The platform was cold at night.
Aurelion stood at the edge, staring at the water. The city was down there, waiting. The truth was down there, waiting. And he was stuck on the surface, healing, resting, waiting.
His leg still ached. His side still burned. The medics had done what they could, but the wounds were deep, the damage extensive. He needed time.
He didn't have time.
He turned away from the water and walked toward the training deck.
The training deck was empty at this hour.
A few mats, some weights, a punching bag that had seen better days. It was designed for hunters to stay sharp during long deployments—not for serious combat training. But it would do.
Aurelion stripped off his coat, his shirt, his bandages. The wounds on his side and leg were still raw, still healing. But they were stable. He could move.
He started with push-ups.
His arms burned. His chest ached. His leg screamed with every rep. But he didn't stop. He pushed through the pain, through the weakness, through the voice in his head that told him to rest.
He needed to be stronger. Not just with Gatekeeper. Not just with the shards. He needed to be stronger without them.
He moved to the punching bag.
His fists were bare, wrapped in tape. He struck the bag—once, twice, three times. The impact sent shockwaves through his arms, through his shoulders, through his entire body. The wounds on his side protested. He ignored them.
He struck again. Harder. Faster.
The Demon King.
The gate.
The First King.
He struck again.
My name.
My face.
My past.
He struck again.
I will not be weak.
I will not fail.
I will not break.
The bag split.
He stood there, breathing hard, his fists raw, his body hurting. Sweat dripped down his face. Blood dripped from his knuckles.
The bag swayed gently, its fabric torn, its stuffing spilling out.
Aurelion stared at it.
Not enough, he thought. Not nearly enough.
He turned away and started again.
Ami found him an hour later.
The training deck was a wreck. The bag was destroyed. The weights were scattered. Aurelion was on the floor, gasping, his body trembling, his fists covered in blood.
"Aurelion!"
She ran to him, kneeling beside him. "What are you doing?!"
"Training."
"You're destroying yourself!"
"I'm making myself stronger."
She grabbed his shoulders. "You're going to kill yourself!!"
"I'm going to be ready."
"Ready for what?! "
He looked down This future is different from the one he previously went through, everything about it was different
"I don't know."
She helped him to his feet.
He limped to a bench, sat down heavily, his body shaking. Ami examined his fists—the knuckles were raw, split, bleeding.
"You need to rest."
"I need to be stronger."
"You need to heal."
He looked at her. "I don't have time to heal."
"You don't have a choice."
He closed his eyes.
"I know," he said quietly. "But I can't stop. If I stop, I'll think. And if I think, I'll realize how scared I am."
"Scared of what?"
He was silent for a moment. Then: "Scared that I'm not strong enough. Scared that I'll fail. Scared that everyone who trusts me will die because I couldn't protect them."
Ami slapped him.
Not hard—but enough. Enough to snap his head to the side, enough to shock him out of his spiral.
He stared at her, his cheek stinging.
"Don't you dare," she said. Her voice was quiet, but it cut like a blade. "Don't you dare sit there and pretend you're alone in this."
"Ami—"
"You're not alone." She grabbed his chin, forced him to meet her eyes. "You have me. You have Corrin. You have Kael. You have every hunter on this platform who's seen what you can do and chosen to follow you."
He opened his mouth to argue.
"Shut up," she said. "I'm not done."
He closed his mouth.
"We've been through hell together," she said. "Lancet. The valley. The tournament. The Stain. Zarveth. And every single time, you've stood up. You've fought. You've survived. But you didn't do it alone! You never have!"
She released his chin.
"You don't have to carry everything, damn it why do you think you have to be!" she said. "You don't have to be the strongest, you don't have to be the one who never falls, you just have to be the one who gets back up!"
He stared at her.
"You're not alone, Aurelion. You never were. And you never will be."
He sat there, his cheek still stinging, her words echoing in his mind.
You're not alone. You never were.
He thought about how, in his old life—as Azrathor, the Demon King—he had been alone. Always. Even surrounded by subjects, by generals, by an entire realm. He had been isolated, untouchable, above everyone.
And he had felt nothing.
No connection. No fear. No need for anyone else.
But now—
Now he had Ami. Corrin. Kael. People who stood beside him, bled beside him, fought beside him. People who expected him to fail—but would catch him anyway.
I care, he realized. I actually care.
They've changed me.
He thought about how he would have responded to Ami's words in his old life. He would have dismissed them. Ignored them. Seen them as weakness. He would have said, "I don't need anyone. I am the Demon King."
But that wasn't true anymore.
He needed them. He needed her.
And for the first time, he was glad of it.
The silence stretched between them.
Then, slowly, Aurelion nodded.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She almost smiled. "Good."
The next morning, Aurelion returned to the training deck.
His fists were bandaged. His leg was wrapped. His side was taped. He looked like a man who had been through a war.
He started again.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Squats. Lunges.
The weights were heavy, but he lifted them anyway. The bag was replaced, but he struck it anyway.
His body ached. He ignored it.
Ami joined him after an hour.
"You're going to hurt yourself," she said.
"I'm going to get stronger."
She stared at him for a long moment. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes narrowed.
Then she threw her hands up.
"Ugh. Fine. Do whatever you want." She turned and walked away, her voice dripping with exasperation. "It's not like you ever listen to me anyway."
Aurelion watched her go, the bag still swaying from his last strike.
And he smiled.
Just a bit.
He returned to training.
Caelus appeared at midday.
The Ascendant watched from the edge of the deck, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"You're training," he said.
"I'm training."
"Bare-handed."
"Yes."
Caelus stepped onto the mat. "Then let me help."
Aurelion looked at him. "Why?"
"Because you need to learn how to fight without your sword. And because I want to see what you're made of."
They sparred.
It was brutal. Caelus was faster, stronger, more experienced. He drove Aurelion back, forced him to defend, forced him to feel.
But Aurelion didn't fall.
He blocked, dodged, countered. His body hurt. His wounds protested. But he didn't stop.
Caelus landed a blow to his side. Aurelion staggered, recovered, struck back.
Caelus blocked. "Good. Again."
They continued.
The sparring lasted an hour.
Aurelion collapsed on the mat, gasping, bleeding, exhausted. Caelus stood over him, his breathing controlled, his expression calm.
"You're not as fast as you were," Caelus said.
"I'm injured."
"You're healing. But you're still not fast enough."
"I know."
"Then get faster."
He walked away.
Aurelion lay on the mat, staring at the ceiling.
Get faster, he thought. Get stronger. Get better.
I will.
That night, he sat on the observation deck.
The water was dark and still. The city was down there, waiting.
Ami joined him.
"You look better," she said.
"Feel worse."
"That's called progress."
She sat beside him. "You're going back down tomorrow, aren't you?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "No."
She blinked. "No?"
"No." He looked at her. "You made me understand something."
"What?"
"That I can't do this alone. That I have to rely on others just as much as they rely on me." He paused. "And for that, I need to heal. Properly."
She stared at him. Then, slowly, she smiled.
"About time, now get some rest, I'm sure your bodies going to be put through suffering tomorrow as well"