Days went by. Real ones, counted the slow way time passed in that black place, where a hundred of them would cost the world outside a single sunrise.
Trafalgar spent them the same way, over and over. He set his feet, pulled the mana down into his legs, and fired, and for hours at a stretch he did nothing else, chasing the [Godstep] one ragged burst at a time. His body paid for every attempt.
The technique asked more of his muscles and nerves than they'd ever been built to give, and after enough repetitions it came apart under him, joints screaming, the fine control gone, until a burst that should have carried him five metres dropped him on the ground in a heap. So he'd drag himself to the pool, let the dark water knit him back together, and climb out to do it all again.
