Chapter 8: The Burden of Growth

The words echoed in The Boy's mind, a quiet, persistent reminder of how far he still had to go: "You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer." The overseer had said them casually, as though they were meant to inspire, to motivate him. But in the quiet of the nights, when the chamber was empty, and the weight of his bruised, exhausted body pressed against the cold stone floor, they felt like a curse.

Every night, as he lay there, aching and sore from the day's punishment, the words replayed, haunting him. You're not ready. But you're getting closer. It was as if the overseer had planted those words deep inside his skull, a constant reminder that survival was not enough. He had to become more—stronger, faster, smarter—before the pit swallowed him whole.

The pit was where fighters were truly tested. It wasn't just a place of combat, but a graveyard, where boys too eager, too confident, or too weak met their end. The pit didn't care about potential; it demanded perfection. And The Boy knew, deep down, that even though he was training day after day, he wasn't ready for that hell.

Not yet.

The next morning, the same routine began. The Boy, already weary from the weight of his thoughts, joined the other boys in the yard. His body protested each movement, the dull ache of his muscles a constant reminder of the brutal session with Urek. He could still feel the chains pulling at his wrists, even though they weren't there. They had become part of him, woven into his very being.

The overseers barked their usual orders, but today the air felt different. There was a tension, a sense of expectation hanging over the yard like a storm about to break.

The Boy stood at the edge, watching the older trainees as they sparred. Urek was among them, swinging his wooden sword with practiced ease, his movements fluid and precise. There was no hesitation in his strikes, no fear of failure. Urek was ready for the pit. He was everything The Boy wasn't—strong, sure of himself, and most importantly, ruthless.

But even as Urek trained, The Boy noticed something else. He wasn't fighting like he had in the chamber. Urek was holding back, restraining the full force of his blows. This wasn't the real Urek. The real Urek, the one who had beaten The Boy down so thoroughly, was kept hidden for the pit.

The pit.

The Boy clenched his fists, the words echoing again. You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer.

Closer. But not close enough.

The overseer approached, his sharp eyes scanning the group. "You," he called out, pointing directly at The Boy.

The Boy's heart skipped a beat, but he stepped forward without hesitation. His body felt heavier today, but he forced himself to ignore the fatigue. This was his life now. There was no room for weakness.

"We're going to test something new," the overseer said, his voice colder than usual. He gestured toward a set of wooden dummies set up on the far side of the yard, their surfaces chipped and scarred from years of abuse. "You've learned how to take pain. Now let's see if you can use it."

The Boy blinked, unsure of what the overseer meant. Use it?

The overseer motioned for him to stand in front of one of the dummies. He obeyed, his body tense, waiting for what was coming next. The other boys watched from a distance, their eyes curious but distant. They had seen him endure beatings before. They didn't expect much.

The overseer stepped behind him, his shadow looming over The Boy. "In the pit, you'll get hit. It's inevitable. But if you can turn that pain into fuel, you'll last longer. Your opponents won't expect you to fight back when you're hurt. That's your advantage."

The Boy nodded, though he didn't fully understand. How could pain be anything but a burden? Every blow he had taken in training had slowed him down, worn him out. The idea that pain could be a weapon felt foreign, impossible.

The overseer grabbed a heavy wooden club from the weapon rack. "You're going to strike this dummy," he instructed, "until I say stop. And every time you do, I'll hit you back. You'll learn to ignore the pain. To keep fighting."

The Boy's pulse quickened. He knew what was coming. He had to fight while being hit, without flinching, without retreating.

The first blow came before he was even ready. The club slammed into his back, and he lurched forward, gasping as the breath was knocked from his lungs. The pain shot through him like fire, but the overseer didn't pause.

"Hit the dummy," the overseer barked.

The Boy raised his arm and swung his wooden sword at the dummy, but the strike was weak, pathetic. His muscles trembled, the pain distracting him. Before he could reset, the overseer struck him again, this time across the shoulders.

"Again."

The Boy swung, harder this time, but the pain from the overseer's blows was growing, each one hitting a different part of his body, each one demanding attention. The dummy seemed impossibly far away, the strikes barely making contact as the pain swallowed him whole.

The overseer's voice remained cold, unwavering. "You're not ready for the pit because you let the pain control you. You have to control it. Push through it."

Another blow, this one lower, just above his hips. The Boy almost collapsed, his legs shaking under the weight of both the strikes and the words that haunted him. But he gritted his teeth and kept swinging, each strike of his sword harder, more desperate.

"Do you think your enemies will stop when you're hurt?" the overseer demanded, landing another blow. "They won't. They'll keep coming until you're on the ground, until you stop breathing."

The Boy's vision blurred. His arms felt like they were made of lead, his legs barely supporting him. But the overseer didn't relent.

"Use it," the overseer growled, striking him across the ribs. "Use the pain. Let it drive you. If you don't, it'll kill you."

The Boy swung again, harder this time, and for a brief moment, he felt something. A flicker of energy, born from the pain, driving him forward. His next strike hit the dummy solidly, a loud crack echoing through the yard.

The overseer paused, watching him with narrowed eyes. "Better."

The Boy gasped for breath, sweat pouring down his face. His entire body was on fire, but somehow, he had managed to keep standing. He wasn't sure how much longer he could last, but the overseer wasn't done.

Another blow, this one to his thigh, sending him to his knees. The pain was too much now. His body screamed at him to stop, to give in, to collapse and rest.

You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer.

The words returned, louder this time, as if they were mocking him. He wasn't ready. He would never be ready. The pit was for the strong, the unbreakable, and here he was, on his knees, unable to even keep fighting a wooden dummy.

The overseer stood over him, silent for a moment. The Boy's breath came in ragged gasps, his vision fading in and out as the pain overtook him. But he didn't move. He didn't rise.

"You're getting closer," the overseer said finally, his voice lower, almost thoughtful. "But not today."

The Boy collapsed fully, his face hitting the dirt as exhaustion claimed him. He couldn't go any further. He was done.

The overseer walked away, leaving him in the dirt, the wooden dummy standing tall over his defeated form. The other boys had long since stopped watching, returning to their own training, uninterested in the fate of the weakest among them.

For a long time, The Boy lay there, his body heavy and broken. The words echoed louder than ever, filling every corner of his mind.

"You're not ready for the pit, but you're getting closer."

And they would follow him, like a shadow, until the day he finally escaped the pit's grasp entirely.

If that day ever came.

1 chapter ahead for free below. 1 Chapter will always be ahead on the pinned post linking to another page. If you want more you can pay $4.50/month for 9 chapters ahead on the story but one chapter will always be ahead in the P@treon page.

https://p@treon.com/swattywriter