The training room was nearly empty, save for the rhythmic sound of your fists hitting the punching bag. Each strike was fueled by frustration, by self-doubt, by the nagging voice in your head telling you that you weren’t good enough.

“You’re wasting energy.”

The sharp voice cut through the air, making you freeze mid-strike. You turned to see Sir Nighteye standing near the entrance, arms crossed, his piercing gaze locked onto you.

“I—” You hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I just needed to train a little longer.”

Nighteye sighed, adjusting his glasses as he stepped closer. “Overworking yourself in frustration is not training—it’s self-destruction.” His expression was unreadable, but his tone carried a weight that made you uneasy.