Sin Rouge's lower training hall wasn't built for comfort.
Stone flooring, reinforced runes glowing faintly, shock absorption glyphs burned into the walls every detail existed for one purpose:
To break the weak, and harden what survived.
Verosika stood in the center of the floor, gloves strapped tight, wings folded back. No glitter, stage performance, flirtation just focus.
Malerion watched her with arms folded, expression unreadable.
"Last chance," he said quietly.
"You don't need to do this."
Verosika took a slow breath not shaky, not emotional, but grounded.
"I'm not doing it because I need to."
Her eyes lifted to his.
"I'm doing it because I refuse to stay… ornamental."
That sentence shifted the air.
No one laughed.
Even Skit and Bit.
Dreg grinned sharp, approving.
Rafe raised a brow.
Liz watched with a hint of respect.
Quill already had screens open.
And Malerion… nodded once.
"Then you train under my system," he said.
"No half effort. hesitation."
She smiled tired, nervous, eager.
"Good. I'm done being the weakest one in the room."
THE TRAINING BEGINS
It wasn't elegant.
wasn't cinematic.
was ugly.
Painful.
Raw.
Malerion activated his influence quietly a pulse like gravity passing through the air. Not visible, not violent but overwhelming enough that Verosika's instincts sharpened and her senses stretched.
> His cultivation wasn't just strength.
It was structure a framework her body adapted to without asking permission.
Her breath quickened.
magic responded.
And something in her changed like a muscle waking after centuries of sleep.
"Focus," Malerion guided.
"Let the pressure guide your body. Not fear adaptation."
Dreg stepped forward.
"Try to hit me."
Verosika laughed once.
Then tried.
Dreg did not move.
Instead, Malerion increased the cultivation field just slightly.
Speed doubled.
Her perception widened.
Awareness sharpened.
She didn't hit Dreg but she got closer.
Again.
And again.
Until her arms shook and sweat dripped from her jaw and her legs barely obeyed her.
"Weakness isn't failure," Malerion said calmly.
"Stopping is."
She bared her teeth not in seduction.
In defiance.
"Again."
Time blurred drills, footwork, dodging strikes, redirecting momentum.
But the most painful part wasn't physical.
It was internal:
Her body wasn't just working it was changing.
Malerion's cultivation energy forced adaptation, pushing her body toward something Hell blooded rather than pop idol fragile.
Pain seared her muscles then faded replaced by strength.
Her magic surged then stabilized.
Wings even shifted subtly feathers sharper, energy denser.
Rafe finally murmured:
"…She's evolving."
Liz nodded.
"Malerion's influence accelerates everyone in his inner circle. But she adapts faster than expected."
Dreg grunted approvingly.
"She's not soft."
Not anymore.
THE BREAKING POINT
All growth has a cost.
And eventually her body reached its limit.
Her knees buckled mid-step.
She gasped
Then everything went black.
Before she hit the floor, Malerion moved faster than thought catching her against his chest.
Her head rested against him, breathing rapid and unsteady.
"She pushed far," Liz murmured.
"She pushed well," Dreg corrected.
Malerion looked down at Verosika not with pity, not worry.
With acknowledgment.
"You chose correctly," he said softly, though she could no longer hear.
Then he looked at Liz.
"She needs recovery. Warm water. Oils to stabilize magical strain. Fresh clothing."
Liz nodded and for once, no sarcasm touched her tone.
"I'll take care of it."
CLEANING AND CHANGE
Minutes later, Liz returned calm, efficient.
"She's cleaned and changed. The body is still processing the cultivation influence she'll sleep hard."
Malerion walked into the room.
Verosika lay peacefully hair loose, breathing soft. Not fragile just exhausted.
Her aura flickered faint violet sparks radiating along her skin.
A sign of adaptation.
Growth.
Evolution.
He lifted her again gently this time.
Her hand curled into his coat unconsciously as if her body recognized safety before her mind could.
THE QUIET SHIFT
He laid her on his bed intending to leave.
But her voice barely audible stopped him.
"…don't… go."
Not a plea.
Instinct.
Malerion hesitated.
Then quietly he removed his coat and sat beside her.
She shifted unconsciously head against his chest, hand resting over his heartbeat.
His arm wrapped around her restrained, careful.
And something in his cultivation field adjusted on its own stabilizing her evolution.
Not because he commanded it.
Because it recognized her.
A soft whisper from Alastor echoed in his mind:
> "Ah… attachment.
How wonderfully catastrophic."
Malerion closed his eyes.
The serpent king and the siren lay in silence.
Not allies.
Something deeper forming slowly.
Dangerously.
Inevitable.