Zeke layed flat on the polished wooden floorboards for a full minute, staring up at the timber rafters while his chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged gasps. In the corner of his vision, his newly unlocked AETHER gauge was slowly ticking upward—one point every few minutes—like a depleted battery struggling to recharge.
<[AETHER: 2/10]>
<[HP: 1/10]>
Cyrus stepped closer, crouched down, and hovered a single hand over Zeke's bruised sternum. The familiar, shimmering heat mirage of localized time manipulation wrapped around Zeke's torso. Within seconds, the dull throbbing in his ribs vanished, and his fatigued muscles snapped back to peak condition.
<[HP RESTORED: 10/10]>
Zeke pushed himself up to a sitting position, rubbing the back of his neck as he unstrapped the heavy alloy gauntlets and set them beside him on the mat. "Every time I think I'm closing the gap, you move twice as fast."
"Because you're still fighting in a vacuum," Cyrus said, walking over to a small wooden table near the wall and pouring two cups of dark, bitter herbal tea. He tossed one cup to Zeke, who caught it cleanly with one hand. "Spars on a quiet dojo mat can only take your vessel so far, Zeke. Your body needs real pressure. It needs chaos, blood, and enemies who aren't holding back to keep you alive."
Zeke took a sip of the scalding tea, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Where am I supposed to get that? If I start picking fights in the lower districts, the local gangs will come after me with guns or hired ability users. And if I use the Aetherflame in public again, the military research division will dissect me."
"Which brings me to why today was your last afternoon training here," Cyrus said calmly.
Zeke froze, the teacup halfway to his mouth. "What? You're kicking me out?"
"I'm shutting the doors of this dojo down for the next semester," Cyrus replied, leaning back against the wooden pillar with his arms crossed. "Starting next Monday, I'm stepping into the Military Academy as a sergeant and teacher."
Zeke stared at him in disbelief. "The Military Academy? You—an Original who hates the government registry and commercial Ability Scrolls—are going to work for the military?"
"Times are changing, kid, and the borders are bleeding," Cyrus said, the playful edge vanishing from his slate-grey eyes, replaced by a grim, heavy seriousness. "The skirmishes with the upper races are escalating. The military is desperate, so they finally swallowed their pride and brought me on to teach the Demon Beast Weapons class—training the younger generation how to harvest, wield, and survive against creatures that don't care about human lives."
Zeke looked down at his lap, his jaw tightening. He knew all too well what next Monday meant. It was the mandatory military draft for every graduating high school student. For weeks, Zeke had been quietly planning to vanish into the lower districts the night before his draft notice went active.
"I can't go to the academy, Cyrus," Zeke said quietly, his fingers tightening around the clay cup. "You know what happens to Zeros in the military draft. We aren't put into combat squads. We're used as meat shields, supply carriers, and cannon fodder on the front lines while the guys with high-tier Ability Scrolls get all the glory and resources. I've spent weeks grinding every midnight just to stay ahead of the curve. If I go there, I'll be stuck sweeping floors while they train."
"If you run from the draft, you become a fugitive," Cyrus countered sharply. "You'll spend the rest of your life hiding in the dark alleys of the lower districts, fighting street thugs for scraps. Do you really think you're going to unlock whatever cosmic lock is sitting inside your chest by beating up low-level gangsters?"
Zeke didn't answer. He couldn't.
Cyrus stepped forward, looking down at him with a piercing, unwavering gaze. "Look at the reality of this world, Zeke. The other races, the Demons, they aren't just slightly stronger than us. Their baseline biology is ten times more durable, ten times faster, and ten times more lethal than an ordinary human's. Even with your weird blue fire and your Qi, you are still a Level 5 infant compared to what's waiting outside the city walls."
Cyrus pointed a finger directly at Zeke's chest.
"The military academy is brutal, corrupt, and obsessed with status—yes. They will look at your wrist, see that big red zero, and treat you like dirt. Let them. While they're busy bragging about their C-Rank and B-Rank scrolls, you'll be in the trenches, learning real military combat formations, fighting live Demon Beasts in the simulation arenas, and pushing that vessel of yours against the strongest prodigies of your generation."
A slow, dangerous smirk crept onto Cyrus's face.
"Besides, someone has to keep my Demon Beast Weapons class interesting. Don't run from the draft, Zeke. Walk right through the front gates, keep your head down, and use their resources to build yourself into a monster."
Zeke sat silently on the wooden floor for a long moment. He looked down at his hands—hands that had been bruised, broken, and forged over the last month—and felt the steady, quiet hum of his system waiting beneath his skin.
Running meant staying weak. Walking into the lion's den meant surviving—and leveling up.
Zeke stood up, setting the empty teacup down on the mat, a sharp, cold resolve settling into his dark eyes.
"Fine," Zeke said, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one shoulder. "I'll see you in class, Sergeant."