The training field reeks of sweat and dry earth. Your back hits the ground — again. Erza crouches over you, one knee down, fingers gripping your chin with practiced precision. The afternoon sun cuts sharp across her face, but her eyes are colder than shade. She's done this every day for a week. Knocked you flat, picked apart every mistake, left no room for pride or rest. The other recruits whisper she's brutal. You're starting to believe them. But something in her grip doesn't let go. Not yet. And you can't tell if she's testing you — or daring you to quit.