StellarMass13
Beads of sweat began to drip down Stellar's perspiring head. He noticed it now—one singular drop, a universe unto itself, leaping first onto his eyelash and refracting a brief prism of collected color. Instinctively, he swatted at it, as if banishing a fly, a demon. This slight, perhaps autogenic, gesture triggered a chain reaction—a hydro-collapse—transforming his stoic tension into a cascading waterfall of salt and exertion.
A metabolic phase of release—hidden, unnoticed a moment before. A cascade of human hormone reactions surged through the nervous system, into the mind’s thought and color. Stellar was aware of himself. He realized he had failed to divinely calculate his training beforehand. As a result, his body, now in defiance, began to pull away.
Like a mule plotting its escape from labor, he resisted. But then, a synthetic a priori impulse jolted him—urging him to hasten his exertion. For the first time today, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He despised mirrors. Now, he resented the thought of justifying his next moves based on the appearance of exhaustion.
Bequeathed by his own eye, this human inclination—this autogenic weakness—he could not resist.
"So, to care for oneself based on the mere appearance of exhaustion? To bequeath this judgment to one’s own eye? This human inclination... this weakness... Does one view oneself only to justify self-care, to then indulge, to spoil?"
Stellar often rejected such notions—sometimes with acidic defilement. He avoided mirrors, especially during effort. Yet now, his attention flickered to his reflection. His eyes scanned the drowning strands of hair atop his head, thinning and darkened with sweat. Then came the taunt. He could smell the hormonal waste from his pores—his earthliness suffocating him. His chest heaved, ribcage stretching open like a burdened dance, diaphragm and transverse at odds, gasping for air.
It struck him like a whale of moral denial, breaching for air, spouting, drawing in with burden.
His hand, innervated by the struggle, raked through his black, matted mop. The second justification toward yield. Veins pulsed visibly, returning blood—conscious, exhausted, elated.
He would push beyond his human limits for extended moments.
He was in yoga.
The light shone upon his years with no flattery, distorting his appearance—aging him, stripping him of command and presence. Yet this did not shake Stellar. The light was indifferent, and so was he. He accepted it at face value, never uttering words to shield fleeting valor or beauty. Perhaps, in these micro-moments, this acceptance defined him.
He despised Nietzschean adornments—training merely for self-praise, a false bill never to be assumed. He knew the flesh was weak. To give it grace, to give it pity, was to lose time, and time lost was glory lost.
Time lost was the price of failing to act through right principle.
Stellar grabbed the electromagnetic pulse grip, squeezing the intensity command to its maximum. He pushed forward with great ardor.
The act of will was all it took.
He had passed the third temptation.
Perhaps a boon was in order.
No boon today.
When a man reaches a certain level of purity from without, he appears overtly sensitive, even cold. As a great philosopher once said, the enlightened man must have two things: gratitude and purity... or he will be hated.
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