Ryn opened his eyes again.
The pain was still there.
The hunger was still there.
The anger had not gone anywhere.
But one thing had changed—
he had begun to think.
He sat quietly beside the vat,
looking at the woven basket within reach,
at the pond reflecting the late-morning sunlight,
and at the empty container he had been trying to fill for three straight days.
"Damn it…"
His fist clenched tight.
The first thought that surfaced
was not perseverance—
It was escape.
Just quit.
Leave this place.
Central isn't meant for me.
He almost stood up and walked away.
Almost.
If not for a certain memory
that cut through his thoughts.
The journey.
Richard's words about breathing.
The rhythm of movement.
Not rushing.
Not forcing.
Everything he had been taught
had never been meaningless.
Richard was not someone who wasted time.
And he was not someone who tormented others for fun.
So if that was the case—
Then what he was doing
was never really about the water.
Ryn closed his eyes
and drew in a long breath, just as he had been taught.
Slow…
Deep…
Steady.
He felt the turmoil in his chest—
the anger,
the frustration,
the despair.
They swirled inside him,
no different from power that could not be controlled.
"Could it be…"
He opened his eyes again.
Not with hope—
but with the faint beginning of understanding.
He rose slowly
and picked up the woven basket.
This time,
he didn't rush.
He didn't force himself.
He didn't race against time.
He walked into the pond,
scooped the water,
lifted it,
watched it flow through the gaps without frustration,
then returned to the vat
and poured in the few remaining drops—
just like before.
But his heart…
was no longer the same.
Beneath the tree,
Richard opened his eyes slightly,
watching the scene through the gently swaying hammock.
The corner of his mouth lifted, just a little.
"Heh…"
A laugh so quiet it was almost inaudible—
not one of mockery,
but of someone who knew:
This boy
had not broken yet.
And the training
was only just beginning.
Ryn began to slow down.
Not because he was out of strength—
but because he chose not to rush.
Every step.
Every scoop.
He tried to follow what he had been taught all along.
Breathe…
slow…
deep…
in rhythm.
Move his body in sync with his breathing.
Do not force.
Do not rush.
Do not resist.
His ears listened—
To the sound of water striking the pond's surface.
To the wind brushing through the leaves.
To the soft sway of Richard's hammock beneath the tree.
His nose caught the scents—
The smell of soil.
The smell of water.
The smell of his own sweat.
He began to exist within what he was doing
instead of fighting against it.
And in that moment—
His gaze drifted toward Richard,
who was casually eating his lunch.
In his hand was a bright orange fruit.
His rough fingers peeled away the skin,
one strip at a time.
The peel curved and parted,
revealing the juicy flesh inside.
Yet not a single drop of liquid spilled out.
Ryn stared.
Unblinking.
The peel…
It's holding everything in.
His mind started working on its own.
The peel of the fruit—
it protects what's inside.
It keeps the moisture contained.
His gaze slowly dropped to the woven basket in his hands.
Wide gaps.
Open.
Nothing to block the flow.
So… what kind of "peel" can I use to seal it…?
The thought flashed through his mind.
Dirt?
No… Richard would never allow a shortcut like that.
Leaves?
They wouldn't last.
Ryn drew in a breath—
slow…
deep…
Power.
The word surfaced clearly in his thoughts.
Control the power.
He closed his eyes and let his breathing find its rhythm.
Like the day he crossed the mountain.
Like the night he forced his body not to collapse.
He imagined—
not something grand,
not something violent,
But a thin shell
that wrapped,
supported,
and held things together.
His power began to flow from his body.
Not in bursts.
Not in surges.
But gently,
seeping into the gaps of the basket.
Ryn bent down and scooped the water.
It still leaked out—
but… more slowly.
His eyes widened.
"It worked…!"
The joy surged too quickly.
His concentration shattered.
The power dissolved.
The water poured out of the basket in an instant.
But Ryn didn't curse.
He didn't give up.
He didn't get angry.
He laughed softly—
even while gasping,
even while exhausted,
even while starving.
"Again…"
He focused once more.
Breathed.
Slow.
Steady.
He scooped the water
and walked to the vat.
This time—
The water stayed.
Not all of it,
but enough.
When he poured it in,
the water level rose visibly—
nearly half a basket's worth.
Ryn stood there, staring at the vat.
His heart pounded.
Not from exhaustion—
but from success.
He didn't stop.
He didn't rush.
He didn't get carried away.
He simply…
kept going.
Beneath the tree,
Richard paused in peeling his orange
and glanced over for just a moment.
A faint smile crossed his face.
He said nothing.
Some lessons lose their value
when spoken aloud.
And this boy
was truly learning it on his own.
Ryn kept going.
Not rushing.
Not forcing himself.
Not thinking about praise.
Not thinking about success.
There was only his breathing,
the rhythm of his steps,
and the power flowing alongside his will.
The basket in his hands now
was no different from a solid iron water barrel.
Not a single drop leaked out.
He walked.
Scooped.
Poured.
Again and again.
Until the first light of the fourth morning
slowly spread across the training grounds.
The large water vat…
was nearly half full.
Richard had woken before dawn.
He walked out quietly and stood there for a moment,
as if he had known the answer from the very beginning.
Then he burst into laughter.
"Ha! Hahahahaha!"
The sound echoed across the yard.
"You finally did it."
Richard stepped closer,
looking at the vat,
then at Ryn swaying weakly beside it.
"Well then?
Achieving something with your own strength—
it's sweet, isn't it?
It feels good, doesn't it?"
Ryn smiled.
A real smile.
Not forced.
Though his lips trembled slightly,
and his body barely had the strength left to respond.
Just then,
the supply unit arrived.
Richard waved them off casually.
"Go wash up, then come eat."
"Today, you've earned the right to sit at my table."
The words "earned the right"
almost made Ryn laugh—
even as he could barely stay on his feet.