I Built a Divine Zoo in Another World

The weeks passed like leaves carried away by the wind, each day blending into the next in a continuous flow of effort and self-improvement. Time, which had once seemed to move slowly, now slipped through Lukas’s fingers like water.

Two days turned into five. Five became ten. Ten gave way to fifteen.

And before Lukas truly realized it, nearly three weeks had passed since the morning he had held a wooden sword for the first time. Twenty-two days of relentless training, of sweat and discipline, of falls and fresh starts.

His life had been reduced to a single word, training.

Every day began exactly the same way. Even before the first ray of sunlight appeared on the horizon, Lukas was already awake. His eyes opened in the darkness, and his body sprang out of bed with an energy that surprised even himself.

He got up without complaining, put on his training clothes almost mechanically, his movements already so automatic that they no longer required conscious thought. And before leaving the room, he picked up the wooden sword that rested beside his bed every night.

At first, holding it as soon as he woke up felt strange. The cold wood against his skin, the unfamiliar weight in his hand, the feeling of carrying something he still did not completely understand.

After a few days, it became a habit. His fingers found the hilt automatically, as though guided by a memory deeper than his conscious mind.

By the end of the second week, it felt natural. The sword had become like an extension of his body, something he barely noticed, yet immediately missed if it was not there.

It was impossible for him to leave the room without feeling it in his hands.

Rourke almost always woke up when he heard the faint sound of the sword being lifted from the floor. The little rat stretched inside its makeshift nest, its tiny body extending in a movement that was almost human. It soon scurried over to Lukas, climbing up his leg with surprising agility before settling inside the pocket of his tunic.

Astra watched them from atop the wardrobe, her golden eyes shining in the dim light. She never moved, only observed them, like a silent sentinel.

Prata disappeared through the window before the sun even rose, his dark form blending into the shadows of the forest.

Tilbo merely slowly raised his antennae, sensing the presence of his partner, and a few minutes later accompanied Lukas outside the mansion.

Then came breakfast.

Aurora insisted on preparing increasingly hearty meals. Lean meats are rich in protein. Fried or scrambled eggs. Fresh milk, still warm from the morning milking. Fresh fruit picked from the garden. Freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven. Nutrient-rich vegetables, cooked or raw.

She knew her son burned through an absurd amount of energy every day. His body needed fuel to keep up with that pace, and she made sure he had everything he needed.

Clavor rarely spoke during breakfast. He merely watched, his analytical eyes examining his son’s posture, his movements, and his condition immediately after waking. Every little detail revealed a great deal about his recovery, the tension in his shoulders, the steadiness of his hand as he held his fork, the way he breathed.

When they finished, father and son walked in silence along the familiar forest trail. The clearing had almost become a second home to Lukas, every tree, every rock, every inch of grass as familiar as the walls of his own room.

...

The training constantly changed. Clavor never allowed his body to fully adapt to a single routine, forcing him to adapt, to learn, and to grow.

One day, Lukas ran for kilometers through the forest with his sword in hand, executing slashes whenever his father gave the order. The wooden blade cut through the air with increasingly precise movements, the sound of the wind being sliced becoming a constant melody.

”Vertical!” The sword came down like lightning, tracing a perfectly straight line.

”Diagonal!” The wooden blade carved a clean arc through the air at the exact angle.

”Thrust!” The tip shot forward in a straight line, driven by the force of his legs.

The following day, there was almost no running. Instead, he carried enormous logs while keeping the sword fastened to his belt, learning to live with its weight during every movement. The logs became heavier and heavier, the effort greater and greater, yet he never complained.

Then came climbing. Ancient trees with trunks covered in rough bark. Stone walls whose uneven surfaces offered only precarious handholds. Slippery rocks coated in moss and moisture. Every obstacle had to be overcome while carrying the sword, his hand never letting go of the weapon even when he had to cling to a narrow ledge.

Other days were devoted to balance. Narrow logs suspended above small streams, their rounded surfaces unstable beneath his feet. Unsteady stones that shifted under his weight. Thick branches swaying in the wind, demanding absolute concentration. Clavor insisted that Lukas remain in a guarded stance throughout the entire course, his sword always at the ready.

One wrong step was enough. A single loss of balance.

And he had to start all over again from the beginning.

Whenever he judged that his son was tired, that his muscles were no longer responding with the same efficiency, Clavor increased the difficulty. Push-ups while holding the sword, his arms trembling beneath the strain. Squats while maintaining perfect posture, his hips properly aligned. Sit-ups without ever allowing the weapon to touch the ground.

Even during breaks, Clavor would not allow Lukas to put the sword down.

”It must become a part of you.” Those words were repeated almost every day, engraving themselves into the boy’s mind.

”If you ever have to look for it before a fight... you’ll already be too late.”

...

The sparring also changed. During the first few days, Lukas could barely keep up with his father’s movements, his wooden sword seeming to move in slow motion compared to Clavor’s speed.

He attacked. Missed. Tried again. Missed once more. His frustration grew, but he never gave up.

Clavor deflected everything using only one hand, his movements appearing absurdly simple. There was never any wasted motion. Never a single unnecessary movement.

Sometimes, a slight twist of his wrist was enough to completely redirect a slash that Lukas had believed to be perfect. Other times, a single sidestep caused the boy to lose his own balance, his own strength working against him.

Even so, the boy improved. Every mistake became a lesson. He watched his father with attention beyond what was ordinary, absorbing every detail of his movements.

On the eighth day of sword training, he managed to force Clavor to move his feet for the first time. It was a moment of pure joy, a small but meaningful victory.

On the twelfth day, he grazed the sleeve of his father’s tunic. The wooden blade touched the fabric for a brief instant, just enough for Lukas to feel a flash of triumph.

On the eighteenth day, he executed an entire sequence of attacks without making a single technical mistake. Vertical slash, horizontal slash, diagonal slash, thrust, every movement perfect, every strike precise.

Clavor merely gave a subtle nod, a movement so slight it was almost imperceptible. That simple gesture made Lukas smile for the rest of the day.

Every afternoon ended the same way. His body was completely broken, every muscle crying out for rest. Arms as heavy as lead, barely able to move. Legs trembling, threatening to give way with every step. Lungs burning, every breath an effort. Hands aching from gripping the sword for so long, calluses beginning to form on his skin.

Then came the stone bathtub. The crimson liquid of the Physical Enhancement Lotion slowly spread through the hot water, dyeing it a deep red reminiscent of dissolved rubies.

Lukas no longer hesitated. He stepped in immediately, submerging his exhausted body in the comforting warmth.

The intense burning sensation, which had once seemed almost unbearable, had become an old acquaintance. It still burned, still penetrated deep into his muscles. But now he understood the sensation, recognizing it as part of the process.

It was his very body being rebuilt, his fibers growing stronger, his muscles regenerating.

Fifteen minutes later, he emerged almost completely renewed. The exhaustion was still there, a constant presence within his bones. But the sharp pain had faded, and the stiffness had eased.

He slept deeply, his body finally surrendering to rest.

And the following morning, everything began once again.