Chapter 948 - Trails of the past (2)
A pale crescent moon hung over Arcadia like a silent observer, veiled by drifting clouds that moved slowly across the night sky. The towering spires of the world's most renowned academy loomed in the distance—still, silent, and brimming with secrets.
Inside a secluded chamber of a rented manor, the soft rustling of parchment filled the dimly lit room. A single candle burned low on a desk scattered with files, photographs, and mana-inscribed scrolls. Leonard sat with his back straight, robes slightly disheveled, his fingers curled around the silver artifact that hung from his neck—the crescent moon softly pulsing, resonating, whispering that the one he sought was near.
But near was not enough.
He narrowed his golden eyes on the documents laid before him. Portraits of promising students stared back—young faces filled with ambition, arrogance, or quiet determination.
He exhaled slowly.
"Too many variables. Too many shadows," he murmured.
The Hartley boy was the first he'd investigated. Ethan Hartley. Exceptional skill, natural charisma, a righteous streak that could light a battlefield aflame. But the bloodline was ordinary—traceable, untangled. His essence lacked the lunar resonance. Pure, yes, but not of the moon.
Next came the Middletons. A powerful family with influence spanning multiple provinces, but despite their aura of dignity, there was nothing celestial about them. Leonard had spoken with professors, inspected lineage registries, even traced ancestral graves. Every path ended in mundane soil.
The Arkwrights had intrigued him briefly—Noble lineage, old magic in their veins. There was something ancient in their blood, yes, but not the right kind. Their mana was grounded, earthen. Heavy with tradition, but not touched by the moon.
And then there were the Philips. Scattered over several fields of study. Yet even the most promising among them lacked the spiritual echo he had come to recognize in the Kin.
He leaned back in his chair, hand passing over the artifact. Even now, it pulsed faintly—telling him the truth he couldn't ignore.
The Kin of the Moon was here.
Somewhere inside the walls of that hallowed institution. Watching. Breathing. Hiding.
And the Academy itself… was protecting them.
Or they were unaware.
The latter was the more likely.
If the Academy had known the identity of the Kin of the Moon, Leonard was certain he would have felt resistance—subtle or otherwise. Layers of bureaucracy. Eyes turning away. But no. What he had encountered was ignorance. A blind institution shrouded in its own pride and antiquated principles, guarding its secrets not out of design, but out of habit.
They weren't hiding the Kin.
They simply didn't know.
Which meant that whoever it was, they hadn't awakened. Not fully.
Not yet.
Leonard stood from his seat, letting his eyes wander over the faces pinned to the wall—portraits of excellence, of brilliance, of power. Each name once a lead, now discarded. Red-thread lines had connected theories and assumptions like a spider's web, but the center remained empty.
No more detours.
No more wasted steps.
His fingers brushed the crescent moon at his chest. The artifact still pulsed with faint resonance—but it had grown quieter recently, as if the Kin themselves were slipping deeper into shadow.
"I can't do this from the outside," Leonard muttered. "I'm circling a sealed garden, searching for a single flower whose scent fades by the day."
He moved toward the far end of the room, where a small mana mirror rested on a stand framed by runes. With a flick of his fingers, he activated it, feeding it a gentle stream of his mana. Ripples shimmered across the surface, and soon, a distant figure began to coalesce—robed in white, face partially obscured by divine radiance, seated on a high dais beneath a sun-etched mural.
The voice that answered him was calm, deep, and unmistakably firm.
"Leonard."
He bowed low, respectful but composed. "Your Holiness. I bring a report regarding the Kin of the Moon."
The light from the mirror flared faintly, signaling attention.
"Speak."
Leonard straightened. "As suspected, they are here—within Arcadia's Academy. The artifact has resonated repeatedly within its grounds, and no leads beyond the academy's walls have borne fruit."
A pause.
"You are certain?"
Leonard nodded. "Beyond doubt. I have investigated dozens of students—Hartley, Middletons, Arkwrights, Philips, and many more. I have traced their lineages, their families, their mana signatures. All were either too clean… or too ordinary."
He stepped closer to the mirror, his voice calm but edged with frustration.
"The Academy has taken measures to obscure the full list of attendees. Whether by intention or policy, I cannot access the necessary information without risking a breach that could alert them. My reach is limited."
The figure in the mirror remained silent, waiting.
Leonard bowed his head once more.
"That is why I must go further."
He raised his eyes, golden and resolute.
"I request permission to enter the Academy. Officially."
The mirror flickered.
"For what purpose?"
"To continue the investigation from within. Disguised if necessary. Enrolled, embedded, or appointed—whichever method offers the least resistance." Leonard's voice carried a tempered urgency. "I cannot strike the moon while I chase shadows. I must walk among them. Observe them up close. Feel their mana, their lies, their fear."
The radiance in the mirror dimmed momentarily, contemplative.
Then, a quiet breath, like the rustling of pages in a holy text.
"You seek the wolf by becoming the shepherd."
Leonard allowed himself a slight nod.
"If the Kin is meant to bring destruction, then their awakening cannot be left to fate. The prophecy speaks of the moon entangled with the stars—perhaps even more than one. I need to find the source before convergence begins."
Silence stretched between them like a drawn string.
And then—the figure raised a hand.
The figure raised a hand, bathed in the gentle halo of divine light.
"Something will be arranged. A cause, a purpose. The Academy is a fortress of pride—they will not open their gates without reason. Until then…" the voice drifted, solemn, "continue your observation. Seek out anomalies. Patterns. Resonance. Anything that may point to the Kin before the door opens."
Leonard's brows furrowed slightly.
"How long, Your Holiness?"
A pause followed, heavy as prophecy.
"At most a month," the voice replied. "No longer. But you must understand, Leonard—we are not simply inserting a knife into the unknown."
Leonard lowered his head once more. "Understood."
"Good. Hold your patience. The stars do not rush to their positions."
And then the mirror dimmed—first to gold, then to silver, and finally to black. The reflection of light receded into silence.
Leonard stood still, listening to the emptiness.
For a moment, all he could hear was the subtle crackle of the candle flame, the quiet pulse of the artifact on his chest. Then, slowly, he turned back to the desk—the scattered files, red-threaded lines, the names crossed out, the maps marked with mana resonance.
He sifted through them again, one by one.
Faces. Names. Hopes. Potential.
And failure.
"You can run from your nature… but not forever," he murmured, fingers brushing a photograph without truly seeing it. "You will not be able to escape for long. Not with me here."
There was no hatred in his voice—only certainty. A quiet, inescapable inevitability. The kind that came not from arrogance, but from resolve forged by years of belief.
Then, the faintest glimmer crossed his eyes, and his expression shifted.
A small smile curled at the corner of his lips—half fond, half amused.
"Let's see how Sylvie is doing."
Chapter 949 - Another practice
The academy café was quieter than usual, the low hum of mana lamps casting a warm amber glow across the room as afternoon light filtered through the tall windows. The same large table near the back corner had become their unofficial meeting spot—tucked away, with just enough space to spread out notes, holo-screens, and half-finished drinks.
This time, the group had arrived with more efficiency, sliding into their seats without hesitation, their bags dropping with familiar weight onto the wooden floor.
"Alright," Jasmine said, tapping her fingers against the table rhythmically. "Let's not waste time. We already know the basics this time around, so we can start placing people right away."
Layla nodded, arms crossed as she leaned back in her seat. "Five-person formation, Tri-Layer Pressure. That means front line, mid-pressure, and support."
"Right," Irina said, eyes already scanning a digital map projected from her tablet. "Three layers. And it's about pressure points, not just raw defense or offense."
Astron, already seated with his usual composed air, didn't speak. He simply watched, arms resting on the table, his sharp purple eyes observing as they moved into discussion. He didn't interrupt. Not yet. This was a test in itself—and one they needed to navigate.
Sylvie adjusted her sleeve and leaned in, voice calm. "So who takes the front line?"
Layla raised a hand without hesitation. "That's me. No question."
"Agreed," Jasmine said. "Layla's our shield. She anchors the formation."
Sylvie nodded. "Then Irina and Jasmine should be second line. You two apply pressure while rotating between support and direct offense."
Irina raised an eyebrow. "You're putting me in the mid-line? Not rear?"
"You're too aggressive to sit in the back," Jasmine replied, smirking. "Let Sylvie handle that. She can multitask between enchantments and support control better than anyone."
Irina huffed softly. "Fair."
"What about the last spot?" Layla asked, looking around. "That leaves Astron."
All eyes shifted to him.
He didn't respond immediately—just looked up, meeting their stares with a faint glint in his gaze.
"You tell me," he said simply.
They blinked, momentarily caught off guard.
Jasmine tilted her head, thoughtful. "Mid-line. Between me and Irina. You cover the flanks, adapt to enemy positioning. You're fast enough to rotate front to back if needed."
"Agreed," Sylvie said. "You're flexible and fast. You'll reinforce wherever the cracks start to form."
Astron gave a small nod. "That's correct."
He didn't praise them—but the absence of critique was enough. They'd done well.
Irina leaned back in her chair, a slow smile creeping across her lips as she looked around the table. The group was focused, composed, and—more importantly—cohesive.
"This is going to be a breeze," she muttered, mostly to herself, but loud enough for the others to hear.
Layla snorted. "Don't jinx it."
Jasmine grinned. "Nah, let her. I kinda like confident Irina. She makes things more fun."
Sylvie just offered a soft smile, but her gaze flicked toward Astron for a second—quietly confirming that he seemed content with the decisions they'd made. He gave no indication of disagreement. Just a slight shift in his posture as he began shutting off his tablet.
Irina stood, brushing a hand through her hair. "Well then. Shall we?"
They all rose one by one, drinks forgotten as they grabbed their bags. Outside, the sky had begun to dim just slightly—long shadows cast by the academy buildings stretching across the stone paths. The walk to the simulation gate was familiar now. Almost comfortable.
When they reached the entrance to the Mana-Linked Dungeon Arena, the energy was already different.
The crowd of cadets waiting their turn was buzzing with tension—some teams huddled in last-minute strategy whispers, others nervously glancing at the rotating roster display projected in the center of the plaza. Mana screens hovered above the area, showing shifting glimpses of the ever-changing dungeon layout beyond the gate.
Layla whistled softly. "Looks like it's already intense in there."
"They've definitely increased the difficulty," Jasmine muttered. "That last team barely lasted ten minutes."
Sylvie's hands instinctively brushed against the clasps of her gloves, adjusting them in slow, practiced movements. Her mana was calm. So was her breathing.
Astron said nothing, but his gaze was fixed on the simulation gate, already analyzing. Already visualizing. Waiting.
Irina cracked her knuckles with a grin. "Let's make this clean."
A sharp tone echoed from the system console, and the instructor near the entrance raised a hand.
"Team Fourteen—report in."
That was them.
Without hesitation, the five of them stepped forward. No nerves. No wasted movement.
The gate hissed as it activated, glowing blue mana spiraling around its archway.
As they stepped through into the light, the hum of the crowd faded behind them—and the chaos of the dungeon began.
******
The moment they stepped into the dungeon, the shift was immediate.
Light fractured around them—warped geometry, dense mana pressure, shifting terrain. The simulation had begun.
A wide, angular corridor greeted them first. Its walls pulsed faintly with red sigils, and the floor beneath their boots gave a subtle tremble, as if echoing something moving far below. Stone underfoot was slick in places, half-wet from condensation. Already, it was clear: this wasn't a clean run.
"Tri-Layer Pressure formation," Astron said without raising his voice. His tone was even, but final.
"Right." Layla stepped forward without hesitation, shield already in hand, mana reinforcing her stance. The faint sheen of energy traced along her bracers as she crouched into a semi-defensive stance—low enough to anchor, light enough to move.
Irina and Jasmine fell into step behind her, slightly spread—just far enough apart to manage their respective lanes.
"I'll take left," Jasmine muttered, her blade humming softly as it ignited with mana. "Covering tight angles."
"I've got center burn," Irina added, palms flickering with fire. Her hair, caught in a low updraft of ambient mana, seemed to shimmer like a slow-burning fuse.
Sylvie stayed at the rear. She didn't speak—just raised her hand slightly as yellow mana laced along her fingers. Small glyphs flickered across her gloves, cycling through light-based patterns. Her job wasn't to deal damage—it was to amplify, to reinforce, and, if needed, to collapse collapsing lines.
Astron took position to the right of Irina, angled just behind Layla. From here, he had visual on both front and rear. A balancing point.
The system pulsed.
"Wave One: Initiated."
The dungeon rumbled—then screamed.
From the corridor ahead came a flood of noise: clattering claws, guttural howls, and the heavy thud of weight against stone. Pale shapes lunged from the shadows, bodies flickering between physical and spectral. Wraith-hounds. Fast, slippery, and smart. Their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, and their eyes glowed with fragmented blue light.
Layla stepped forward with a grunt, shield raised as the first hound leapt.
Clang!
The impact drove her back half a step, but her heels dug in.
"First pressure point—engaged!" she called.
Irina didn't wait. A coil of fire lanced forward, threading through the narrow gap between Layla's shoulder and shield. The flame struck the side of the wraith-hound, causing it to recoil with a shriek.
"Left!" Jasmine shouted.
Astron was already moving. A second hound had slithered low along the left flank, angling around the central line. Jasmine moved to intercept, blade cutting a wide crescent—but the creature was fast, bending away from her strike at the last second.
Before it could land, Astron was there. His dagger flashed once—twice.
Thunk.
The creature's body collapsed, dissolving into static ash.
"Backline tremor," Sylvie announced calmly. Her fingers flicked once, and a glyph pulsed through the air—golden, geometric. A flash of light shot forward, colliding with an invisible shape behind Layla. A hound had attempted a shadow-phase, but was forced back with a shriek.
"You've got that read now, huh?" Irina muttered, lips twitching.
"I've been practicing."
Indeed, she was not staying idle.
Chapter 950 - Another practice (2)
A new wave emerged—more this time. Twelve total, coming in from the forward corridor and two side crevices that hadn't been there seconds ago.
"Spread is increasing," Astron observed. "They're adapting. Stay tight."
Layla stepped forward again, knees bracing, shield held high. "Ready!"
Jasmine grunted, "More than ready," and surged slightly forward—but just to the edge of her zone.
Irina lifted both hands, and heat flooded the tunnel. Her fire didn't blast forward yet—but hovered in orbit, waiting. "This next burst is mine," she said. "You'll feel the air drop right after."
"Noted," Astron replied, his stance lowering.
Sylvie's mana shimmered again, this time latching onto Irina's flames—not with raw power, but control. The spiraling fire tightened, became denser, as if molded through glass.
"Second pressure point locked," Sylvie announced.
Then the wave hit.
The hounds came faster, now overlapping each other, some leaping over fallen bodies, others diving low. Irina moved first, sending the compressed heat wave forward. The air bent visibly. Several creatures incinerated instantly—but two phased right through the flames.
"Spectral-grade. Non-impactable by elemental burn," Astron said. "Rear incoming."
"I see it," Sylvie replied, a sharp flick of her hand sending three focused bursts backward. They didn't explode—but pierced. The rear corridor flickered as a shrieking shape twisted mid-air and collapsed, its form warping mid-dissolution.
Layla was beginning to slow—her stance growing heavier as repeated clashes shook her core.
"Frontline weakening," she gasped. "I need someone to intercept upper jumps!"
"On it," Jasmine barked.
She surged forward within formation bounds, slashing upward as a hound launched from a wall toward Layla's head. The slash didn't just cut—it stunned. Layla caught the rest of the blow with her shoulder, then drove the beast back with her shield.
"Adjusting position!" Astron called, stepping past Irina just slightly—half-body lead. "Jasmine, fall to third line after this wave. Irina, you hold second."
"Excuse me?" Irina snapped, but her flames still danced to his command.
"Mid-line pressure's shifting. They're targeting your zone more. You'll bait better with a forward lean."
Irina's eyes narrowed—but her hands rose nonetheless.
The second wave collapsed moments later under their pressure, the last hound impaled mid-leap by a golden bolt from Sylvie.
Silence followed.
Their breathing steadied. Layla's shield dropped slightly, her arms trembling from impact absorption.
Astron glanced around. "Good spacing. Adjustments were clean."
Sylvie spoke softly. "Third wave will be specialized. Maybe a Phase Beast."
"Or a redirector," Jasmine added, panting.
Irina cracked her neck. "Let it come. I've got something saved."
Astron gave a small nod, his purple eyes gleaming faintly beneath the pulsing dungeon light.
"Hold position. Reinforce zones. Next round will test our gaps."
And behind them, the dungeon ceiling began to twist, glow, and split.
The next wave was coming.
****
The third wave fell harder, faster, but it barely made a difference.
Monsters burst through from shifting side corridors and jagged ceiling vents—spectral beasts fused with crystalline plating, their limbs flickering with red-glowing sigils. But the team didn't falter.
Each role locked in.
Layla's shield held the center like a living wall, intercepting claw swipes and slamming back force with reinforced mana. Jasmine rotated through flanks with precise footwork, her blade carving clean lines through exposed gaps. Irina's fire painted the second line in waves of pressure, incinerating the bulk of forward threats before they could break formation.
Astron—quiet and ever-moving—patched cracks with surgical cuts and repositioned fluidly, acting as a pressure valve whenever a line wavered.
But more than anything, the formation held because of Sylvie.
Her position at the rear should've been passive—meant for barrier support and healing calls. But she was doing more.
Far more.
Glyphs laced the air behind the group, delicate and fluid, adjusting in real-time to enemy movement. Buffs rippled across their armor—speed, tension reduction, mana syncing. But it wasn't just enchantments.
Sylvie's hand flicked, and a whip of yellow light slashed a Phase Beast that tried to curve around Jasmine's blind spot. Her footwork was crisp, her aim unnervingly precise.
She was fighting.
Like a mage.
And Irina noticed.
After the wave collapsed—crystalline corpses scattered across stone and burning slowly in the air's residual heat—Irina turned.
Her amber eyes narrowed as they caught Sylvie's outline through the residual smoke. The younger girl stood calm, composed, mana still glowing faintly at her fingertips.
"You've really improved," Irina said, her voice carrying just loud enough to cross the chamber.
Sylvie blinked, her breath still slow from the fight. "Hm?"
Irina took a step closer, strands of fire curling lazily around her shoulder. "Since when did you learn to fight like that?"
Sylvie hesitated only a second. "I've been training," she said simply. "A lot."
Irina's eyes flicked to where one of Sylvie's light spikes was still embedded in the far wall—crackling quietly. "You're a healer working on combat."
Sylvie tilted her head. "Is that weird?"
"Yeah," Irina said without hesitation, but her smirk was playful. "You're quite an oddball."
Sylvie opened her mouth as if to respond, but Irina cut in before she could.
"But I already knew that."
The fire mage stepped closer, her stance casual now, gaze softening just slightly. "That's why I sought you, after all."
Sylvie's breath caught.
For a brief moment, the chamber fell quiet again—not from a lack of threats, but from the strange stillness that came when something truthful settled into the air.
Irina wasn't smiling out of superiority or teasing this time.
It was acknowledgment.
Genuine, rare, and clear as flame.
Sylvie blinked once, then glanced away, lips twitching faintly. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Irina said, already turning as mana flickered on the walls again, signaling the next wave. "You've still got more surprises to show me, right?"
Sylvie's gaze lingered on Irina for just a second longer—long enough to hold the weight of what had just been said—before her eyes shifted.
Upward.
To the far wall.
Astron stood partially silhouetted against the jagged stone, one foot braced on a ledge, the other anchored on a rune-marked outcrop. His coat fluttered slightly from the residual wind of the last spell. He wasn't watching them. His eyes were trained ahead—sharp, unblinking, already reading the next layout.
He didn't need to speak. His presence alone said it all.
But Sylvie's eyes softened for a fleeting moment as she looked up at him. The way his posture never changed, how his attention never slipped… she'd grown used to that stillness. It didn't intimidate her anymore.
Sylvie exhaled, then whispered to herself—so quietly even Irina barely caught it.
"Yes, I have."
Irina didn't comment.
She didn't glance back at Sylvie, though her peripheral vision had caught the whole thing. The way Sylvie's voice dipped. The way her eyes stayed locked on Astron longer than necessary.
But Irina chose silence.
Instead, she turned forward, flames curling quietly along her fingertips again.
From above, Astron's voice finally cut through the dim, echoing chamber.
"Next wave's position is shifting—looks like a split formation. Two entry points. Standard choke front, flanking rear."
A low rumble followed—grinding stone, shifting architecture. The dungeon wasn't just reacting; it was adjusting.
Jasmine swore softly. "They're rotating spawn zones now?"
Layla raised her shield again, her stance low and steady. "Guess they think we're too comfortable."
"Let them try," Irina said, stepping up beside her. "We'll just make them regret it."
Astron dropped silently from the wall, landing without a sound as he slid back into his mid-line position.
"Maintain layering," he said calmly. "Pressure points hold. React only on pivot signals."
Everyone nodded—no extra words this time.
They knew what to do.
The dungeon walls pulsed once, twice—then split open with a mechanical shriek.
And the hunt resumed.
Chapter 951 - Show
The rest of the dungeon fell in sequence—clean, sharp, and precise.
The split-wave pattern tried to throw them off: packs of leech-hounds and blade-backed beasts rushing from two fronts, some even climbing walls to approach from above. But the formation absorbed everything. No cracks. No hesitation.
Sylvie's support spells wove through the group like threads of gold, her enchantments tightening armor responses and weaving shield layers with perfect timing. Her combat spells—limited, but precise—picked off weakened enemies without disrupting her rhythm.
Layla didn't buckle once. Her stance had changed since earlier simulations—less reactive, more assertive. When she blocked, she countered. When she was hit, she recovered instantly. Her breathing stayed even, even as the last brute slammed into her shield before collapsing.
Jasmine, too, had grown sharper. Her movements were cleaner, her aggression more calculated. She stayed in zone, managing her range without drifting too deep. Her strikes didn't just hit—they created space. A rhythm that let Irina breathe fire.
And Irina… was Irina.
No matter how seamless the others became, she remained the storm in the middle. Her flames surged and receded in elegant waves, demolishing every group that dared press forward. She didn't dominate the space selfishly—she orchestrated it, knowing when to overwhelm and when to hold back. Every flame had purpose. Every burst carved a path.
Astron?
He drifted along the edge of the formation, a quiet shadow between layers.
There wasn't much for him to do—not because he wasn't needed, but because the others had finally stopped relying on his constant correction. He patched gaps, yes. A well-placed throw here, a perfect counter-blade there. But the pressure on him had lightened.
And that was fine.
Because the point wasn't to shine—it was to win as a unit.
When the final boss—a plated chimera wrapped in mana chains—fell with a crashing thud, the room went still. Sylvie's last glyph slowly faded. Irina exhaled a short breath. Layla lowered her shield with a small gasp. Jasmine grinned and wiped sweat from her brow.
Astron just straightened and flicked blood off his blade.
"Clear," he said simply.
The dungeon responded instantly—runes dimming, mana density stabilizing, the exit archway pulsing open with a soft, steady hum. The simulation had ended.
And as they stepped through the light one by one, the rush of chilled air from the corridor hit them like a breath of reality.
Outside, the plaza was quiet.
Still.
Cadets stood near the roster boards, murmuring softly, adjusting armor, taking slow gulps of water as they waited for their turn.
The instructors hadn't called the next team yet.
Sylvie blinked first, glancing around. "...Wait. Are we the first?"
Irina stepped out behind her, eyes scanning the square. "Huh. Looks like it."
Jasmine's grin widened as she stretched her arms overhead. "Damn. That did feel like a breeze."
Layla leaned on her shield with a tired but proud smile. "It wasn't easy, but… it never felt like we were about to break."
"No, it didn't," Irina said, glancing sidelong at Sylvie, her voice casual but threaded with acknowledgment. "Everyone kept it together."
Astron came through last, his posture as composed as always, but his eyes lingered on each teammate as they stood in the quiet outside.
A sudden hush fell over the plaza.
The murmuring cadets nearest to the roster board turned first—then others followed, glancing up from their cooldown stretches and idle chatter as Team Fourteen emerged fully from the glowing gate.
A few students stiffened. Others blinked, as if unsure they were seeing correctly.
They weren't battered. They weren't limping. They didn't look like they'd just walked out of a dungeon that had already claimed two teams this morning.
Irina gave them all a once-over and smirked to herself. Let them look.
Sylvie instinctively shrank back half a step from the attention, but Irina's casual presence at her side anchored her.
"Team Fourteen," came a crisp voice from the right.
An instructor approached, tablet in hand, dressed in the dark, insignia-lined uniform of the academy's Combat Evaluation division. His eyes flicked across the five of them, scanning for signs of stress, injury—anything out of order.
He found none.
"Simulation record confirms full dungeon clear," he announced, tapping once. "No penalties. No formation breaks. Completion time: eleven minutes, forty-two seconds."
Layla blinked. "That's… fast, right?"
"That's the fastest," the instructor replied without missing a beat. "By a wide margin."
There was a brief silence, then Jasmine gave a low whistle. "Alright, alright."
"Not bad," Irina muttered, though her grin said very good.
The instructor stepped aside, allowing them to move freely as the next team's name lit up on the display board behind him. A group of nervous-looking cadets began shuffling toward the gate.
Irina rolled her shoulders with a sigh. "Okay. That's done."
"But the report isn't," Astron said calmly, arms folded behind his back.
Jasmine groaned. "You had to remind me."
"I was being helpful."
"You're being you."
Layla chuckled under her breath. "Still, we should plan. It's not just this report—we've got the mana synchronization paper due tomorrow, artifact calibration results by next week, and the big Theory Midterm is coming up…"
"Too many things," Sylvie murmured, adjusting the strap on her bag.
Irina was already pulling up her holo-schedule with a swipe of her hand. "Then we optimize. When's everyone free?"
"Tonight's bad for me," Layla said. "I've got training with my mentor. He's making me review footwork drills again."
"Tomorrow evening?" Jasmine offered. "That way we can write the report together after classes."
"I can do that," Sylvie said softly.
"Same," Irina nodded.
Astron gave a single nod. "Then I'll reserve one of the side conference rooms in the East Wing. Quiet. And no foot traffic."
Jasmine gave him a thumbs-up. "See? That's the kind of helpful I like."
"You like all kinds of help," Astron replied dryly.
Irina tucked her tablet away, then tilted her head toward the academy building. "Alright, then it's set. We meet tomorrow, East Wing, after the last lecture block."
As they began walking toward the shaded paths that led back to the dormitory towers, the glowing arch of the dungeon gate slowly faded behind them—replaced by the hum of another team's beginning.
As the team drifted into casual conversation and the afterglow of their successful run, the weight of the dungeon left behind like sweat on skin, the group naturally began to split apart—each cadet easing into their own rhythm.
Layla moved first, waving a quick goodbye as she made for the upper gardens, where her mentor waited with a scowl and footwork drills. Jasmine slung her bag over her shoulder and stretched again, her voice already chiming with plans for a snack raid. Sylvie lingered at Irina's side, her fingers fidgeting at the hem of her sleeve.
Irina was about to nudge her—playfully, of course—when she noticed the direction of Sylvie's gaze.
It wasn't toward the gardens.
Or the dorms.
It was fixed, quietly, on Astron.
He had already begun walking away, his steps unhurried, measured—but with purpose. Not wandering. Not meandering. Moving with intent.
Sylvie's gaze stayed on him, subtle but steady.
Irina raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "If you want to speak to him, then don't hold it in."
Sylvie blinked and turned slightly. "Huh?"
Irina didn't press further. She just looked toward Astron's retreating form—and then raised her voice enough for it to carry.
"Where are you going?"
Astron didn't break stride. "I'm going to train."
Irina quickened her pace to fall in step beside him. "Where?"
"In my mentor's building."
Irina blinked. "Eleanor's building? She has a building?"
Astron gave a brief nod, his tone casual. "Apparently. She built a new one last month. Remote, high-grade wards, designed for advanced ritual work."
"You mean a personal training hall," Irina muttered, half-impressed. "That sounds like her."
"She mentors Ethan and me there."
"Heeeh…..So you accepted training under her gaze? You?"
"Heeeh… So you accepted training under her gaze? You?" Irina drawled, her amber eyes gleaming with mischief.
Astron didn't flinch. "She played her cards right."
Irina raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh?"
"No recording devices. No surveillance," he said simply. "Not even the academy's automatic mana registers can trace what happens inside."
Irina's lips parted slightly in surprise. "Tch… I see. As expected from you."
"Indeed," Astron replied, unfazed.
And then—
Pinch.
Astron's eyes narrowed the slightest bit as Irina's fingers jabbed into his side with a quick, practiced snap. He shifted half a step away, his expression composed but tinged with a trace of exasperation.
"…What was that for?"
Irina's grin widened, unabashed. "You are going to be my study partner for the midterms."
Astron gave her a long, flat look. "That wasn't a request, was it."
"Nope," she said cheerfully, stepping back into stride beside him.
"Sigh…."
He didn't argue.
Which, as far as she was concerned, was as good as a yes.
Chapter 952 - Show (2)
The building stood silent as always, isolated from the rest of the Academy's sprawling network of towers and courtyards. No signage. No insignia. Just reinforced mana-treated plating that shimmered faintly beneath the daylight—an unspoken boundary that warned away curious onlookers.
Astron stepped through the front doors without hesitation.
The biometric lock recognized him instantly. A pulse of blue light passed over his form, confirming identity, clearing access. The heavy doors parted with a soft hiss, releasing the cool, sterile air of the interior.
Inside, silence greeted him—unbroken, unjudging. No instructors. No cadets. Just vast open space and the hum of mana-infused circuitry running through the walls.
He liked this place. It didn't pry.
Astron walked with quiet purpose toward the main training floor, his coat whispering behind him. The room reconfigured at his presence—soft pulses ran along the embedded enchantment lines in the walls, reacting to his mana signature. He turned left, passing through a secondary gate that led deeper into the private training sectors—toward the more advanced equipment.
Here, the real tools of growth waited.
Mana Resonance Amplifier Pods
The first device greeted him like a slumbering beast—sleek, metallic, and slightly curved, shaped like a reclined chair surrounded by a semi-sphere of floating crystal segments.
Purpose: A pod designed to enhance fine-tuned mana control. Once inside, it isolates a user's mana output and subjects it to fluctuating, randomized resistance fields. It's not just about flow—it's about precision under chaos.
Astron stepped in and seated himself, letting the containment field close in a shimmering dome around him. He rested his palms on the armrests—already glowing faintly as the pod read his core frequency.
Initiating Sequence: Mana Disruption Calibration.
Level: Advanced. Adaptive Interference Enabled.
At once, his body tensed. Not from pain, but feedback—subtle currents twisted his own mana just enough to force him to stabilize it in real time. Too slow, and the interference would knot his veins. Too aggressive, and the amplification would rebound, burning out his control channels.
Astron closed his eyes, breathing slow.
His breath flowed in measured intervals, each inhale feeding into the core of his being, each exhale shedding residual tension. The pod dimmed slightly as the crystals aligned to a new configuration, their synchronized pulses now tuned to a different wavelength—deeper, darker.
He felt the shift immediately.
Not just in mana density—but in texture. The natural warmth of typical elemental flow gave way to something… colder. Not in temperature, but in presence. An absence rather than a force. Like reaching into still water and finding the bottomless stretch of space instead.
[Voidborne].
The moment the pod recognized the affinity threading through his soul, it adapted. Veins of faint violet-black shimmer snaked through the inner walls of the containment dome, and the resistance fields changed behavior. No longer random—they now grew recursive. Subtractive. They began siphoning.
So this is what Eleanor meant.
Void was not about adding power. It was about consuming it. Nullifying. Peeling away layers of existence until only the truth remained.
He opened his eyes.
Internally, his circuits burned—not from overload, but from imbalance. His natural mana resisted the conversion, flaring in minute pulses. The pod caught it instantly, modulating the pressure with almost sentient precision. Astron adjusted his breathing again, funneling control back into the core of his chest. He had to understand this mana, not suppress it.
That's what the records said. What Eleanor had hinted at, though she rarely explained things directly. She had given him the permission, and the direction—but not the map.
This was his own path.
Astron reached deeper, willing the Void element to take shape—not as a weapon, not yet, but as a concept. A language.
Mana obeyed intent. But Void didn't obey. It waited. Watched. It had to be reasoned with.
The interference field flared. A pulse swept through his spine, a backlash from a misaligned thread of mana in his left shoulder. Astron winced, adjusting. His mental focus slipped for only a second—but that was enough. The field twisted violently, collapsing part of his internal flow and forcing a reset.
His skin prickled. His jaw clenched. Not from pain—but from failure.
'Too linear. Don't impose your will. Let it echo.'
He tried again. This time, instead of controlling the flow, he observed it—allowed the Void to manifest around the folds of his presence like a second skin, not a replacement. His mana didn't need to become Void. It needed to coexist with it. Align with the silence.
Another shift. The pod dimmed again, the resistance falling away briefly. In that moment of stillness, he felt it: the weightless thread between existence and emptiness. A tightrope of balance.
And on it—he walked.
Void doesn't speak. It listens.
He focused inward. He saw the shape of what he needed to create—a technique that didn't repel or burn through obstacles. One that erased them. Cleanly, quietly.
Not force. Absence.
He remained seated as the pod began another cycle, preparing for deeper disruption. There would be pain. There would be losses.
But understanding was beginning to take shape.
And once he had that…
He would create something the world had never seen.
******
The resonance field began to settle. Faint pulses of violet light dimmed as the Voidborne sequence reached its natural conclusion. The pod slowly lifted its containment dome, releasing a cool exhale of air that mingled with the faint shimmer of mana residue clinging to his skin.
Astron stepped out without hesitation, his breathing steady, but there was a slight furrow between his brows.
Bottleneck.
Even with the clarity gained, the path forward was unclear. His understanding of Void mana had deepened, yes—but not enough. Not yet. There were still nuances he couldn't grasp. As if Void, by its very nature, resisted being known fully.
That was fine.
He had long accepted that growth came in fragments, not revelations. And when the mind reached its threshold…
…the body had to move.
He crossed into the next chamber—a wider, reinforced arena designed for advanced combat simulation. The moment he entered, the system recognized his presence and activated.
[Combat Field: ONLINE]
[Parameters: Adaptive]
[Weapon Focus: Manual]
[Training Program: Initiate]
[First Phase: Close Quarters]
Astron drew his daggers in one fluid motion—twin blades forged from mana-tempered alloy, balanced to match the rhythm of his steps. No embellishments. No ornamental guards. Just clean metal, built for precision and speed.
The first golem surged into form—tall, metallic, humanoid—but crude in motion. Its eyes flickered red as it locked onto him.
Astron moved.
No wasted breath. No shout of exertion. Just a blur of motion as he closed the distance. The first slash went high, a feint—the real cut slipped low, behind the golem's knee joint, severing the false ligament. It buckled.
He pivoted.
Another golem emerged from the right. Larger. He didn't wait. Using the collapse of the first golem as leverage, he kicked off its body and hurled himself into the second one mid-air, blades twirling into a downward X-shaped strike across the chest.
[Threat Level Increasing.]
Two more.
Astron landed lightly, already shifting into his next stance. His daggers danced—short arcs of steel and glints of light. Not brute force. Not showmanship. Each movement served a purpose—neutralization through flow. Momentum replaced strength.
One dagger blocked. The other struck. Again. Again.
He exhaled sharply as the fourth golem fell, its artificial core sputtering into sparks.
The floor pulsed. New configuration.
[Second Phase: Ranged Weapon Integration]
[Targets: Aerial Units Initiated]
He sheathed the daggers mid-motion, hands extending out to catch the summoned chakrams—twin rings of tempered steel laced with inscription lines. They whirled once around his wrists before launching outward with a flick of his arms.
The drones that emerged were smaller, faster—targets meant to test reaction speed, spatial awareness.
The first darted right. He sent the right chakram in a wide arc—then, a flick of his wrist recalled it early, forcing a reverse spin mid-air that caught the drone behind instead.
Precision. Not just in movement, but timing.
His left chakram sailed high, arcing along a calculated trajectory, then split mid-flight into two smaller segments that caught twin drones at once.
[Synchronization Rating: 92%]
Another swarm. Faster now. More erratic.
He ducked low, swept a chakram along the floor to catch one unit's shadow, and launched forward. His body twisted in the air, catching one segment mid-flip, rebounding it toward a second drone. Sparks. Cracked plating.
Astron landed and extended a hand—both chakrams snapped back into his grip, spinning for only a moment before silencing in his palms.
It was not bad indeed.
Chapter 953 - Show (3)
It was not bad indeed.
The silence that followed was satisfying. The kind earned only through motion, not words. His hands remained open for a second longer, letting the faint pulse of residual mana thrum in the chakrams before he flicked them back into their compartments. They vanished with a metallic whisper.
Enough for now.
He hadn't neglected his chakrams—nor the rifle or the bow. Each had their moment. Each served a purpose.
But daggers were where it all began.
His feet shifted into stance. His fingers brushed the hilts with familiarity, the twin blades slipping free once more. Clean. Responsive. Built not for brute power—but for a style that demanded instinct, agility, precision.
Time to sharpen the edge again.
The system responded instantly.
[Weapon Focus: Dual Daggers]
[Engagement Type: Close Quarters Combat]
[Golem Units: Adaptive Difficulty Enabled]
The floor beneath him shimmered. One by one, the training golems emerged again—three this time, each with a different build. One armored. One fast. One unpredictable.
Good.
He moved before they did.
The first dagger found its mark in the throat seam of the nearest unit—a gap he had memorized after countless repetitions. He used its collapse as a springboard, launching into a spin that brought his second dagger into a sweeping slash against the side of the nimble-type golem. Sparks lit up, but its plating held.
He adjusted—twisting midair, kicking off the golem's shoulder to gain height. His daggers arced together downward in an X-shaped strike, denting the plating enough to drive his knee into the joint and buckle it.
It fell.
A flicker passed through his senses.
He froze mid-turn—daggers poised to strike—and exhaled through his nose.
She's back.
'Eleanor.'
The sensation wasn't loud. Not a shift in mana. Not even sound. Just presence. An awareness woven into his instincts.
He didn't turn to confirm. He didn't need to. He knew how she moved—quiet, precise, unreadable to most. But to him, it was always a little too intentional.
She didn't come here by accident.
Another golem lunged from behind. Astron flowed sideways, letting it overcommit before carving two fast slashes across its midsection and then driving both blades upward into its core. A mechanical whine stuttered, then died.
He remained in motion, but now his rhythm had changed.
Smoother. Sharper.
She's watching.
*****
Eleanor stepped lightly into the facility, the door sealing behind her with its usual whisper-hiss. She hadn't planned on coming here today—not officially. Her schedule was already packed, and she had no intention of micromanaging the two she had chosen specifically not to hover over.
But something in the back of her mind had pulled her here anyway.
A gut instinct.
She didn't suppress those.
And now, as she crossed into the main hall, the soft pulse of movement, of active combat signatures, confirmed her hunch.
He was here.
Astron.
Eleanor's steps slowed as she passed into the elevated observation platform. The lights remained low, and she made no effort to announce herself. She didn't need to.
Below, in the wide-open combat field, the air shimmered with residual heat and mana. Astron's daggers moved like extensions of breath—silent, sudden, and certain. One golem shattered under the force of a perfectly placed strike to its kinetic core. Another stumbled back from a curved intercept that disarmed it mid-lunge.
She paused at the edge of the rail, watching without a word.
It wasn't surprising, not really. Of the two, Astron was more likely to keep himself sharp even outside scheduled hours. Ethan's bursts of intensity were stronger—but they came with emotional charge. Astron? He was like a drawn string—always taut, always held in place by unseen pressure.
And clearly, listening.
She'd told them this facility was theirs now. That the conditions she laid out weren't negotiable. She had wanted to see whether that would mean anything.
Astron had answered the question without ever saying a word.
She watched as he dismantled the third golem with a series of short, precise movements. Each slash controlled. Each pivot balanced. His footwork had improved—not flashier, not faster, just cleaner. More grounded.
He wasn't just fighting.
He was refining.
And yet…
Eleanor narrowed her eyes.
There it was again—that feeling. Like being seen, even when no glance was given. Astron hadn't looked her way. Not once. Not even a flicker of attention toward the upper deck. But something in the way he shifted his shoulders, the way his form closed tighter, made her certain.
He knew.
He knew she was there.
Could she prove it?
No.
Could anyone?
Not likely.
But Eleanor trusted her instincts—and they told her this wasn't a coincidence. The way his style had shifted, not just to efficiency, but to something more visible, more deliberate… this was the version of Astron he wanted her to see.
He could've chosen to train in one of the three isolated chambers. Could've used the deeper wings, where even her senses couldn't track fluctuations clearly. But he hadn't.
Which meant one thing.
This training—the one she was watching now—was curated.
Measured.
Intended.
Eleanor's arms folded across her chest as she leaned slightly against the railing, her expression unreadable.
Interesting.
She wasn't annoyed.
If anything… she was curious.
Because if this was what he chose to show—then she had to wonder:
What was he still hiding?
The rhythmic sound of steel meeting synthetic plating echoed across the chamber, each clash clean, deliberate, a thread in the silent dance that was Astron's combat routine. Eleanor remained still above, eyes narrowed in focus.
His daggers moved with uncanny familiarity—not just wielded, but expressed, as though each slash and counter was written into his blood. His spacing was immaculate. Movement economic. Reactions instinctive. There was no wasted motion. No hesitation.
And more than anything—there was understanding.
Yes… she had seen this before.
Eleanor's thoughts drifted for a moment, not into admiration, but recognition.
He moves like someone who already understands what battle is.
Not just techniques. Not drills or footwork patterns. But the feel of combat. The ebb and flow of pressure, the necessity of commitment, the purpose behind every motion. That couldn't be taught. Only earned.
She exhaled quietly, her gaze sharpening. "Your comprehension is nearing its limit," she murmured to herself. "But even that limit… isn't fixed."
Still, as clean as it was, she could tell.
There were tiny imbalances in how he adjusted mid-motion. Micro delays. Overreliance on reverse-angled pivoting. A few small choices that leaned into habit rather than need.
He self-trained too long. Some habits are too deep to notice alone.
And then, without prompting, a memory stirred.
The first semester. That lesson.
She could still recall it with clarity—the [Stripes] class. A mandatory lecture where she introduced the cadets to the foundational forms of the Federal Swordplay.
Most had followed along—clumsy, eager, some overly confident.
But Astron… he hadn't stood out then. Not the way others had. In fact, he had almost deliberately blended in. Observing more than executing. Performing only enough to pass undetected.
At the time, she had assumed it was laziness. Maybe arrogance.
But now…
Now she saw the truth.
He hadn't participated fully because the sword form wasn't his.
She remembered how he held the blade—not incorrectly, but with a different grip. Not center-aligned, but slightly pulled back toward the wrist. Efficient for shorter blades. Daggers.
And even back then, when she had taken him aside and forced him to demonstrate… he had adjusted immediately. Adapted to her instructions with unnatural speed. Faster than the others.
Her voice from that day echoed in her mind.
"Notice how the mana flows seamlessly along the surface of the blade."
She remembered guiding his hand. How his pulse hadn't faltered once. How his corrections had landed not just where she'd told him, but one step further—anticipating the next problem before it surfaced.
Back then, she had merely taken note of it. Stored it away under "adaptive with potential."
But now, watching him here, daggers in hand, moving through the golems like breath through lungs—it was undeniable.
Daggers were his main tool.
She leaned forward against the railing slightly, her voice low.
"…You're not just trained. You're refined. You understand combat the way most understand breathing."
Astron disarmed the last golem with a backward slash and stepped through the falling motion in one fluid movement, turning the wreckage into part of his footwork. The blades flicked once more—metal vanishing into his wrists with a metallic whisk.
He didn't look up.
He didn't need to.
But Eleanor was certain.
He knew she was there.
And what he'd shown her… was only the part he wanted her to see.
She smiled faintly.
"Then let's see," she whispered, "if I can make you show the rest."
Chapter 954 - Show (4)
Eleanor remained still above the training chamber, arms folded, her eyes tracking Astron's movements with unwavering precision. The gleam of his daggers caught the filtered lighting of the facility, tracing arcs of cold clarity through the air as golems crumbled around him. His footwork, his timing, his mana flow—so much of it whispered mastery.
There it is again, she thought. That innate clarity in combat.
He wasn't just a good dagger user. He was a good fighter. His understanding of spacing, prediction, and rhythm wasn't born of mere repetition—it was instinct reinforced by experience. Eleanor had seen thousands of cadets go through drills, sparring, real battles. Some could move well. Some could think well. Rarely both. Astron… he adjusted on the fly, seamlessly aligning his body and energy toward a singular goal.
It's not just skill, she thought. It's comprehension. The kind that only happens when fighting becomes a language.
Still, there was something else in the way he moved that made her pause—some strange thread that connected back to a memory.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
That duel.
Astron and Irina. The impromptu spar, right after the [Stripes] class. She hadn't intervened, hadn't even needed to. The students had watched, and so had she, from a quiet distance.
Irina had the background. Elite tutors, sword lineage, textbook [Stripes] with elegance and refined mana infusion. She had been molded for swordsmanship in the way only nobles could afford to be.
And Astron?
He didn't even have a sword style.
But he'd stood his ground. Matched her rhythm. Adjusted mid-combat, slowly narrowing the gap. His movements then had been raw, but he had responded to her strikes with uncanny clarity—like he was remembering something his body had never been taught. Understanding the sword as if it belonged to him.
And that final clash—where Irina used a stripe-sword hybrid strike that compressed and twisted mana with refined control—even then, he had parried six of her seven slashes with nothing but instinct and emerging rhythm. Only the final strike had landed. But the look in his eyes afterward… it hadn't been disappointment.
It had been calculation.
And now, watching him fight here, Eleanor let the memory settle in her thoughts like a weight on her chest.
What if… someone actually trained him with the sword?
What if that raw comprehension were paired with real swordsmanship? With a proper grip, breathing discipline, blade angle instruction, mana harmonics—everything he currently lacks but imitates anyway?
What would that look like?
A daggerist who thinks like a swordsman.
A bowman who moves like a duelist.
A combatant without a form—but with mastery over flow.
Eleanor's jaw tightened, her thoughts racing beneath her composed exterior.
It's an interesting concept.
…And a sad one.
Because no matter how well he moved with a sword in hand, no matter how instinctive his corrections became, Astron was not a swordsman.
His occupation marked him. His trait, his build, his mana tuning—everything leaned toward daggers, projectile weapons, adaptability. He wasn't built to carry the reach or weight of a long blade. The sword was never meant to be his.
And yet…
Her eyes flicked to his silhouette as he pivoted, tore through the final golem, and reset his stance in a smooth, low guard.
Is that really the case?
That question—quiet and sharp—sliced through her mind like the whisper of drawn steel.
Eleanor's question lingered, not in doubt, but in consideration.
She straightened slowly, her eyes still fixed on Astron's form—how he shifted his weight after every strike, how he never stayed still for too long, how even his dagger grip adjusted to mimic the optimal guard angles she'd taught with swords.
He's not just imitating what he's seen. He's internalizing it.
Her thoughts deepened, trailing through the corridors of data she had stored in memory—student files, trait awakenings, combat scores. Astron's progression wasn't linear. It spiked. Every few weeks, another breakthrough. Quiet, undocumented, but noticeable to anyone observant enough to look for patterns.
And then… there was the bow.
The Archer occupation. He awakened it later than most—after the trait settled, after his dagger affinity had already matured.
That alone had raised eyebrows. Occupations didn't just emerge without compatible base traits. But Astron's did. It layered itself onto his existing foundation. A combatant meant for close quarters suddenly gaining a mid-range path. Not a contradiction—an expansion.
So… what if it could happen again?
What if the Swordsman occupation had simply never had the chance to awaken?
She folded her arms, expression hardening as possibilities unspooled behind her eyes.
The way he analyzed attacks. The way he mirrored sword technique with daggers. The way he had understood [Stripes] after seeing them once.
If the conditions aligned—if his mana signature adjusted just enough—there was a path. A narrow one. But real.
It was fascinating.
And dangerous.
A daggerist who could switch styles.
An archer who could fight in a duel.
A swordsman… who was never supposed to be one.
Eleanor closed her eyes briefly, the analytical part of her mind snapping back to structure.
He's accelerating too fast.
Both of them were. Ethan and Astron.
Not just physically. Not just through combat scores. Their mana development, their core refinement, even their reactions to external stimuli—everything was speeding beyond what the curriculum accounted for.
Which meant something was bound to break.
She could already see it—micro-adjustments in how Astron handled the amplified feedback during resonance training, or how Ethan over-pushed mana flow through his upper circuits without proper grounding. Tiny details. Inconsequential now. But dangerous later.
Being the Invoker, she saw things others didn't.
Not just mistakes. Not just habits.
Potential.
And the hidden fault lines that came with it.
That was why she was here.
Not to interfere.
Not yet.
But to observe.
To wait for the right moment to step in and refine what no one else could.
She took a slow breath and leaned against the rail once more.
Astron hadn't noticed her, or perhaps he had and chose not to acknowledge her presence. It didn't matter. He was immersed again—fluid, controlled, thoughtful.
Eleanor's eyes narrowed slightly.
She would watch him.
Until the end of this session.
Until his mana dipped low enough to reveal the gaps in his control.
Until his body tired just enough for his real habits to emerge.
And when that moment came—
She would be ready.
Because talent wasn't just something to witness.
It was something to shape.
******
The last golem fell with a muted crunch, its artificial core sputtering as it dimmed, smoke curling from its fractured plating. Astron straightened slowly, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy, controlled breaths. Sweat clung to his skin, his clothes damp from exertion, but his stance remained centered—grounded even in exhaustion.
His daggers retracted into their compartments with a metallic whisper, his fingers flicking slightly to confirm the connection. Then he exhaled again, slower this time, his breath misting faintly in the cooler air of the facility.
Footsteps.
Measured. Familiar.
Astron didn't react until the door to the training field opened with a soft chime. He didn't need to look to know who it was.
Eleanor stepped through, composed as ever, her coat drifting around her legs like the trailing edge of authority itself. Her eyes, calm and unreadable, scanned the fractured training field before settling on him.
She came to a stop a few paces away.
"…Not bad."
Her voice, cool and clipped, echoed slightly in the otherwise quiet hall.
Astron's head tilted slightly to the side, his breath still steadying.
Then, a faint smile touched the corner of his lips—not quite amusement, not quite gratitude. Just acknowledgment.
"Thank you," he replied, his voice low but clear. "Coming from Professor Eleanor, I'll take it as a compliment."
Eleanor's expression didn't shift, but the glint in her eye deepened.
"You should," she said simply. "I don't give them often."
Astron straightened fully now, running a gloved hand through his hair as he met her gaze.
The silence between them was still. Not awkward. Not empty.
Just two people who understood that words weren't always the point.
She stepped forward once, her eyes sweeping over the training space again—the dents in the floor, the shattered golems, the fine threads of mana still lingering in the air like static.
"You pushed yourself," she noted, her voice quieter this time.
Astron nodded once. "That was the intent."
Eleanor looked at him, longer now.
It wasn't just the effort that caught her attention.
It was the deliberation.
Every movement he had made today was intentional. Built toward a goal he hadn't voiced. And she had seen it—seen how he tested the range of his daggers in longer sequences, how he adjusted his movement to mimic broader weapons. A swordsman's rhythm mapped onto a daggerist's frame.
Her arms folded.
"We'll talk soon," she said, a statement more than a promise. "There are things to refine. Small, but important."
Astron gave a faint nod. "Understood."
And still, that unspoken tension remained.
The feeling that something larger was forming beneath the surface.
Eleanor turned, her coat sweeping behind her.
"I'll see you at the next session," she said without looking back.
And Astron, watching her go, allowed himself a slow breath.
He hadn't expected her to come.
But he wasn't surprised that she had.