Turning his gaze skyward, Atticus saw dark clouds gathering rapidly.
"What now…" he muttered, irritatated.
Within seconds, heavy drops of water began to fall, slamming into the ground with the force of glass shattering on stone.
His feather-made umbrella stood no chance. The rain shredded it apart as if it were made of paper.
Atticus's eyes narrowed, and his arms shot upwards, shielding his face from the relentless barrage. From a single glance, it was obvious, this wasn't ordinary rain. The droplets fell with the speed and impact of bullets.
'It stings,' he thought grimly.
Though his arms managed to block the rain from striking his face, the rest of his body was left vulnerable. The relentless downpour hammered his skin, each drop feeling like a rubber bullet slamming into him.
At his rank, Atticus's body was tougher than steel, capable of withstanding normal bullets without a scratch. Yet this rain was far from pleasant. It felt as though he were being pelted by an unending volley of projectiles.
"Is this the second challenge?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"I can't answer that," the spirit replied flatly.
Atticus nodded, his expression darkening. 'Of course, it wouldn't be that simple.'
"This is just another way for the katana to make my life hell," he muttered. Then, after a pause, his gaze narrowed. "One day, I'll find the sick bastard who created this weapon and have a long… 'discussion' with him."
The spirit glanced at him, briefly stunned by his confidence in such a situation.
"How do I survive this rain?" Atticus asked quickly, his focus sharpening.
"You endure," the spirit responded without hesitation.
Atticus's expression darkened further. He had feared this answer.
'It's trying to wear me down,' he concluded almost instantly.
First, the Hunger Sun had pushed his body to its limit with scorching heat and thirst. Now, the icy rain was freezing him to the bone, leaving him weak.
Atticus voiced his thoughts, asking if the rain was a preparatory phase meant to weaken him before the second challenge. The spirit, after a brief moment of shock, confirmed his suspicion.
Having his assumption validated, an idea sparked in Atticus's mind, a way to gauge when the second challenge would begin.
"How many more of these should I expect?" he asked.
The spirit hesitated, clearly impressed by Atticus's ability to maneuver around the rules. Even as water fell with bullet-like force, he still found a way to extract critical information.
"This will be the last one," the spirit finally admitted.
"Good," Atticus muttered, his resolve hardening. 'Now I just have to survive this with minimal strain.'
The air temperature had plummeted, and the icy rain gripped his body with an intense chill. Every drop drained his warmth, leaving him weak and shivering. His focus began to waver, his thoughts clouding as his body struggled to adapt.
The once-dry desert sand transformed. Pools of water formed atop the dunes, turning the terrain into a slippery, shifting mire. With every step, Atticus's boots sank into the wet sand, the ground clinging to him like quicksand.
His movements were slow and each step was measured, his weight balanced to prevent slipping or wasting energy. The rain reduced visibility, the horizon now obscured by a gray curtain of water.
Atticus continued forward, his breathing steady, white frost escaping his lips with each exhale. His body trembled, but his mind remained focused.
The rain did more than just cool his overheated body; it pushed him to the brink. The rapid temperature change left him feeling sluggish, his limbs heavy.
Despite the conditions, Atticus pressed on. He refused to use even a shred of mana, relying only on his natural strength and endurance.
It was hellish. It was painful. But not once did Atticus pause. His piercing blue eyes shone through the now darkened world as he took one step after another, steady and relentless.
The spirit watched silently, though only he truly understood the weight of what he was witnessing. He remembered his own trial. A few minutes in this hellish rain had been enough to drive him underground, seeking refuge from the unbearable cold.
But an hour had passed, and Atticus had not stopped, not even once.
A question formed in the spirit's mind, one he silently vowed to ask Atticus when the time came.
And so, the hours went by under the freezing rain. Each step was grueling, each breath a challenge, but Atticus endured.
Finally, as he took another step forward, the world shifted.
Atticus's gaze flickered. "What?"
The change was so abrupt that it took him a moment to regain his bearings.
The rain had stopped, and the intense cold was gone. But the darkness remained. That was until the silver glow of the moon illuminated the area, bathing it in a calm, ethereal light.
He turned to look back. "I've left the desert."
Behind him stretched an endless expanse of dry desert. But in front of him lay a lush green forest, filled with towering trees that stretched high into the sky.
A heavy silence gripped the entire area, so intense that Atticus could hear his own breathing reverberate softly through the forest.
'What is this forest, and how will I survive it?' Atticus chose to communicate inwardly. The last thing he wanted was to make a sound and attract unwanted attention. Even his breathing had grown almost imperceptible.
The spirit responded immediately.
"This is a normal forest. And it poses no danger to you."
Atticus frowned, sensing the emphasis on the word "it."
'So its occupants will,' he reasoned silently, though he didn't need confirmation. He already knew.
Before taking a step forward, Atticus circulated his mana through his body, feeling a surge of energy course through him. His fatigue washed away, and while he wasn't back to full strength, he felt optimally prepared for battle.
He stretched lightly, loosening the tension in his muscles from the cold rain.
Taking a deep breath, Atticus stepped into the forest.
Almost immediately, his gaze flickered.
"The color is changing…"
He looked up at the sky and saw the silver moon slowly turning red. His expression darkened as he felt something draining his mana.
Atticus exhaled heavily. 'This is becoming annoying.'
He was tired of all the unnecessary extras. Without all these obstacles, Atticus was certain he would have already learned the fourth art by now.
But he had no choice.
The situation had changed. He had planned to move cautiously and steadily through the forest. But now, with his mana being siphoned every second, that approach would be foolish.
Every moment he lingered in the forest was another portion of his mana lost.
Atticus's gaze hardened. 'I have to move quickly."'