The second day of the sprint wasn't measured in hours, but in the rhythm of my own agony.
Every time my foot struck the earth, a jolt of raw, unrefined energy shot up my spine. The "surge" from the day before hadn't fully subsided; instead, it had settled into a low, violent hum beneath my skin. My Magicore wasn't just generating power anymore—it was expanding, trying to rewrite my biology to handle the "Limitless" nature of my soul.
I was a glass bottle trying to hold the pressure of an entire ocean.
"Craig, your temperature is rising," Fafnir's voice echoed in my mind, sharp with concern. "You're trailing smoke."
I didn't look down. I knew. The friction of the air against my aura was creating a wake of scorched grass and ionized oxygen. My lungs felt like they were filled with molten lead, yet I didn't feel "tired" in the traditional sense. I felt overloaded.
"I'm... fine," I gritted out, though the words were snatched away by the Mach-speed winds.
