It hurt.

Ayu sat cross-legged on the ground, the faint wind barely reaching the small, shallow cave.

Her teeth clenched as she felt the burning sensation spread through her body—burning, over and over again. The electric shocks tore through her cells, relentless. At first, the pain was tolerable, like the sharp prick of countless needles. But the more she pushed, the worse it became.

But she let it go. Ignored it. She knew this pain. The kind that made you stronger. The kind that would give her what she needed. Good pain.

Seconds passed as her breathing steadied, as her mind forced the pain to fade into the background. Her focus remained locked onto her body.

She had been trying for a while now. The concept was clear. What remained was the process—and attunement.

She needed to find that pattern. Not random destruction, not random shocks running through her flesh, but something that resonated with her. The precise rhythm that would yield the best results.

And Ayu understood that perfectly.

She remembered the hours, days—weeks—spent perfecting a single technique years ago. She knew repetition was the key to mastery, but repetition without purpose led to failure.

"A thousand wrong strikes will only make you good at being wrong," her father had told her once, his voice firm yet patient. "First, understand. Then, make it yours."

First came the stance. Every movement refined down to the smallest detail. Perhaps she couldn't do it quickly or easily, or thoughtless, but she wouldn't rush. Only once she truly grasped what the motion was about—its foundation—could she begin.

Then came repetition.

Hundreds of times. Thousands of times. Until her body no longer needed thought to move. Until it was ingrained so deeply that she was the technique. Only then was it considered mastered.

And this—this was the same.

The foundation was the pattern. The precise moment where her body aligned with the controlled destruction and rebirth. The feeling when the pain felt just right. She needed to reach that state. Only then could she repeat it, over and over again, perfecting it through patience and struggle.

So Ayu sat, alone, in this remote place at the southernmost part of the Isles—still days away from the stage's collapse.

And she experimented.

She tested the waves. Adjusted where she channeled the shocks. How did it feel? Was it right? Wrong? More painful? Less? How much should be applied to each part of the body? How to do it all at once? How often?

She needed answers.

But Ayu did not search for them through thought, or complex calculations like Chiara.

No.

She simply felt.

She let her instincts guide her. Just as they always had.

Ayu adjusted the flow of energy, shifting the way the waves coursed through her body. A fraction stronger, a fraction weaker. Redirecting the currents. Letting them crawl through her veins, trace along her nerves, settle into her muscles.

She did not think.

A new pattern. A different rhythm. Faster. Slower. A sharper shock, a duller pulse. She let the variations flow naturally, adjusting them as she would her strikes in a fight—reactionary, intuitive. Some burned. Some pinched. Some tingled. Some left her breath hitching from the intensity.

None of them were right.

Not yet.

So she kept going.

Her mind drifted, emptying itself as the pain cycled through her. A blank slate. A quiet void.

And in that emptiness—a flicker.

A memory.

Her mother's last gaze, soft yet distant, hazy from sickness, her lips parting to say something—but the words never came.

Her father's face the moment he realized his fighting days were over. That moment of stillness, the absence of protest, the quiet resignation in his tired eyes.

Her stepmother leaving, the weight of her silence heavier than any words she could have spoken.

The first time her heart shattered—the quiet, hollow ache of love discarded, abandoned by one who once swore it was forever.

The moment she stepped into The Tower, her life forever split into before and after.

The moment Alonso abandoned her in the Oasis.

The moment she nearly died in his arms, as they fell through the rift—the pain distant, secondary to the raw suffering in his eyes as he held onto her, pushing himself beyond his limits, burning himself out, as if by sheer will alone he could keep her tethered to life.

Ayu exhaled, the memories flashing through her like echoes in the void. And yet—

There it was.

Her body answered.

For a fraction of a second, the pain muted. The shocks aligned. The destruction and rebirth of her cells synced into something beyond chaos—into order.

And then—

Another memory.

Her mother's voice, humming softly as she cradled her as a child, warmth wrapping around her like a cocoon.

Her father's hands, steady and patient, adjusting her stance for the hundredth time.

The moment her feelings for Alonso became clear—not sudden, but inevitable, like a tide that had always been there, waiting for her to notice.

The first time they kissed.

The way the moonlight framed his face as they talked that night, the exhaustion in his voice, the weight he carried, the stupid, ridiculous words that came out of his mouth that made her want to punch him and laugh all at once.

And with each thought—

The pain shattered.

The agony subsided.

And Ayu… she tapped into it.

She let it consume her.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

For this was what she had been searching for.

Make pain the foundation… but make love your drive.

And she pushed. Again. And again. She rode the edge of that feeling, pressing deeper, harder, letting it take her, refine her, carve her into something more.

Until time blurred. Until nothing else existed.

Until—

Her body stopped reacting.

Until she felt nothing.

And yet—

Everything.

And then—

She passed out.

The Tower, Tier 2, Stage 1, Oasis

As they kept walking, Pablo noticed the architecture and atmosphere shifting.

Signs carved into wooden shafts. Symbols painted across walls. More elaborate structures. Bare-chested men and women marked with painted insignias.

Factions.

Each with its own distinct identity. Some areas felt more settled, calmer than the rest of the Oasis, but the presence emanating from certain groups sent a chill down Pablo's spine. Their gazes didn't divert like the others had. They scanned him—head to toe.

Yet none stepped forward. None made a move.

They simply observed, lingering in their own spaces.

Pablo caught glimpses of women, their bodies barely covered, eyes locking onto his as they blinked slowly, teasing, inviting.

And he had to admit—even in this hellhole, some were undeniably beautiful. No—hot was the better word.

But he tore his gaze away.

If he fell for a thirst trap here, he was done for.

Whatever attention he was receiving had nothing to do with him. It was the man walking ahead of him. The black cloak. The weight of his presence. The Shadows.

The walk stretched on, much longer than he had expected. Then—

A sudden shift.

Emptiness.

Pablo turned his head. The tightly packed lodgings were gone. No hunting parties. No arenas. No signs of the chaotic life that had consumed the rest of the Oasis.

Just empty, quiet space.

And it stretched for a while—silent, calm—until, in the distance, human structures emerged once more.

But they were nothing like what he had seen before.

The rough, haphazard sprawl of the Oasis was gone. In its place stood something totally different.

The wooden shafts and makeshift cottages that had piled atop each other elsewhere were absent. Instead, these structures were built with purpose. Still crafted from the same materials—wood, bone, tanned hides, and hardened scorpion chitin—but shaped with precision. The walls stood straight, reinforced with layers of what looked like woven reeds and compressed clay. Some had second floors, connected by wooden steps instead of crude ladders.

And more than that—it was clean.

The filth, the unbearable smell, the scattered remains of half-eaten meals, the stench of waste that lingered elsewhere—it wasn't here. The pathways were clear, the structures evenly spaced, forming an organized layout that felt intentional.

Pablo's eyes darted across the settlement, taking in the people moving within it.

They all wore the same black cloak, draped over their shoulders or tied around their waists. No chaos, no drunken stumbling or crude laughter. Every movement was measured. Focused. Some sat cross-legged in meditation, completely still, eyes shut, their breathing slow and controlled. Others practiced sword stances in silence, their forms precise, disciplined—repeating motions over and over with the patience of a craftsman refining his work.

And then—actual tables, set near a bonfire that wasn't just a pile of burning wood but a proper firepit, carefully contained within a ring of stones. Freshly cleaned sharks from the lake were skewered and slowly roasted over the flames, turned with precision. Wooden plates, cups, and even forks were arranged with care, each used without waste, without excess.

It was orderly. Too orderly.

As they walked in, Pablo noticed the occasional glance in their direction—casual, discreet, nothing more than passing curiosity.

The air here smelled different. Clean. Fresh. A mix of the lake and something else—herbs? It was a stark contrast to the pungent, shitty, blood-tinged air of the rest of the Oasis.

Suddenly, the man ahead of him stopped.

"Wait here."

The words rang in Pablo's head again.

He was still struggling to get used to this. Would he eventually be able to do the same?

But before he could dwell on it, the man barely took a step forward before stopping once more.

"Follow me."

Huh?

Pablo frowned at the odd behavior but didn't dare question it.

He followed as instructed, trailing behind until they stopped before a large, dome-shaped tent.

It was spacious, well-ventilated, and set not far from the lake. Unlike the crude shacks in the rest of the Oasis, this place had an intentional design. The sides were lined with tightly woven plant fibers and thick animal hides—curtains, perhaps, to block out the sun.

It had an appeal to it. Natural. Thoughtful. A good vibe.

The man stepped a few meters away from the structure.

"Go inside."

Pablo blinked.

What?

He turned to the man, waiting for further clarification, but none came.

The silence pressed down on him.

Pablo swallowed hard, forcing himself to take that first step alone.

As he got closer, he spotted a lone figure standing in the doorway, draped in the same black cloak as the others—a guard.

Pablo hesitated, meeting the guard's gaze—or at least, trying to. No reaction. No acknowledgment.

His throat felt dry.

Slowly, he turned back to the entrance.

One deep breath.

He swept aside the hides and stepped inside.

The tent's interior was nothing like he had expected. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of herbs. Wooden flooring beneath his boots. A long, polished table. Chairs—proper, elegant, crafted with care. Flowers rested in wooden pots along the edges, vibrant against the earthy tones.

But none of that held his attention for long.

It was the two women inside.

The one standing wore a black cloak, just like the others, but something about her was different. Her face was concealed behind a smooth, expressionless wooden mask.

Yet, Pablo had to admit—her presence faded into the background, just like everything else, in comparison to the other woman.

She sat at the far end of the table, perfectly composed. Unlike everyone else in The Shadows' camp, she wore no black cloak to hide her face. Her long, golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing piercing green eyes that locked onto him the moment he entered.

She smiled. A radiant, disarming smile.

"Oh, hi, Pablo. Welcome."

Her voice was soft, almost amused—warm and inviting, yet carrying an irresistible pull. It wasn't just the sound of it, but the way it settled in his mind, like a whisper meant for him alone. A call. A command.

He froze.

There was something about her—something beyond her staggering beauty, beyond the way the soft light seemed to catch the golden strands of her hair. It wasn't just her elegance or the effortless grace in the way she sat. It was the quiet, unshakable confidence that radiated from her. A presence so absolute it made everything else in the room feel distant. Insignificant.

Her gaze held him there, sharp and knowing, as if she could strip him bare in an instant and see everything underneath.

"Please, take a seat. I was just finishing with Madelaine," she says, gesturing to a nearby chair.

Pablo's heart throbbed, but he swallowed hard, managed a slight bow in greeting, and sat down awkwardly.

But as he did, the name she had just mentioned set off alarms in his head. Madelaine.

His gaze flicked to the masked woman, who remained completely indifferent to his presence.

The mask. The posture. The name... No. Could it be?

The strange, aloof official who had overseen the Sugarloaf camp back on Earth, waiting for Alonso's return.

What were the odds?

But just as she had caught his attention, Madelaine suddenly turned on her heels and left without a word.

The woman at the table sighed softly, reclining back in her chair as Madelaine disappeared. "I apologize for her rudeness. She's a bit… odd, I'd say. Anyway, what a nice surprise to have another person related to Gen-1 here at the Oasis."

Another?

"Oh, where are my manners?" She stood up and extended her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Pablo. Others call me Alpha, but you're free to use my given name—Leonie."

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