Akshran jerked awake, his body drenched in sweat, pulse thrumming in his ears. He blinked, trying to steady his breathing, as his gaze darted around his room. Though familiar, his surroundings felt heightened, vivid—he was aware of everything, as if his senses had opened like a floodgate. His heartbeat, the distant hum of voices, even the soft rustle of fabric on the floor, reached him in startling clarity. Gradually, the overwhelming sensations subsided, leaving him gasping for air.

"Huff... note to self: don't sleep right after awakening resonance," he muttered, recalling how exhaustion had pulled him under earlier. Pushing himself upright, he staggered over to the mirror. And froze. The top of his head nearly brushed the edge of it.

'Wasn't I, like, 4'9 last time I checked?' he thought, tracing his reflection. Now, he was at least 5'8, filling most of the mirror's frame.

Something else had changed too. Akshran's gaze dropped to his stomach as an odd, cold sensation settled there. He lifted his shirt, eyes widening as he touched his stomach. Hard, defined abs greeted his fingertips—six of them, sculpted as if he'd trained for years.

"Damn," he whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief. "And all I did was stare down a few nightmare creatures."

He quickly scanned his reflection: messy black hair falling to his neck, brown eyes bright with the lingering thrill of power. And yet, despite these changes, there was something strangely ordinary about him still, a frank look that made him easy to overlook, even with his newfound strength.

A low growl echoed in the silence, making him pause—his stomach. Of course.

"Well, I guess that's my next mission," he sighed, heading toward the kitchen. If anyone asked about his sudden transformation, he could always flash a smirk and say, "I just regained a bit of my divine power," and watch their awe make room for one more secret.

Akshran trudged back from the dining hall, shaking his head in silent amusement. He'd fooled them all again. They were too easy to manipulate, too eager to believe him. Still, it was beginning to grate on him.

"This is like The Owl Who Was God," he muttered, a twisted smile playing on his lips. "You can fool too many people at once… and then what?"

The training grounds stretched out before him, a wide, barren arena beneath the pale evening sky. "How did they even get money for this place?" he wondered aloud, glancing at the polished stone, and the perfectly symmetrical layout. All of it seemed almost wasted—perfect tools for perfect fools.

But he wasn't here to train with others. No, tonight was for something far more serious. He had information, vague but promising, about how to use this cursed "Resonance." But information alone wasn't enough. He needed control, precision—and above all, obedience.

He closed his eyes, summoning the memory of the cryptic phrase he'd overheard. Sa vo? Sa va? He gritted his teeth. How could he have forgotten it already? The syllables felt just out of reach, slipping through his mind like sand.

"Savo…ith? No, that's not right." He tried again, sounding the syllables under his breath. "Savorith? Maybe that's it—"

A spear of agony shot through his chest, sharp and unforgiving. He doubled over, a strangled cry escaping his lips as his heartbeat pounded in his ears. The pain felt alive, like claws raking through his insides, forcing his lungs to seize up.

A warning pulsed through his mind, cold and final: Never say that name aloud again.

He staggered, clutching his chest, waiting for the pain to subside. When it did, he drew a shuddering breath, his face twisted in rage. "Alright, alright… won't say it again," he muttered, but his jaw clenched.

'So it really is sentient,' he thought, his frustration hardening into something sharper. 'It knows I'm here. It's watching me.'

He spent the next hour in silent, dogged concentration, running through every technique he could remember from the book on Resonance. He tried projecting energy from his hands, focusing on his blood, summoning any hint of movement within his veins. He muttered phrases under his breath, cycling through spells and incantations: "Rasen—," "Kamehame—" … Nothing.

Time bled into itself. The moon climbed higher in the sky, casting a faint, indifferent light over the training grounds as Akshran's shoulders sagged with exhaustion. He could feel his patience slipping, his frustration churning into anger.

"This is more tiring than I anticipated," he muttered, sinking to his knees, chest heaving. His fingers drummed against the stone floor as he stared at the ground, mind racing. He had been at this for hours, and he was no closer to control than he'd been when he started. The Resonance—Savorith, whatever it was—remained dormant, unmoved by his efforts. It was as if it were mocking him with its silence.

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He planted his feet firmly, drawing on the training he had once received. He assumed a combat stance, holding his hands out as if ready to project energy. He'd seen it done before, watched others summon their Resonances in a blaze of light or fire. Blood manipulation should be no different. It was just a matter of will.

"Alright," he murmured, steeling himself. "Come on. Show yourself."

He concentrated, picturing the flow of his blood, the network of veins within his body. He focused on the beat of his heart, the rhythmic pulse of life itself, trying to draw the energy into his fingertips. A tingle stirred in his hand—a faint spark of something—and he held his breath, feeling a surge of hope.

But just as quickly as it had come, the sensation died, leaving him feeling hollow and frustrated. "Damn it," he muttered, clenching his fist until his nails bit into his palm.

Hours passed this way. The sun sank lower, casting long shadows across the training grounds as Akshran cycled through every stance, every technique he could think of. He tried holding his hands out in different positions, tried whispering the incantations louder, then softer. He even tried picturing memories of pain, moments when his blood had been forced to obey. But still, nothing.

"Come on!" he shouted at the empty air, his voice echoing off the walls. "I know you're in there! Stop hiding!"

He sank to his knees, sweat dripping down his forehead, his chest heaving. The moon was high now, casting a ghostly light over the training grounds. His muscles were sore, his hands trembling from exertion. He stared down at his palms, frustration gnawing at him like a beast.

'Maybe I'm not strong enough,' he thought, the idea creeping into his mind unbidden. 'Maybe this Resonance is too powerful for me. Maybe… I'll never be able to control it.' The thought was bitter, humiliating.

He slammed his fist against the stone floor, the impact reverberating up his arm. No. He refused to accept that. There had to be a way. There had to be some method, some hidden trick he hadn't thought of.

Think, he told himself, dragging a hand down his face, willing his mind to focus. 'What haven't I tried yet?'

He sat cross-legged on the ground, closing his eyes, emptying his mind. 'Fine,' he thought, reaching out to the presence in his blood, treating it as though it were a person sitting across from him. 'You don't want to obey me? Then let's make a deal.'

He focused inward, trying to send his thoughts out like an invitation. 'You don't want to be my servant. I understand. But if you lend me your strength—just once—I'll give you something in return. Power. Freedom. Whatever it is you want.'

For a moment, he thought he felt something shift—a faint stirring, like a ripple across the surface of a pond. He held his breath, waiting, hoping. But once again, there was nothing. The silence returned, and with it, a sense of rejection, cold and absolute.

Akshran opened his eyes, his gaze hardening, his jaw set. He could feel his patience breaking, splintering under the weight of his frustration. "Alright, you stubborn bastard," he whispered, voice rough with exhaustion. "If you won't come willingly…"

He drew his dagger, the blade gleaming in the moonlight, and pressed it to his forearm. He hesitated, just for a second, his pulse pounding in his ears. This was reckless, dangerous, and possibly suicidal. But at this point, he had nothing left to lose.

"If you're really connected to me," he whispered, voice trembling, "then let's see what happens if I die."

He pressed down, the blade sinking into his flesh, pain blooming in his arm like fire. Blood welled up, hot and sticky, and his vision blurred as he gritted his teeth. The world seemed to spin around him, his breath growing ragged. The pain wasn't just in his arm now; it spread through his entire body, an ache that sank into his bones.

'If I go… you go with me,' he thought, directing the words at the presence within him. 'So come out. Or die with me.'

There was a flicker, a faint sense of alarm—then a response, sharp and biting.

"Foolish human." The words were cold, dripping with contempt. "Do you truly believe you could threaten me?"

Akshran's lips twisted into a grin, reckless and triumphant. "Finally," he whispered, his voice a rasp. "So you're awake after all."

The pain in his arm intensified, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He could feel the presence now, pressing against his mind, vast and ancient, filled with a cold fury. It was like staring into a dark abyss, a void that threatened to swallow him whole.

"You are nothing to me," the voice continued a sneer in every word. "A fragile creature, clawing at powers you do not understand."

"Then make me understand," he hissed, tightening his grip on the dagger, the pain grounding him. "If you don't want to die with me, then help me."

There was a silence, and then a shift—a sensation of reluctant acceptance, like the slow grinding of ancient gears. Akshran felt his blood stir, a faint, electric thrum coursing through his veins, as though the Resonance were finally responding, however unwillingly.

"Very well, human." the voice murmured, low and bitter. "But remember this, and remember it well. You are not my master. Try to control me again, and you will find yourself in agony beyond imagining. And know this, Mordryn—I am not your Resonance."

The unfamiliar name echoed in his mind, filling him with a strange, unsettling familiarity. Mordryn… who was that? He didn't know, but the thought seemed to lodge itself in his mind, a mystery that would have to wait.

Akshran opened his eyes, watching as red tendrils of energy spiraled from his fingertips. The power was there, finally responding, alive and at his command. He raised his hand, feeling the strength pulsing through him, filling him with a sense of raw, exhilarating power.

He let out a breath, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over him, but he didn't care. He had won. For now, at least.

But he knew, in the depths of his mind, that this was not a victory without cost. Savorith's presence lingered, cold and watchful, like a shadow that would never leave.

And somewhere, in the darkness, a whisper he could not hear, mocking and foreboding: I am waiting, Mordryn…