the moment she arrived, she saw the bruises, the blood, and her face had gone pale. She hadn’t stayed long. Leon understood—she was a kind soul, hence her role as a teacher.

Kraka, on the other hand, never came close. Leon had seen him once, standing at a distance, watching him train. He had felt the weight of his gaze but hadn’t dared approach. Kraka hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. He had just observed, as if judging him.

But Leon didn’t need Kraka for that. He was already his own harshest critic.

In the reflection of his blades, Leon saw not just his scars or his bruises. He saw someone leaner, stripped of the softness that once clung to him. His muscles were sharp and defined. His shaved face, gaunt and hardened, reminded him of a wolf, all raw instinct and savage determination.

He wasn’t the man he’d been before. He was becoming something more—something dangerous.

Training after training, spar after spar, under Khazarg's brutal but patient, cruelly calculated guidance, Leon grew stronger.

He was starting to understand what it meant to control his rage—not to suppress it, but to use it. Yet there were moments when his frustration boiled over, when Khazarg’s cold, mocking tone set him off, only to be swiftly knocked back into the freezing dirt.

It was during one of these particularly harsh sessions, where Leon had been sent crashing to the ground yet again, that he spotted a familiar figure watching from a distance. Barg, the tribe’s [Butcher], had wandered into the snowy clearing. He stood there, his rough, big, dark paws resting on the leather belt that held an array of his sharp knives and butchering tools, his usually jovial face unreadable.

Leon was too sore, too tired to say anything at first. But when Khazarg huffed and turned his back, Leon staggered to his feet and approached Barg.

"You here to see the show?" Leon managed, wincing as he stretched out his aching muscles.

Barg grunted. "Just checkin' in. Not every day someone takes a beating like that and keeps standin'. Figured you could use a visit."

Despite his gruff demeanor, there was a glimmer of respect in Barg’s eyes, and Leon couldn’t help but feel a spark of gratitude. Barg didn’t stay long—just long enough to grunt some form of encouragement before heading back to the tribe—but his visit left an unexpected warmth in Leon’s chest. He hadn’t expected it.

It wasn’t just Varra or Kallia who cared. Even here, even now, there were those who worried about him. That small, simple act of concern stirred something within him, a reminder that despite everything, he wasn’t entirely alone in this brutal world.

When he struck the cold ground again soon after that, his mood had soured.