"Wake up, please wake up!"

Immanuel's slumber was abruptly shattered by the urgent tugging of a young servant boy at his arm. "Yes, yes, I’m awake," he mumbled groggily, instantly assaulted by the merciless symptoms of a hangover: a pounding headache, a mouth as dry as a desert, and a sense of futility. Instinctively, he began to channel his core's energy, feeling a slight alleviation from the discomfort.

"Yes?" Immanuel's gaze fell upon the boy, who now stood a respectful distance away, his eyes filled with a mix of urgency and deference.

"I am to escort you to Master Meyong Dal of the Blue Dome. Please, follow me," the boy implored, turning to lead the way. However, Immanuel halted him with a raised hand.

"Let me prepare myself." His words, though calm, seemed to amplify the boy's nervousness. He methodically equipped himself: taking his claw, sword, pipe, and staff; securing his money and letter in his special storage; and donning a sleek, black fighting suit that hugged his frame, endowing him with the appearance of a nimble, lightly armored ninja.

Once ready, Immanuel followed the young guide. The boy moved briskly, leading them through an elevator descent and past the three to the rear of the building. There, a colossal, circular staircase spiralled downward into the building's depths. The boy paused at the head of the staircase. "Five floors down," he informed with a bow.

"Thank you," Immanuel replied, his voice echoing slightly in the expansive space.

He descended, the staircase looked and felt like a dungeon. Dark red stone walls encased him, and soft yellow lights cast eerie shadows. Immanuel noted the sealed double doors on each floor as he walked deeper into the earth.

The doors on the fifth floor stood open, revealing a vast stone chamber. At its center stood the red-haired Viking, one of the leaders of the family. He was engaged in a vigorous training session, brandishing a sword and wielding a shield as large as a door. Immanuel couldn't help but wonder, 'Do they personally train their protégés?'

As Immanuel entered, his eyes quickly scanned the room, noting six individuals aligned on both sides, each armed with a crossbow. The Viking, Meyong, ceased his movements, turning to face Immanuel.

"Your weaknesses are evident," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "They are screaming out from every inch of you." The man's formidable appearance was nothing short of terrifying. "War has no room for such frailties. Warriors reject them. And I, most certainly, do not tolerate them."

He raised his sword in a challenge, his eyes burning into Immanuel. "First, we will purge the fear from you." With these words, he charged.

Immanuel, caught off guard, attempted to block the incoming sword with his staff. However, he was completely unprepared for the shield, which struck him with the force of a freight train, sending him hurtling through the air before crashing to the ground. Meyong was relentless, leaping towards Immanuel, who narrowly evaded a crushing knee strike. Panic engulfed Immanuel; he rolled, leaped, stumbled, and parried, but the fifth strike came with such ferocity that it sent his staff clattering against the wall, pain searing through him.

"Fuckkk," he cursed, realizing a crossbow bolt was embedded in his arm. Meyong's smile widened. "Good. You may leave," he said to the shooter, who bowed deeply before exiting through the still-open doors.

Immanuel gazed at Meyong, his expression a tumultuous blend of fear, incredulity, and a silent plea for mercy. "You can heal when you’re able to remove the bolt," Meyong instructed. "Lesson one: always be aware of your surroundings. The strike that ends you will be the one you don't see coming."

As Immanuel began to protest, Meyong's shield struck him again. Rolling with the blow, Immanuel switched his sword to his other hand, bracing for another attack.

Another bolt whizzed past, narrowly missing him. Immanuel's desperation was palpable. Meyong's assault was unyielding, forcing Immanuel to expend his energy in fleeting bursts, flashing to evade the relentless onslaught. Blood began to flow freely from his wound when the bolt clattered to the ground after the first flash. Each time he reappeared, Meyong was already there, ready to strike.

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"You can't escape," Meyong stated coldly. "Learn to control your panic. Use your ability not just to create distance, but to strategically reposition yourself in the fight, while staying close." Another bolt pierced Immanuel's leg.

Standing shakily, drained of energy, Immanuel adopted a defensive stance. Fleeing was futile; panic, even more so. He faced his daunting adversary, understanding now the true nature of the training that awaited him, a realization that gave context to Elio's enigmatic smile after he was named protégé.

---

Exhausted to his core, Immanuel reached a point where he could no longer muster the strength to stand. Indifferent to his vulnerability, he lay there, the threat of a fatal shot seemingly inconsequential. Eventually, Meyong and the others departed, the heavy thud of the double doors signaling their exit. Drifting in and out of consciousness, Immanuel eventually roused himself from his fitful position on the ground, unsure of the time.

In a desperate bid for recovery, he summoned a spirit fruit, something he had not resorted to even once during his training with Jager and Elio. Consuming it, he immediately felt its healing, energizing power coursing through him, gradually clearing the fog in his mind. As he sat there, absorbing the revitalizing energy, a profound sense of loneliness enveloped him. It was a crushing, suffocating feeling of isolation, unlike anything he had experienced since his arrival in this foreign world. Silent tears streamed down his face.

Eventually, his tears ceased, and he began to walk around. He discovered an archway leading to another chamber, filled with an array of powerful Stage 3 beast cores, each pulsating with energy and varying in size and color. In the corner lay a small bed, and a table nearby held food and drink. Lastly there was a chamber pot. 'Fuck me.'

To distract himself from his overwhelming emotions, Immanuel began to sample the food and drink, casually examining core after core. However, not a single one resonated with him. Settling on the ground, he retrieved some cores from his special storage, including three Stage 3 cores and one Stage 4 core, all seemingly from the same beast. He immediately felt a strong connection so he decided to use his own cores while storing one of these to give the impression he was utilizing them.

As he sat cross-legged, Immanuel absorbed the dark green core in his hands, feeling its power flow and clash with his own. The struggle was intense, the core breaking and crystallizing against the outer part of his own core. In that moment, a revelation dawned on him—a possibility of transformation, a new form. Not just a mere flash of movement, but a complete reforming of his body. The beginnings of this new ability shimmered before him, tantalisingly close, and then vanished as the energy was consumed.

Opening his eyes, he felt a little better. "Damn chimera, you know how to inspire someone," he thought. "This human is going to master shapeshifting!"

---

Time blurred into a continuous cycle of gruelling training for Immanuel, with days and nights melding into one endless stretch. He ceased asking Meyong about the world above, his existence becoming a singular focus on the rigorous regime imposed upon him. The outside world, whether embroiled in war or peace, seemed like a distant reality. Meyong's philosophy of training to the exclusion of all else was uncompromising.

Gradually, Meyong began to offer more guidance during their sparring sessions. He introduced a shield that Immanuel could attach to his forearm, providing a means to deflect crossbow bolts and for the occasional throwing knives that Meyong employed. This small addition offered a significant boost to Immanuel's defense.

The supply of cores and food was constantly replenished, fueling Immanuel's steady progression through the third stage. He strategically consumed the cores provided, focusing on growing his own core. The opportune moment to absorb the green core was always a gamble, but the insights it offered were tantalizingly close. He began to grasp the concept of creating a pattern, a new shape, storing it in his core, and then flooding it with energy to fuel a transformation. He knew the ultimate step was to permanently etch this shape into his core, although he was aware that within the green core existed a predefined shape that he could only slightly modify, at least for now.

Despite his initial hatred for Meyong and skepticism towards the fear-driven, intense training style, Immanuel couldn't deny a certain effectiveness to it. He chuckled at the thought of employing such extreme methods with his own students, should he ever have any. Yet, as his fear subsided and he began to recognize his own healing resilience, his perception of Meyong shifted. He saw beyond the brutality to Meyong's exceptional skill and dedication. The realization that such a formidable warrior was investing so much time in him began to feel less like a punishment and more like a privilege.

In this crucible of relentless training, Immanuel's respect for Meyong grew, paralleled by his own burgeoning skills.

Immanuel was on the cusp of attaining Stage 4, poised to consume the final core and catalyze his transformation.