Waylon's legs burned before the sun had even climbed halfway up the sky. The gravity formation pressed down on him like a giant's hand, relentless and unyielding, doubling his weight with every step. Sweat stung his eyes, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his knees wobbled like they might give out any second. The circle—ten measly feet across—felt like a marathon track, each lap stretching into eternity. He'd been at it maybe an hour, and already his body screamed for mercy.
The old man lounged by the fire, sprawled out on a flat rock now, one leg bent and the other stretched long, watching Waylon with a lazy smirk. "Keep that stance, kid," he called, his voice carrying over the hum of the formation. "Back straight, or you'll snap something."
Waylon grit his teeth, forcing his spine to align despite the tremor running through his core. The memory stone's first exercise flickered in his mind—knees bent, feet planted just so, a slow, deliberate march—but holding it under this weight was like balancing a boulder on a toothpick. He took another step, his foot dragging through the grass, and his ankle buckled. He pitched forward, catching himself on his hands as his knees slammed into the dirt.
The formation's hum cut off instantly, the crushing pressure vanishing as the man pulled the crystal from its slot. Waylon collapsed fully, chest heaving, the cool grass a fleeting relief against his flushed skin. "Shit," he wheezed, rolling onto his back, arms flopping uselessly at his sides. "This… this is insane."
The man snorted, standing and brushing off his robes as he ambled over. "Insane? That's nothing. Barely a taste." He loomed over Waylon, his shadow blocking the sun, and nudged him with a booted foot—not hard, but enough to make Waylon flinch. "Get up. You're not done."
Waylon groaned, pushing himself to his elbows, his arms shaking like wet noodles. "I can't even walk a damn circle without eating dirt. How am I supposed to do this for two weeks?"
The man crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees, his grizzled face close enough that Waylon could smell the faint tang of smoke on him. "You think you're special, kid? You're weaker than the ants Cillia snacks on—and those little bastards don't even fight back. Least they've got shells to crack. You? You're soft as mud."
Waylon's jaw tightened, a flash of defiance cutting through the exhaustion. "I took some of 'em down," he muttered, glaring up at the man. "That's not nothing."
The man barked a laugh, sharp and mocking. "Took 'em down? You flailed around with a stick and got lucky. One of 'em could've snapped you in half if I hadn't torched the lot." He straightened up, crossing his arms. "Face it—you're not even a speck yet. A breeze could knock you over in that formation."
Waylon scowled, shoving himself to his feet despite the protest of every muscle. His legs trembled, but he locked his knees, refusing to drop again. "Fine. I'm weak. I get it. Keep rubbing it in, why don't you?"
The man's smirk widened, but his eyes glinted with something colder. "Oh, I will. 'Cause you need to feel it, kid. You're not in your cushy little world anymore—here, weak gets you dead. Or eaten. Or worse." He turned, pacing back to the circle's edge, and slotted the crystal back in. The hum flared up, and Waylon braced himself as the weight slammed down again.
This time, he didn't even make it two steps. His foot caught on nothing—his own damn clumsiness—and he went down hard, shoulder smashing into the ground. The air rushed out of him in a choked grunt, and he lay there, face pressed into the grass, the formation's pressure pinning him like a bug under a thumb.
The hum stopped again, and the man's boots crunched closer. Waylon didn't look up—couldn't, with the shame burning in his chest—but he felt the man's presence hovering. "Pathetic," the man said, voice low and cutting. "Thought you had grit. Guess I was wrong."
Waylon's fingers curled into the dirt, his breath hitching as he shoved himself up to his knees. His arms shook, his vision blurred with sweat and frustration, but he forced his head up to meet the man's gaze. "I'm not quitting," he rasped, voice raw. "Turn it back on."
The man raised an eyebrow, studying him for a long moment. Then he shrugged, almost bored, and reset the crystal. The weight crashed down again, and Waylon's whole body shuddered, his spine bowing under the strain. He dragged one foot forward, then the other, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached. Every step was a battle—his calves screamed, his thighs quivered, and his lungs burned like he'd swallowed fire.
He made it three steps this time before his legs gave out completely. He hit the ground face-first, the impact jarring his teeth, and the formation shut off once more. He didn't move, just lay there panting, dirt smeared across his cheek, the taste of grass and failure bitter on his tongue.
The man's shadow fell over him again, and Waylon braced for another jab. Instead, the old man squatted down, resting his chin in his hand as he stared at Waylon like he was some curious bug. "You're a damn mess," he said, almost conversational. "Weaker than I thought. Cillia's snacks put up more fight than this—they at least scurry before she crunches 'em."
Waylon's chest heaved, his hands clenching into fists as he pushed himself up to his knees again. "Shut up," he snapped, voice trembling with exhaustion and anger. "I'm trying, alright? What do you want from me?"
The man tilted his head, his smirk fading into something harder, more assessing. "Trying's not enough. You're not just weak, kid—you're nothing yet. Those ants? They've got more purpose in their little legs than you've got in your whole body. Food's still higher up the chain than you are."
Waylon's breath hitched, the words slicing deeper than the weight ever could. He wanted to argue, to throw something back, but his body betrayed him—his arms buckled, and he slumped forward, catching himself on his palms. His golden eyes burned, locked on the ground, and for a moment, he couldn't tell if it was sweat or something else stinging them.
The man stood, brushing off his hands like he was done with the whole scene. "Get up," he said, turning back toward the fire. "Or don't. But I'm not hauling you out of there again. Figure it out, or you're no better than ant fodder."
Waylon stayed there, knees dug into the dirt, chest heaving as the man's footsteps faded. The circle loomed around him, silent now, but its weight lingered in his bones. He clenched his fists tighter, nails biting into his palms, and forced himself to his feet. His legs screamed, his back ached, but he staggered to the circle's edge, glaring at the crystal like it was mocking him.
"Turn it on," he growled, voice barely audible, but the man heard. He glanced over his shoulder, raised a brow, then slotted the crystal back in without a word.
The weight hit like a hammer, and Waylon's knees buckled instantly. He caught himself on one hand, teeth bared, and pushed back up, forcing a single, shaky step. Then another. His body trembled, his vision swam, but he kept going—slow, sloppy, and barely upright. The man watched from the corner of his eye, saying nothing, but the faintest flicker of something—approval, maybe—crossed his face before he turned back to the fire.
Waylon didn't see it. He was too busy fighting not to collapse again, each step a defiance against the ants, the formation, and the gnawing truth that he really was as weak as they'd said.