The Demon Queen's Royal Consort

The sun had barely risen, and the training courtyard was already echoing with Lesley's shouts.

"Push! Push! Move those legs, you little shit! One more minute and I'll add another stone!" Her voice, harsh and merciless, cut through the air like a blade, making it clear that there would be no mercy that morning.

Lesley was in a bad mood, and that meant I would pay the price. The previous day had been tough, but what was coming promised to be even worse.

I was ripped from sleep by a kick that sent me straight to the bathroom, trading the comfort of Dália's embrace for a training session that felt more like medieval torture.

Unlike the day before, weightlifting was replaced by a resistance circuit.

Four courses, ten blocks of five by five meters. The first block weighed five hundred kilograms; the tenth, five thousand.

I was pushing block 2, one thousand kilograms, up a steep and uneven slope. With every step, the block threatened to slip, and I struggled not to be crushed.

Lesley gave no respite. Since breakfast at 5 a.m., she hadn't looked me in the eye. Her orders were brutal, her words cutting. My body was already at its limit, muscle fibers snapping like ropes about to break. And to make matters worse, I still had to control my energy flow, as my reserves were almost depleted.

Two days, and I had slept less than two hours. One hour the previous night, forty minutes this one. Damn Dália's treacherous claws.

But the worst was yet to come. The endurance training was just the prelude to the disaster that would happen in the weapons combat.

**

The combat began as usual: swords.

Lesley attacked, I defended, looking for openings to counterattack. This time, however, I felt a difference. The meditation pillar I had used the day before was starting to make sense.

My mind and body were more synchronized, and the flow between instinct and reason had improved by about two or three percent. Little, but enough to notice the difference.

I advanced with a diagonal strike, fast and controlled. The blade cut through the air, but Lesley dodged with an agility that bordered on insulting. Her body spun like a shadow, and before I could react, her sword collided with mine.

"Slow," she said, without losing her breath. "You think too much. The sword is part of you, not a dead weight."

Filled with determination, I attacked again, a series of quick strikes: right, left, thrust. She blocked each one with precision, the clang of the blades echoing through the courtyard.

I felt the impact reverberate through my arms, but I didn't stop. I tried to flank her, but she anticipated my move. With a quick spin, she dodged and counterattacked, the tip of her sword opening a cut on my back.

"Predictable," she said, with a severe look. "Your posture gives away your intentions."

I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. She was right. I was fighting as if following a script, and she read every move before I even executed it.

This time, I changed tactics. I feinted a high strike and, at the last moment, aimed for her legs. She blocked, but I forced her to move. A small victory.

"Better," she admitted, with a nod. "But you still lack fluidity."

Then, she attacked. Quick and precise strikes, each one targeting a different part of my body. I blocked the first, but the second hit my shoulder, and the third almost struck my hip. Her speed was frightening.

"You're defending, not reacting," she said, while delivering another strike. "Defense is important, but without a counterattack, you're just delaying the inevitable."

Inspired by her words, I tried something different. I blocked her strike and, instead of retreating, I advanced, launching a quick thrust towards her chest. She dodged, but, for the first time, I saw a glimmer of approval in her eyes.

"Good," she said, still serious. "Now you're starting to understand."

The training continued, with increasingly intense exchanges of blows. Until, suddenly, she stopped.

"Let's change," she ordered, swapping the sword for a naginata.

Imitating her move, I chose a trident.

Lesley prepared, holding her weapon firmly, while I adjusted my stance. The combat resumed, as frantic as ever. She pressed me, exploiting every flaw, while I tried to break her oppressive rhythm.

Then it happened.

Extreme fatigue and sleep deprivation took their toll.

In a millisecond, I lost coordination. My muscles failed, my vision blurred, and the spear slipped from my hands. Before I could react, I felt a sharp pain in my chest.

I looked down and saw the tip of the spear sticking out of my torso, blood dripping down the metal. I tried to breathe, but the air wouldn't come in. A hoarse sound escaped my throat, and I tasted the metallic flavor of blood in my mouth.

I fell to my knees, the spear still embedded in me, and looked at Lesley. She was there, distant, but her expression said it all: the fault was mine.

'The fault is yours...' 

'The fault is yours...' 

'The fault is yours...' 

'The fault is yours...' 

Her eyes screamed at me.

I wanted to protest, but all I could do was cough, each spasm bringing a new wave of pain. My body trembled, and my hands moved instinctively towards the spear, but I knew pulling it out would be worse.

Reason prevailed for a few seconds. The fault was mine. I had given in to lust, neglected rest, underestimated the limits of my body.

The world around me began to spin, colors blending into a blur of pain and despair. I felt life slipping through my fingers, like sand in an hourglass. Each beat of my heart was weaker than the last, and the cold began to spread, starting at my fingertips and moving up my arms.

And then everything went dark.

**

I woke up with a warm sensation invading my body, a scorching heat that spread through me, forcing my flesh to regroup, my bones to seal, my organs to return to their original form.

The pain intensified for a moment, as if something was burning me from the inside out. The metal of the spear trembled inside me as the wound began to close around it.

The energy flow felt like a torrential river, washing away the despair and replacing the cold of death with a suffocating vitality.

My vision returned gradually, the whirlwind of shadows giving way to the defined shapes of the world.

My chest expanded again, this time without resistance. The air filled my lungs completely, without pain, without blood blocking the way.

I took a deep breath.

The spear was removed without difficulty, and where there had once been a mortal hole, now only regenerated flesh and residual heat remained. My muscles were still tense, as if remembering the wound that no longer existed, but life had returned to my body.

"You didn't go overboard!!" Lesley ordered in an inquisitive voice.

My vision returned to normal, and I could see what was happening. Dália was kneeling beside me with a serious face and sad eyes looking at my condition. Prana leaked from her hand and, before entering my body, transformed into something warm and pleasant.

'Healing magic? I thought she manipulated water,' I thought.

"Yes, ma'am!" Dália replied obediently.

I stood up, feeling strength return to my limbs. As if I had stepped to the edge of the abyss and been pulled back at the last second.

And, for some reason, I still tasted blood in my mouth. Due to Lesley's orders, Dália's healing was limited to the severe injury; the rest of my body was still completely wrecked.

"Very well, let's continue," Lesley said in a gruff voice.

"Phew..." a sigh escaped my mouth, understanding that this day would be very difficult.