Today was the start of Eren’s rehab. Fourteen days after his coma, and months ahead of the scheduled cleaning and preparation for the room that was to accommodate his recovery.
Because of that, the rehab room looked oddly traumatic.
A mountain of broken crutches were stacked in a corner near the hand railings. The bits and pieces of plaster cement broken into rubble caused a tripping hazard for anyone who came in.
This room had been used way too often. Yet, it was unkempt, suggesting that patients who visited this rehab room didn’t have much time to recover. And healthcare workers were way too busy to care.
Eren turned to the wall. It was a mirror entirely.
He had different parents in both of his lives, yet his face was strangely the same. Curly brown hair, blue eyes, even his beard was patchy in all the same places.
The only difference was the lack of scars. And despite his limp, leaning on his crutch, he stood upright, shoulders no longer slumped forwards.
Was this the countenance of a cultivator? He thought the difference would be much more pronounced.
And he thought he’d have more muscle to his body. The Masochist’s Dream had given some form to his figure, but most would still consider him emaciated. Even with his loose-fitting hospital gown, his skeletal physique was still quite prominent.
I’ve hit a wall with my training, he realized.
For the first few days of using the[Masochist’s Dream], Ræzoň nourished his body thrice a day. That diminished to only once a day when he finally stood up with crutches.
But now, an entire week had elapsed and he had yet to feel that rejuvenating pang of Ræzoň. It wasn’t through a lack of trying. The intensity of his workouts only heightened once he walked on crutches. If walking up 15 flights of stairs every day wasn’t enough torture, then what would?
"Done appreciating yourself, young man?"
The physical therapist leaned against a treadmill. A middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and a well-built frame underneath his green scrubs, he looked more like a cultivator than a healthcare worker.
"Yeah, who doesn’t like to look like a skeleton?" Eren joked. Lightening the mood. Gauging his reaction.
The man chuckled. A good first impression, it seemed.
"Well, that’s what we’re going to be working on. My name is Geister. I’m your Physical Therapist. Has Elena told you about what we’re going to do?"
"Elena?"
"Dr. Reid."
"Ah..." There was history there. Nieve once told him that one of her friends got scolded badly for referring to Dr. Reid by her first name. He tried to ask, but Nieve was utterly terrified of even whispering her name.
Who was this man? Surely he was no ordinary physical therapist.
Scars ran down from the back of his hand all the way to the crook of his arm. Jagged from cuts. Fibrous from burns.
His movements were quick, yet unhurried. He had the air of someone well versed in the art of war.
"Let’s get you warmed up." After sweeping the room with his feet, Geister instructed Eren to walk from one end of the room to the other. Something basic and easy. Just to test the level of his physicality.
Eren ditched the crutches and did as he was asked. He crumpled at the first step. If it weren’t for Geister catching him, he would have tasted the floor with a side of plaster and dust.
"Woah, boy."
After giving him his crutches back, Geister led Eren to the railings to the side of the wall. "I never said to do it without crutches. This time, try to walk without hurting yourself."
Holding himself upright, Eren waited. And yet there was nothing. No reprieve from the Ræzoň in his surroundings.
He thought that would have been enough to paint a masochistic impression on Geister and therefore gain the approval of Ræzoň. But his acting wasn’t enough, it seemed.
"Have you heard about me?" he asked carefully.
Geister crossed his arms on his chest and smiled. "I have. And I commend your hard work. It’s not easy pushing yourself despite the pain. We wouldn’t have lost half the territories we did during the Cataclysm if we had more people like you."
And therein laid the problem. Instead of a masochist, he became a hard-working soldier in Geister’s eyes.
This was not ideal. It seemed that he’d have to do something more drastic if he wanted the [Masochist’s Dream] to progress.
But anyway, this wasn’t bad. He could use this. Perhaps he could achieve something more if he played the part Geister thought of him.
"Now let’s get your body limber. Let’s start by having a few laps around the room."
Eren obediently complied. He strode alongside the railings for a few laps, and then again with crutches. He was pushed harder and harder as time went on. And by the end, he was led onto the treadmill for a walk at a snail’s pace.
After two hours, Geister made his assessment. "Elena wasn’t exaggerating when she said your recovery was extraordinary. You’ll be walkin’ and marchin’ by four months or so."
That wasn’t soon enough. Eren needed something more.
He sat down on the chair, sweat rolling off his forehead. "Your scars... where did you get it from?" he asked off-handedly.
Geister wasn’t wearing long-sleeves, choosing to proudly show off his battle scars. It wasn’t a sensitive topic. In fact, it seemed like a welcome one.
"This one is from a Disaster-class Lupine Exultant; that was a ton o’ fun," Geister said, showing three long claw marks on his forearm. "This burn, on the other hand, came from a feisty cat. And this..."
Geister listed off his battle experience with an increasingly excited tone. He’d fit in great with cultivators, Eren realized. And he had the strength to prove it.
From what he knew, the Disaster-class title was reserved for Phantoms that destroyed entire countries. If Geister faced off against a monster of that caliber and came out of it only with a scar, then he was definitely overqualified to be a Physical Therapist.
"Impressed?" Geister’s eyes glistened as he asked Eren this question. "Want to have scars like mine?"
It was a test. One that Eren was well-equipped to handle.
"No," he replied. "I wouldn’t fail so much."