His awareness fractured. The present, the ruined arena, Zofia’s strained face, all receded. He found himself standing on worn, smooth floorboards, the scent of aged wood and sweat filling his nostrils. Sunlight, golden and dust-filled, streamed through high windows, illuminating countless motes dancing in the air. Young fingers, small and calloused, gripped a practice staff, its rough grain familiar beneath his palms. “Again, Radomir,” a deep, resonant voice commanded. Bogdan Volkov stood before him, a figure carved from granite and oak. His frame was broader then, his dark hair less streaked with silver. He held his own staff, a polished length of river birch, with effortless grace. “Feel the earth beneath your feet, not just with your soles, but with your very sinews. Let its stability flow through you.” Radomir, barely ten winters old, took a breath and mirrored the old man's stance. Beside him, Milena, a quicksilver girl of eight, already had her own staff in motion, a blur of focused energy. Her form was lighter, quicker, but rooted just as deeply. “The Volkov way,” Bogdan continued, his voice soft but firm, “is not about flash. It is not about intricate patterns or dazzling displays. It is about the foundation. About making your being an extension of the ground you stand upon. An unbreakable anchor.” He demonstrated, pushing his staff forward in a simple, direct lunge. The air around the tip compressed with a low hum, a subtle manifestation of raw, unadorned power. “This isn’t weakness, children. This is where true strength begins. A perfect, unyielding base from which all else flows. Like iron hammered again and again, it does not splinter; it becomes denser, harder, part of the world itself.” Milena giggled, her staff whipping through the air. “Like Papa’s stew! Simple ingredients, but so strong it makes you grow!” Bogdan’s stern face softened with a smile. “Exactly so, Milena. And just like that stew, it nourishes what is within. Remember this, both of you. Many will tell you our ways are old-fashioned, obsolete. They will speak of ‘complex sigils’ and ‘stolen power’ from the Foundries. They lure you with promises of instant might.” He paused, his gaze hardening, settling on each of them in turn. “But they don’t build power. They drain it, they siphon it from the world’s very essence and warp it into their own image. And their hunger… their hunger is endless. It will consume everything if you let it.” Bogdan's words, a forgotten echo from a distant past, rang with startling clarity. *They don’t build power, they steal it.* The memory, vivid and sharp, receded as quickly as it came, replaced by the burning agony in his chest, the frantic whisper of Milena’s name in his mind. The acrid scent of ozone and burnt synth-flesh filled his nostrils, the chill of the ruined arena floor seeping into his knees. He was back. Borislav. The name formed a bitter taste on his tongue. The Chairman’s cold, calculating eyes, the predatory gleam Radomir had seen in them even through the arena’s broadcast feed – it was the same hunger his father had warned them about. An insatiable void that would consume everything in its path, including Milena. [WARNING: Host’s Core Sigil approaching critical resonance with external parasitic sigil. Energetic feedback detected. Integrity compromised.] Radomir clenched his fists. The system's flat pronouncements, the sudden agony, Milena’s fading voice – it all clicked into place. The [Heart of Iron Protocol]. It didn't just multiply basic exercises. It didn't just grant control over fundamental energies. It provided *unyielding foundations*. It took the most rudimentary, uncorrupted martial energies and refined them, honed them, made them absolute. His father's words roared in his mind: *part of the world itself. It does not splinter.* The Foundries’ techniques, the ‘complex’ sigils, even the Sanguine Bloom – they were all elaborate constructions, built on borrowed power, fragile despite their apparent might. His own power, forged from the ground up, was different. It wasn’t just exponential growth. It was a perfect, foundational purity that could unravel the stolen, complex energies of others. The [Heart of Iron Protocol] wasn’t merely a training aid. It was a countermeasure. A weapon designed to dismantle the very fabric of stolen Core Sigils. The pain in his chest flared again, biting deeper. Milena’s whisper grew fainter. He turned to Zofia, who tracked the smoke and shattered metal with flat focus, her fingers already tapping her comm unit. “Get me into his vault,” Radomir said, his voice a low, gravelly command that cut through the sirens and shouts outside the arena. “Now.”

Iron and Blood