Chapter 10: The Climb to Freedom

A full month had passed. In that time, I had taken this broken, malnourished body and forced it into something that resembled strength. It wasn't easy—transforming a body on the brink of death into something capable of survival required more than just willpower. According to the memories of this body, Eliot Blackthorn was only eighteen years old, but the blood of his father, Sebastian Vettel, flowed in his veins. That man's strength had been passed down to his son, and even though I had nothing but insects and water to fuel myself, my muscles had begun to take shape.

Skinny, yes—my body lacked any real fat—but what I had built was enough. Muscle definition started to show, faint but promising, as I pushed myself to my limits every day. I was able to do exactly two hundred of each exercise now—push-ups, sit-ups, squats, the basics. They had become my ritual, my way of forging this weak flesh into something that could endure the world beyond the ditch.

My eyes, too, had adapted to the darkness. The pit that had once been suffocating now seemed less daunting. I could see clearer in the dim light, my vision adjusting with each passing day. And yet, even as I grew stronger, the ditch remained my prison, a constant reminder that all my progress meant nothing if I couldn't escape.

But today felt different. The sun was high, casting warmth into the world above me. It was the hottest it had been in weeks, and that heat would work to my advantage. I wouldn't risk climbing out after the rain, with the walls slippery and treacherous. No, this was the perfect moment—the ground was dry, and I had prepared for this.

The sharp stones I had crafted, molded with sticks to form makeshift daggers, were my secret weapon. It was a crude creation, nothing more than sharpened rocks, but it was all I had. The daggers were fragile, their edges likely to shatter after just a few uses, but they were the key to my escape. If I could stab them into the rock face and use them as leverage, I might have a chance.

It was time.

I took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from my brow, and began to grip the jagged rock wall. My hands, calloused and rough from days of practice, found their purchase in the small crevices. My legs strained as I lifted myself off the ground, muscles screaming in protest. This wasn't easy—climbing a sheer wall with barely any equipment was a task that required not just strength, but control. My body had to work in harmony: upper body strength to pull myself upward, lower body strength to push, and flexibility to navigate the uneven surface.

Each inch I climbed felt like a battle. My fingers scraped against the stone, slipping occasionally as the jagged edges cut into my palms. My legs shook as I pressed them into the tiny footholds, willing my body to keep moving upward. My breath was shallow, each exhale accompanied by a grunt of effort. The higher I climbed, the more the sun's light grew, piercing through the shadows of the ditch and guiding me toward freedom.

But just when I thought I was nearing the top, the wall changed.

The jagged rocks that had given me handholds became smooth, plain, and flat. I cursed under my breath but didn't panic. I had prepared for this.

I took out the stone daggers, gripping one in each hand. With a deep breath, I stabbed the first dagger into the wall, feeling the sharp edge bite into the rock. It held. I pressed the second dagger into the wall, using them as makeshift climbing tools. My progress slowed as I carefully navigated the flat surface, each movement deliberate.

The daggers were fragile. I could feel them cracking under the strain, but they held—for now.

Sweat dripped from my brow, stinging my eyes as I continued to climb. My muscles ached, every fiber of my being protesting the effort, but I refused to stop. Inch by inch, I pulled myself higher, each thrust of the dagger bringing me closer to the surface.

And then, finally, my hand reached the edge of the ditch.

I pulled myself up, my entire body trembling with exhaustion, and rolled onto the ground. My daggers shattered beside me, but it didn't matter. I had done it.

I lay there for a moment, staring up at the sky, breathing in the fresh air that tasted sweeter than anything I'd ever known. How long had it been since I'd felt sunlight on my skin? Since I'd heard the rustle of leaves in the wind or smelled the scent of the earth?

I pushed myself up slowly, standing on unsteady legs, and took in the world around me.

The forest stretched out before me, bathed in golden sunlight. Trees towered high, their leaves rustling softly in the warm breeze. Birds chirped in the distance, their melodies filling the air with life. The grass beneath my feet was soft, vibrant green, and the sky above me was a brilliant blue, free of clouds.

It was beautiful. I had forgotten how beautiful the world could be.

For a brief moment, I allowed myself to feel a sense of peace—a feeling I hadn't known in a long time. But it didn't last. I couldn't afford to relax, not yet. This was just the beginning. I had escaped the ditch, but now I had to deal with the woman who had thrown me there in the first place.

Eliot Blackthorn's aunt.

I clenched my fists, the rage bubbling up inside me once more. She had left me for dead, abandoned me like I was nothing. But I wasn't nothing. I was Leon Winter, and I had a second chance. A chance to make things right.

And she would be the first to pay.