Four days later, I lay sprawled on the training hall floor like a discarded ragdoll, staring at the ceiling with dead eyes.
My arms splayed wide, fingers twitching occasionally—the only proof I wasn't actually a corpse. The weight of Echo of Remorse still pressed against my right palm, its faint hum syncing with my ragged breathing.
Not far away, the turtle brothers huddled in their usual post-beating conference. Their voices carried just enough for me to hear—no doubt intentionally.
"His persistence time increased by 23% today," Dono mused, tapping his staff against his shell. "At this rate, we'll need to adjust tactics by next week."
Mike spun his nunchaku with a grin. "Ooooor we could just hit harder now! Remember that combo move we used on the sewer kraken?"
Leon's katana shinged as he sheathed it. "Idiot. We're supposed to train him, not pulp him again." A pause. "...Yet."
