Lunch had ended in a blur of noise and half-swallowed guilt. The chatter of the dining hall faded behind him as Arthur walked the long corridor, each step echoing faintly against marble and glass. The smell of stew still clung to his sleeves — a reminder of the small disaster he had caused at the table.
He had laughed it off at the time. A flick of the wrist, a spill of sauce, the boiling red faces of those self-proclaimed elites.
But now, the humor had soured.
Damn… I really did that, he thought, his hands in his pockets. They'll come for me later. Thise faces never forget insults.
His boots clicked in rhythm with his heartbeat, calm yet heavy. He looked down at his wristband, the faintly glowing numbers ticking past. Room 47, he murmured.
The soft vibration told him his dorm section was nearby. The afternoon light filtered through the academy's long windows, bright and sterile — too peaceful for the tension simmering in his chest.
Arthur's thoughts drifted back to the incident in the dining hall, to the mockery, to the sneers . He had seen that kind of arrogance before — in another world, another life. It never ended well.
He sighed and rubbed his temples. If I keep picking fights, I'll never blend in.
But deep inside, something else spoke: a whisper made of smoke and old memories. You never wanted to blend in. You wanted to test them. To see if they're as hollow as the ones you burned before.
He stopped in front of his dorm door. The number "47" glowed faintly on the digital plate. Voices bled through from inside — harsh, low, taunting.
Arthur frowned.
He pushed the door open.
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The scene hit him like a memory.
Three cadets — with uniforms like cadets he had just spilled soup at dining hall the Undertakers — loomed over a smaller boy who clutched his wristband like a lifeline.
The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning mana. Sparks danced on their hands, little orange flares licking at their knuckles. The boy trembled, cornered against the bedpost, his voice a broken whisper.
"You think you can refuse the Undertakers, huh? You breathing our air for free, worm? Transfer the days — now." one of them spoke harshly
Another one grabbed him by the collar "C'mon, just a few credits. You won't even notice they're gone. We're family here, right?"
The third one from a far added coldly "Or maybe we just take it from your burned fingers."
But Arthur's entrance silenced the room. The temperature seemed to drop, even as flame danced In one of bully hands
He stood there — calm, quiet — his shadow stretching long under the flickering light.
Arthur without even thinking twice he barked out loud "Put him down."
Three pairs of eyes turned. One of them — tall, with a jagged scar under his chin — snorted.
"Oh, look who it is — the new golden boy. What's the matter, noble? You planning to lecture us?"
"Stay out of this. Undertaker business."another one added while turning back to their punching bag
Arthur coldly said"You're in my room. That makes it my business."
Laughter erupted, cruel and sharp.
The last one raised his hand to show his watch which glowed with 2000 mana points and then he spitted a spark onto the floor
"Or what? You'll stare us into submission?"
Arthur stepped forward, slow, deliberate.
"No. I'll make you regret ever learning how to breathe fire.....do you guys think taming fireblade make you invincible!! "
The tension fractured like glass.
One of them hurled a streak of flame. It cut through the air, blinding orange — but Arthur barely moved. He tilted his head, and the fire missed him by inches, scorching the wall.
The fireblade tamer whose watch was displaying 2000 mana points was really shocked "He dodged that?"
Arthur cracked his knucklesand walked forward with a faint grin "I don't dodge fire. Fire misses me on its own."
The second fireblade tamer : roared, fists igniting brighter, and charged.
Arthur moved by pouring mana into his limbs and fists
He didn't think — he flowed. His body knew the rhythm before his mind did.
The heat warped the air as flame surged toward him, but Arthur dropped low, rolled, and sprang from the floor with explosive grace.
His boot supplied with enough pure mana crashed into the man's chest, the impact cracking wood as the attacker flew backward, smashing through the desk.
Another flame blazed past his shoulder. Arthur twisted, caught a wrist, and drove his elbow down hard — a satisfying thud and a grunt of pain. He pivoted and quickly supply pure mana and sweeped his leg out; the second attacker crashed into the wall, fire sputtering uselessly.
The third flame streaked toward him, brighter, faster — but Arthur's foot caught something invisible in the air.
He channeled the pure mana outside to create invisible in the air
He stepped.
Up.
On nothing.
As if gravity itself bent beneath his will.
While upward he spun through smoke, cloak trailing like a shadow made of wind while channeling even more pure mana . His heel smashed into the attacker's jaw. The man fell, spitting blood and fire, groaning on the floorboards.
The fireblade tamer with 2000 mana points blurted out "He's using—!!"
Too late.
Arthur landed, knees bent, floor cracking under the pressure. The sound of his breath filled the smoky air.
Another fireblade tamer stumbled up, voice trembling"Y-you think you can fight the Undertakers alone? We'll burn you alive!"
Arthur only grinned faintly "Then start with me. But be quick… before I start enjoying this."
The room ignited. Curtains went up in flame, bedsheets melted, the heat rippling off the walls. Fire painted the world orange and gold — but Arthur moved like water cutting through light While flowing out mana to cancell off the blazing flames
He met the first attacker head-on. Fists, elbows, knees — each impact short and brutal. A hit to the ribs, a block, a twist — bone met bone, and the man collapsed with a strangled breath.
The second came from behind. Arthur spun, grabbed the forearm mid-swing, twisted — the man cried out as his shoulder popped. A backhand sent him sprawling over the burning bed.
The third tried to ignite again, desperation wild in his eyes. Arthur caught him mid-motion using pure mana and slammed a palm into his chest. A burst of wind rippled outward, snuffing flames and tossing the attacker against the far wall.
Silence.
The room flickered with dying fire. The floor was cracked, the mirror shattered. Ash floated like falling snow.
Arthur stood amid the ruin, shirt half-burned, chest rising and falling with slow fury. His reflection wavered in the broken mirror — a stranger's face wearing his scars.
He turned toward the boy, still shaking, tears streaking his soot-covered cheeks.
> Arthur said quietly "Next time, if anyone tries this again…" he then glanced at the groaning bullies
"…call me before the fire starts."
The boy nodded weakly. Arthur helped him up, guiding him toward the door.
Arthur said evenly "Go. Tell the medics you fell in training."
The boy hesitated. "W-what about you?"
Arthur smiled faintly. "I'll clean up."
When the door shut behind him, the smile vanished.
He stared at his hands — bruised, trembling slightly. Heat still radiated from his skin, but the burn didn't bother him. What bothered him was the memory.
Why does this scene feel like déjà vu wrapped in pain?
That look in his eyes — begging for help. I've seen it before… when it was me on the floor. And nobody came.
He sat on the edge of the ruined bed, head bowed. Smoke still lingered, curling lazily toward the cracked ceiling.
This body isn't mine. His heartbeat. His mana. His strength. But the pain? The rage? Those are still mine.
He looked at the three unconscious Undertakers and felt… nothing. Just the echo of an old promise. Maybe the soul remembers what the mind forgets.
He pulled off his torn jacket, revealing faint streaks of burns along his arm. He winced.
He glanced at the pile of unconscious students, their watches still faintly glowing. Through trial and error, he learned to extract their borrowed days — a grim exchange, but efficient.
"At least they get to taste their own medicine," he muttered, his voice low and cold.
He dropped onto one of the scorched beds, its frame still warm from the fight. Exhaling heavily, he lifted his wrist and stared at his watch.
Mana Points: 4000 → 3500
"I've burned through nearly five hundred points," he thought. "Fair enough — I used pure mana. This useless body can barely contain it anyway. But the day I face someone with more than four thousand mana points… I'll be as good as dead."
Without realizing, Arthur drifted into sleep. For a fleeting moment, the room — blackened walls, cracked floorboards, smoke-stained air — seemed almost alive again.
Four hours later, the door creaked open.
Arthur's instincts flared — he was a trained fighter. In a blink, he was on his feet, stance sharp, eyes locked on the entrance.
"It's me!" came a weak voice.
The boy stood there, wrapped in bandages like a broken doll, his body trembling, face pale with pain.
Arthur's posture eased. He pitied the kid. "I've lived this kind of life before," he thought bitterly. "At least this time, I broke the cycle — freed myself from the nightmare of being bullied."
But then he noticed his watch.
The numbers hadn't changed.
The screen still pulsed faintly — an irregular, sickening rhythm.
A cold wave of dread slid down his spine. His pulse quickened. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong.
He stared at his trembling hands, felt the hollow ache spreading through his chest. His mana wasn't regenerating.
That realization hit like ice.
If he couldn't restore what he used… then every point spent was permanent. And once they were gone, his body would fail — no mana to sustain blood flow, no energy for his heart, his brain.
He swallowed hard, the weight of it sinking in.
"I didn't escape the nightmare…" he whispered. "It just changed shape."
His watch blinked faintly in the dark — a pulse counting down a slow, quiet death.
"Damnation."