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Chapter 8 - The Training Session- Part 2

The 34th day came. Michael stopped striking. He sat before Vael, eyes dim as dying stars.

"Now," the Archangel said, "you learn what shapes the world."

Magic.

Michael began not with spells, but with truth.

"Mana is not a tool. It is a tongue. You do not cast—you command."

"And how do I command it?" Vael'Zaryt asked.

"Through balance and precise control. You can pull from what the world bleeds and give it new forms and shapes as your will."

He taught Vael'Zaryt to see mana and how it coiled in the air, how it pooled in stone, how it bled from life.

Vael'Zaryt learned to breathe it, to hold it until his veins burned, and to release it like a blade drawn from it's sheath.

The light he summoned became flame.

The flame became a spear.

The spear became dust that sliced the air.

"Twist it," Michael commanded.

Vael'Zaryt bent light into jagged shrapnel, weaponizing photons.

Fire obeyed his command.

Wind bent to where he wanted it to go.

Shadows clung to his form.

Even holy light, corrupted, moved at his will.

One day, Michael severed Vael'Zaryt's hand with a flick.

"Heal."

Vael gritted his teeth, pouring mana into torn flesh. Bone reformed, muscle knit—but the skin remained raw and twitching.

"Good," Michael said. "Make your enemy think you're dying. Then end them with surprise attack. Remember.. in a battle, the only thing that matters is who comes victorious in the end."

Chaos was the final crucible.

The Dragon's power within him was a feral thing—wild, corrosive. Michael forced him to meditate in storms of illusion, to feed rage into resonance, to bind madness to discipline.

"You cannot command chaos," Michael said. "You must become the chaos itself in order to use it."

Day 67: Vael no longer stumbled.

He rose with wings of spectral black, streaked with arcs of violet lightning. His sword strikes tore fissures into space. His aura bent heat, light, and silence.

Teacher and student clashed like two calamities—each strike breaking the ground, each step cracking the abyss.

Day 98: Vael'Zaryt stood, silent, unbowed.

"No resurrection," Michael said.

"Didn't need it," Vael'Zaryt replied, wiping his blade.

Michael smirked—for the first time.

Day 99: The Final Rite

The abyss darkened. Michael stood in full armor, its brilliance long dulled by exile. No longer a teacher—now a vessel of fate.

"This is where I end," he said. "And you begin."

From his chest, he drew his heart—radiant, ancient, stained with rebellion and purest darkness.

"Take it. My wings. My strength. My vengeance."

Vael'Zaryt hesitated.

"Why me?"

"Because I failed to save them. You will not."

The heart sank into Vael'Zaryt's chest. Two hearts now beat within him—and between them, the chaos core.

Light and shadow erupted. Wings of flame and void tore into existence. Veins burned black and gold. His voice carried like a hymn drowned in thunder.

Angelic grace met dragon's fury. They did not fight. They became one.

When Vael'Zaryt opened his eyes, the abyss lowered its head. And the archangel Michael.. Was nowhere to be found.

"I am no longer only the heir of the Chaos Dragon," he whispered.

Stone split. The air screamed. Time shivered.

"I am also the nightmare of Heavens."

And Above, the world waited—ignorant of the storm rising from below.

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