Greg stood in the chamber of tal-veined stone, the air pressing down on him like the weight of a mountain. Vulkar appeared not as a giant Titan or a gleaming god, but as a balding, middle-aged man with a thick, compact fra and the kind of eyes that made Greg feel like he was under a hamr. The god’s presence was heavy, and his expression was already one of irritation.
"Your choice of friends is very interesting," Vulkar said, his tone soaked in sarcasm.
Greg answered simply, "Yeah. They are interesting."
Vulkar’s scowl deepened. "You really are thick. That was sarcasm."
"I know. But I ant it. They are interesting. They are my friends. They have things no one else has, and I am not going to turn my back on that."
The god let out a long, tallic sigh, as though even breathing around Greg exhausted him. "You are either honest to a fault, or too stubborn to insult properly." His eyes narrowed, and his tone shifted, sharp enough to cut. "But that is not why you are here. Tell , fighter, why do you not use your legs?"
Greg frowned. The question hit harder than the sarcasm had. He opened his mouth, then stopped. He had been an MMA fighter before all this. He knew better than anyone how devastating a well-placed kick could be. In the cage, he had used them. He had drilled them for years. Yet here, in this new world where his body was forged of tal and endurance, he had relied almost entirely on his fists.
"I... don’t know," Greg admitted slowly.
Vulkar barked a harsh laugh. "You do not know. Pathetic. You had the knowledge, the skill, the muscle mory. And still, you chained yourself. You fought like a half-man when you could have fought like a Titan. Do you want to know why?"
Greg clenched his fists. His gut twisted, because he knew Vulkar was right. Sothing had been off, but he had not faced it. "Tell ."
The god’s molten eyes burned. "Because you fear breaking. Not the world, not your enemies. Yourself. You hold back your legs because they carry the weight of everything. A fist is simple. You swing it, you feel strong. But a leg... a leg carries balance, stability, and trust. To kick is to put faith in your own foundation. And you have not trusted yourself since the day you lost everything in the cage."
The words landed like a strike to the chest. Greg staggered back a step, not from force, but from the truth inside them. He rembered the last fight, the one where everything had collapsed. His career, his pride, his future. He had never admitted it out loud, but part of him had stopped trusting himself that day. He had thrown punches because punches were safe. Kicks demanded commitnt. Kicks demanded faith in his own balance. And he had lost that.
"I..." Greg’s voice faltered, but then hardened. "Then I’ll take it back."
Vulkar leaned forward, stout fra radiating raw impatience. "Words. I do not care for words. Show . From this mont, you will train until your legs are steel. You will stand, strike, and endure until your foundation no longer trembles. If you fall, the ground will break you. If you hesitate, the weight will crush you. And if you succeed... then perhaps you will be worthy of the tal you carry."
Greg steadied his breath. His fists unclenched, and for the first ti in this world, he shifted his stance into sothing closer to the cage. Balanced. Ready. He raised his knee, set his core, and struck out with his shin. The sound rang out, tal on tal, a sharp echo that filled the chamber.
Vulkar’s scowl did not soften, but his molten eyes glead faintly. "Better. Now again. Until you understand that your legs are not just weapons. They are the pillars that keep you standing when the world tries to tear you down."
Greg nodded. He understood now what had been holding him back. And he was ready to break it.
Greg’s body swelled as he entered his Titan form, muscles stretching and skin hardening until steel coursed through every fiber of him. He stood taller now, his fra dense with the tallic weight of Vulkar’s blessing. His god watched him with folded arms, a squat figure who looked more like an aging smith than a divine being, yet his molten eyes carried the weight of centuries.
"Your fists are blunt instrunts," Vulkar growled. "Heavy, predictable, loud. They may carry power, but they do not impress . You want to be my Titan, then you will stop wasting my gift. You will use your legs."
Greg shifted uneasily. "I know I should. I’ve trained them before—"
"Trained?" Vulkar’s laugh was bitter, like rust scraping steel. "You trained like a man. Now you will strike like a Titan. If you cannot leave dents in the world itself, then what use are your legs?"
At Vulkar’s command, slabs of tal erupted from the chamber floor. Each was the size of a wall, thick and unyielding, their surfaces polished to a dull silver sheen. They stood in a line like silent judges, waiting for the weight of Greg’s strikes.
"You will kick until you leave your mark," Vulkar said. "No scratches. No shallow blows. Dents deep enough that even I will see them. And you will not stop until you succeed."
Greg’s throat was dry, but he nodded. His Titan fra shifted into stance, balance settling across his widened shoulders and hips. He drove forward, planting his heel into the nearest slab. The impact rang out with a thunderous clang, but when the sound died, the wall stood untouched.
Vulkar’s scowl deepened. "Pathetic. You hit like a boy testing his strength in a yard. Again."
Greg grit his teeth and struck again, this ti with his shin. The pain jolted through his body, not bone but living tal protesting the abuse. The slab rang like a bell. Still no dent.
Vulkar’s voice bood. "You fear breaking! That fear makes you weak. You hold back. Stop thinking like flesh and bone. You are tal now. You are weight. You are force. Put it behind your kick or crawl back to your friends and tell them you failed."
Greg staggered back, his chest heaving. The truth was there in Vulkar’s words. He had always pulled his kicks since that last fight in the cage, afraid to overcommit, afraid of losing balance, afraid of falling again. But here, balance was not just his. His body was steel. His foundation was unyielding.
He steadied himself, feeling the weight of his Titan body settle into the floor. His core tightened, hips rotating with practiced precision. This ti he let go, no holding back, no second-guessing. His shin slamd into the tal wall like a battering ram.
The chamber shuddered. Sparks flew. And when the sound cleared, a dent the size of a crater marred the once flawless surface.
Greg exhaled hard, sweat beading across his tal skin.
Vulkar’s molten eyes flared with satisfaction he would never voice. "Better. Again."
Greg obeyed. Another kick. Another dent. The walls bore his marks now, proof of force given freely, no hesitation, no fear. His legs scread with the impact, but they held. Stronger with each strike, steadier with each breath.
Hours passed. The chamber floor grew littered with warped slabs, every one carrying the imprint of his legs. Greg’s Titan form dripped with molten sweat, his lungs burning, yet he refused to stop. Every dent was a promise to himself. He would no longer hold back.
Finally, Vulkar raised a hand. The walls sank into the floor, leaving the chamber bare again. He looked at Greg with his usual scowl, but his voice carried sothing harder to disguise.
"You left your mark. That is the beginning. Rember this, Titan. Your fists may swing like hamrs, but your legs are pillars. They do not simply strike. They reshape the world. Use them. Or you are nothing but a half-forged blade."
Greg straightened, chest heaving, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Then I’ll keep kicking until the world itself bends."
Vulkar grunted. "See that you do. I will break you again and again until you believe those words."
Greg knew he ant it. And he welcod it.
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