The training grounds buzzed with mana, sparks of blue and crimson flashing as students dueled under the instructors' watchful eyes.
Arin stood in the far corner, controlling his breathing. He had finally begun to feel the strange rhythm of mana flowing through him, faster, sharper, more responsive than before. His unconscious mind whispered numbers, strategies, and tiny adjustments like a silent instructor only he could hear.
Then came the voice that always broke his focus.
"Still playing weak, Vale?"
Kian strode across the grounds, silver hair tied back neatly, his training uniform spotless even after sparring. He was the academy's golden boy—talented, admired, envied. But when his piercing green eyes landed on Arin, they always sharpened with something colder.
Arin didn't answer. He never did.
But today, Kian wasn't in the mood for silence. He gestured, and the other students instinctively stepped back. Even the instructors didn't intervene—Kian's uncle was the head of the academy, after all.
"You think you can just walk around here, catching Lira's eyes like you belong at her side?" Kian's voice was low, but it carried. "You? A nobody with no family name?"
At the mention of her, Arin's jaw tightened. He glanced at Lira across the field. She pretended not to listen, but her gaze flicked between them, uneasy.
Kian smirked, mistaking her concern as encouragement.
"Fine. If you want to stand in this academy, prove you're worth the air you breathe."
Mana flared around his body—controlled, sharp, trained from years of brutal instruction under his father.
Arin's instincts screamed. His unconscious system stirred, whispering:
Danger level: High. Recommend adaptive defense.
He didn't want this fight. Not here. Not like this.
But refusing would only mark him as weak, and that word was poison in a place like the academy.
"I'll accept," Arin said quietly.
Kian's smirk widened. "Good. Let's see what a miracle of 'nothing' can do."
The duel circle ignited with runes. Students leaned forward, excitement sparking in their eyes.
Kian's fists glowed with aura, shimmering like molten steel. Every movement of his was crisp, perfect—an heir groomed to be unshakable. But Arin noticed something else, hidden behind the precision: strain.
Every strike was too sharp, too desperate, like a boy trying not just to win—but to prove himself to someone watching far away.
Their clash rang out. Aura met mana. Sparks flew.
And for the first time, as Arin's body shifted, adapting, responding with unnatural precision, Kian's confidence cracked.
"You—what are you?" Kian muttered, his perfect rhythm faltering.
Arin said nothing. His hand trembled, his eyes glowed faintly. He didn't even understand himself.
The duel was stopped by the instructor before either could push further. But the whispers spread like wildfire.
Not just about Arin's strange adaptation.
But about how, for a moment, Kian—the golden boy—looked uncertain.
And Lira, from across the circle, finally allowed herself to stare.