Two hours.
For two long hours, Michael instructed Samael to… breathe.
As it turned out, continuously allowing yourself to breathe consciously was not as easy as it sounded.
Samael never thought he’d fail at something he’d been doing since birth.
If not for his knowledge of the game, he would’ve suspected Michael’s secret training method was just slow and methodical torture disguised as wisdom.
But it wasn’t.
Samael knew that Michael was teaching him the genuine thing.
His body, however, refused to cooperate.
The more he focused on his breathing, the more unnatural it felt. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. Every breath was deliberate, forced — like trying to control a puppet with tangled strings.
Michael sat cross-legged nearby, watching him with the patience of a saint. Or a sadist. Samael hadn’t decided yet.
“You’re overthinking it,” Michael finally said. “Just let it flow naturally.”
Samael shot him a flat look. “You just spent two hours telling me ‘not’ to breathe naturally.”
Michael smirked. “And now I’m telling you to find a new ‘natural.’ One that doesn’t rely on habit, but on control.”
Samael exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fantastic. I love contradictions.”
Michael ignored him. “Try again. Slow down. Feel the air moving through your body. Control the intake, the release. Don’t let your body dictate it — you dictate it.”
Samael shut his eyes and tried.
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Hold.
He focused on the sensation, the way air traveled through his throat, filled his lungs, and dispersed.
He reached out – not with his hands, but with his awareness – trying to sense the shift in his body. The rhythm of his pulse. The beat of his heart.
He thought he was doing it right this time.
Then—
Michael clapped his hands loudly, “Alright, time’s up.”
Samael flinched, his concentration shattering. His golden eyes snapping open, full of irritation. “Are you serious?”
Michael grinned. “Congratulations. You lasted a whole three seconds that time.”
Samael resisted the urge to throw a rock at him.
Two more hours passed like that.
“I’m hungry,” Samael whined.
“Shut up and concentrate,” came a sharp reply.
“Tsk.”
Michael was now sitting a few feet away, reading a book. He wasn’t even looking at Samael anymore. But whenever the golden-haired boy made a mistake, he was quick to call him out.
“Again,” he said suddenly.
Samael resisted the urge to smack his own head. “How do you know?! You aren’t even looking at me!”
Michael replied casually. “I’m not looking but listening. Your rhythm broke.”
And just like that, two more grueling hours passed.
Samael finally began to feel like he was making progress.
His breaths were no longer stiff and mechanical.
The air flowed in smoothly, filling his lungs, then left just as effortlessly. The awkward rhythm started to feel natural — controlled and seamless.
He wasn’t just breathing anymore. He was guiding the breath.
His heartbeat was steady and his pulse was calm. He was in full control of his body.
Samael’s lips curled into a smirk. Finally.
Then—
Thwack—!
Something smacked the top of his head.
His concentration snapped. His eyes flew open, golden irises flashing with rage.
Michael sat there, still flipping through his book, tossing a small ball up and down in his free hand. “Your rhythm broke again.”
Samael clenched his jaw. “Because you fucking threw a ball at me.”
Michael turned a page. “If a single distraction can break your focus, you haven’t learned anything yet.”
Samael took a deep breath. A very deep breath. Not the controlled kind, but the one that suggested he was mere seconds away from committing a murder.
Michael smirked. “Don’t look at me like that. Put that hate to the training. Go again.”
And so, Samael went again.
•••
“Alright, that’s enough.”
Ten torturous hours after they started their lesson, Michael finally instructed Samael to stop.
“You still need to work on your breathing,” he told him. “But for now, you’ve made enough progress for me to introduce you to the real thing.”
Samael arched a brow. “Great. Hand over the instruction manual.”
Michael’s lips curled into a smile. It was a dangerous smile. “There is no manual.”
Samael already knew that. But for the sake of keeping up pretenses, he hardened his expression. “What now?”
Michael nearly laughed. “You asked why no one else has ever figured out this technique? It’s because it’s not something you can pick up on your own. It has to be taught by someone who’s already experienced it firsthand.”
A thoughtful look crossed Samael’s face. “Wait. If it can only be taught by someone who already knows it, and no one knows about it in the world, then how did you learn it? Doesn’t that contradict itself?”
Michael held his gaze for a long moment, then shrugged. “I learned it from a wise old man I met once. I helped him cross the road, and he was so moved by my kindness that he revealed himself as an ancient warrior and passed it down to me.”
Samael’s eyebrow twitched.
This bastard.
He was using the almost exact same excuse Samael had given him when asked about the golden sword.
And now he was throwing it right back at him. The audacity!
Michael smirked. “What? You don’t believe me?”
Samael held his stare for a beat, then nodded with utmost fake sincerity. “No, that sounds about right. There are plenty of mysterious old men in this world handing out divine treasures and priceless knowledge.”
This time, Michael’s eyebrow twitched.
But instead of responding, he stepped behind Samael, who remained seated in a cross-legged position.
Without saying much, Michael placed his hands on Samael’s back — one over his heart and the other just below it.
“Since [C-rankers] can’t sense Essence, I’ll forcefully create two pathways in your body. The first loop will run through your heart, syncing with your pulse.” He pressed his fingers in slightly. “That way, as you rank up, you’ll be able to regulate Essence flow more naturally. It’s identical to the standard pathway that Awakened usually create.”
Samael’s eyes narrowed. “And the second loop?”
Michael’s smirk deepened. “That one will intertwine with your Dantian and connect to your diaphragm, aligning with your breathing. Once your body adapts, controlling Essence will be as natural as breathing.”
Samael mulled over the information. He already knew how Essence functioned because he had played the game.
Every living being possessed at least a trace of Essence.
Upon Awakening, that Essence would settle down around their solar plexus, becoming what was known as a Dantian — or, in modern terms, an Essence Pool.
Even a [C-ranker] could subconsciously tap into their Essence Pool when casting a Card.
But only upon reaching [B-rank] could an Awakened manipulate it at will.
Michael’s technique changed that. By connecting one of the loops to the diaphragm, it made deploying Essence as effortless as breathing.
It wouldn’t make him invincible. He could still lose, still tire out, still fall.
But it would let him punch above his weight class. Just like Michael could.
And the best part was that there were no existing practitioners of this technique across the two realms.
After all, this technique had to be passed down by someone who understood it inside and out. And the ancient civilization that created it had died out in the Spirit Realm long before humanity even discovered that nightmarish world.
Yes, humanity wasn’t the first ones to inhabit the Spirit Realm.
Just as Samael was thinking that, Michael pressed his fingers even deeper against his back, almost clawing at his skin—
“Arghh!”
And a shockwave of pain erupted through Samael’s body.
Michael was forcefully flooding his own Essence in Samael’s body to create the pathways.
Needless to say, it was a painful feeling.
Samael howled in pain as if molten iron had been poured into his veins, scorching its way through his chest in searing lines.
His breath hitched. His heartbeat stuttered.
For a terrifying moment, his lungs felt like they had collapsed, his entire body forgetting how to function.
“Breathe,” Michael’s voice cut through his agony. “Keep breathing.”
And Samael tried to do just that.
He forced himself to inhale — shaky and uneven.
The moment air filled his lungs, the pain spiked, like a serrated blade carving through his chest.
But he endured.
Exhale.
The burning agony dulled for a fraction of a second before roaring back, radiating from his solar plexus. His hands clenched into fists and nails dug into his palms as he tried to keep his breathing steady.
Michael’s fingers remained pressed against his back, unmoving. “Again.”
Samael gritted his teeth and did it all again.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold.
Each breath carried the searing pain, but beneath it, he finally felt something — something faint.
A pulse. A current.
It was Essence.
He still couldn’t sense it properly, since that was impossible at his rank, but he could feel its existence now, lurking beneath the pain.
It wasn’t just moving through him – it was becoming a part of him.
The first loop, bound to his heart, pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, threading Essence through his bloodstream. It was raw, unrefined, but undeniably powerful. It was the standard loop that Awakened create after reaching [B-rank].
The second loop, connected to his diaphragm and Dantian, was different. It ebbed and flowed with his breathing, as natural as the rise and fall of his chest.
Small micro-channels branched out from this loop, threading just beneath his skin, making it easier for him to absorb ambient energy each time he breathed in.
And then—
He felt a spark.
Samael’s golden eyes fluttered open as he felt… something… click into place deep inside him.
The pain didn’t disappear. No, it still lingered, thrumming beneath the surface like a barely restrained storm.
But now, it was manageable.
Contained.
Controlled.
Michael stepped back, exhaling in satisfaction. “Do you feel it?”
Samael gave a small nod. His face was flushed and his body slick with sweat.
Michael clasped his hands. “Good. Let’s go again.”
Carving pathways at such a low rank was like gauging out an intricate design in a stone with a dull knife.
It was going to take some time.
Without a word, Samael braced himself.
They repeated the process. Again and again. Seventeen more times.
With each cycle, the pain dulled, replaced by brimming vigor.
By the eighteenth cycle, the searing agony had faded to a simmer. Instead of feeling like Samael was being torn apart, his body thrummed with raw energy.
He rolled his shoulders. The soreness remained, but it was a small price to pay. His muscles still ached, yet his entire body felt lighter. Faster. Sharper.
Michael stepped back for the last time today, his own forehead now slick with sweat.
His breath was hoarse as he spoke, “I think you can do it on your own now. Keep absorbing the Essence, keep refining the pathways, and you should be good.”
Samael stood up from the ground, swaying slightly.
He looked at his palms and flexed his fingers, astonished by the strength he felt coursing through his veins.
Michael raised an eyebrow, then gestured toward the reinforced walls of the training hall. “Go ahead. Try it.”
Samael glanced at him, then at the steel walls.
A smirk crossed his lips.
He bent his knees slightly, channeling Essence into his legs. Then, with a single step, he nearly disappeared!
Fwoosh—!!
One moment, he was standing a few steps away. The next, he was right before the steel wall.
In a display of blurring speed, he willed Essence into his arm and threw a punch forward.
Thwaaam—!!
His fist connected with devastating force and the reinforced steel groaned under the impact. A deep dent appeared where his punch had made contact.
…Damn!
Unbelievable!
This wall was designed to withstand the strikes of mid-[B-rank] Awakened — yet he managed to dent it with a punch?
“T-This…” Samael whispered in a trembling voice, wide eyes full of disbelief and fatigue. “This is awesome!”
…But soon his exhilaration vanished and his expression contorted in agony.
He stumbled back, shaking his hand violently.
“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Fuck!” He cursed, clutching the fist he used to hit the wall. “Fuck, that hurts!”
Michael, standing a few steps away, smiled smugly. “Oh, did I forget to mention? It’ll take some time to adjust to the right amount of Essence for your attacks. Too little won’t do much, but too will cause a backlash.”
Samael shot him a glare through the pain. “You fucking bastard.”
“Hehe!” Michael threw his head back and laughed cheekily. Then, he turned toward the exit.
“Well, with that, I’ve held up my end of the deal,” he said, walking away without looking back. “Practice on your own. Control your strength properly. And—”
He paused at the doorway. “Give me my damn Essence Stones soon.”