The next morning brought neither relief nor light. The sun shone through the glass windows of the dormitory, painting the walls in crimson tones, but Kalen sat in the shade, and not because he preferred it.
He just didn't want anyone to see his eyes.
There was still darkness burning there. Not magical, not cursed—real. Living inside. After the dream in which his flesh was torn again, in which monsters were bred from his own bones once more, and after which he woke with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth… Kallen felt that he was no longer just a student.
He's dangerous.
And unlike the others, he understood this perfectly well.
"You're getting up like a dead man," came a voice from the other side of the room. Raina. "You were sleeping like you were buried again."
"What makes you think I wasn't buried?" Kallen asked hoarsely as he stood up. He was already pulling on his shirt, his gaze fixed on the fresh, almost invisible line on his back—the tattoo had expanded again. Just a little. Almost imperceptibly. But Vard knew.
He always knew.
"You're rotting and growing stronger at the same time. It's funny. Such a delicate balance..." he heard in his head. Ward. His Shadow. His weapon.
His only companion in hell.
"You were mumbling in your sleep. Again."
"Better than snoring," he said, heading for the washbasin. In the mirror, his face was the same. Only his eyes were heavier.
He didn't go to breakfast. He was training.
A run. Fifteen kilometers to the southern arena, past the training gardens, through the grove, and along the dusty road. He ran as if demons were chasing him. Because they were.
Push-ups. Hundreds. Each one with a curse, a breathless gasp, a shoulder cramp. Then again. And again.
Working with a sword. Strikes at targets, blocks, lunges forward, rolls — and so on in a circle. Until the hands stop moving.
Carrying a stone. An old boulder behind the training hall, weighing over a hundred kilograms. He lifted it, carried it, yelled, spat blood, and lifted it again. Until he started seeing stars.
It wasn't just about physical training. It was about survival.
Kallen didn't want to be strong. He wanted to survive when everything started to fall apart.
And he knew he would. And soon.
He sat quietly in class. He didn't draw attention to himself. He answered briefly, evenly, and without arrogance. Archmage Lokhray, who taught "Theory of First-Level Magic," tried to catch him in a careless moment twice, but both times received a clear, cold response citing the "Treatises of Mardo from the 14th Century."
"Lionheart." The archmage finally fell silent, staring at him. "You've become quite well-read."
Kalen just nodded. He felt empty inside. Everything he could say seemed unnecessary. He heard some of the students whispering about him—"strange," "closed off," "too quiet."
The truth was simpler: Kalen now looked at them as if they were children.
In the practice of fiction, he created a stable, almost perfect illusion—three-dimensional, with shadow, sound, and depth. The teacher clapped her hands in delight. He did not smile.
On the ephoe, he held back the damage from the magic waves. Three times in a row. Without protection.
In dueling magic... he didn't participate. Why beat up someone who doesn't even realize they've already lost?
At night, I train again. Then I sleep.
He went to bed late, in complete silence. Even Ward didn't speak today. He just stood in the shadows like a statue, observing. And Kallen could feel his satisfaction.
When Kalen fell asleep, the nightmare didn't come. Only silence. And anticipation.
***
The morning began with suspicions.
Kalen was the first to get up, as always. He ran fifteen kilometers to the south tower, then did some strength training: lifting a boulder, doing push-ups, stretching, and focusing on his breathing. It was all part of his routine. He felt his muscles burning with pain, but it was a familiar pain. It was honest. It wasn't like the lies he saw in the eyes of the academics.
In "The Theory of Fiction," Professor Garaya, usually absent-minded and slightly lost in her own students' illusions, suddenly interrupted the class and called Kalen to the podium.
"Lionheart." She looked stern, which was almost a miracle for her. "Your fiction is... too clear. Too... precise. Are you being taught outside of your schedule?"
- no.
"Are you sure? Such things... don't happen overnight. Or even in a month."
Kallen held her gaze. Inside, the surface was smooth as ice on a lake. There was no trembling. He simply nodded.
— I read a lot.
"Yeah, fuck you," Kalen said quietly.
"Reading won't make you a magician."
He was silent. A tattoo throbbed in his back. As if to remind him that real magic didn't live in books.
At the Ephéot, he was given a new shield, an experimental one. The instructor, an old Ephéotist named Sir Mynril, smiled as Kalen began to raise the barrier:
"Let's see if your fake toughness can withstand this impulse."
The impulse struck. A force that shattered bones. Several students were thrown against the walls. Kalen... did not move. His barrier breathed. It was not a sphere. It was alive. A black mist extended from his hands, enveloping the space and devouring energy.
Minril raised an eyebrow.
— What type of magic?"
"a necromancer.
— Did you write it down?"
- no.
"Then do it. And send it for analysis. Until tonight."
Kalen didn't respond. He simply stood up and left, feeling the eyes on his back. The students exchanged glances. Someone whispered,
"He shouldn't be so strong."
"His Shadow is... weak."
— That's not normal…
When he returned to his room that evening, Reina was gone.
Usually, she was reading, practicing, whispering in her strange language, using her magic. But today, it was empty. Only her bed, neatly made, smelling of smoke and rosemary.
He sat down. Quietly.
The tattoo on my back is slightly warm.
"Ward," he thought. "Can you feel it?"
"Yes. The Academy is beginning to understand something. They don't know what you are, and it scares them."
Kalen leaned back and closed his eyes.
Sleep came like a knife.
He woke up in a rotting hall. The walls were breathing pus. The air was as sticky as blood. His head was throbbing.
They came at him. First the goblins. Then something worse. Headless men, jaws turned the wrong way. They tied him up. They forced him to eat their flesh. They shoved it into his mouth until he was choking. With their teeth, fangs, and hands. Then they stuck an iron rod in his eye, twisted it, and pushed it back in.
Then again.
Time was running like jelly. But inside, he wasn't screaming anymore. He was counting. How many times? How many cycles? How long?
How much pain does it take to change steel?
He didn't beg again.
He watched.
He woke up as if he had been pulled back from hell. He sat up. It was dark. Sweat was dripping down his temples, but his breathing was even.
You've grown stronger.
The dragon appeared. Inside my mind, it was like a burn mark.
"You're not human anymore. Or maybe you are. But you're closer to us than to them."
— You all speak in riddles.
"We are a mystery, Kalen. But you are now a part of it. Whether you like it or not."
"I only want one thing. So that when it starts... no one can break me."
"Then train. Eat dust. Tear yourself apart. Fight. Rot if you must. But survive. Because when the time comes... they will try to destroy you. And if you are weak, you will be the first."
Kalen stood up. The sky outside the window was as black as his Shadow. He went outside.
Without a shirt. Without shoes. Running again.
North. Over the hills.
Fifteen kilometers. Then push-ups. Then the sword. Then the stone.
He's training. Like a damned thing.