The morning air in the ruins was cool against my skin as I faced Stark across twenty feet of broken stone. Four days of training together had taught me his patterns, his tells, the way he thought about combat. But he'd grown too—evolved from the overconfident guard's son I'd saved into something sharper.
His new axe gleamed in the dawn light—a proper weapon now, double-bladed with a reinforced haft. He held it in a low guard, weight balanced, watching me with the kind of focus that came from being beaten repeatedly until you learned.
I drew my military-grade sword. Not Blackheart—I saved the cursed blade for when I truly needed it. This was about technique, about testing how far both of us had come.
"Ready?" I asked.
Stark's answer was to surge forward, closing the distance in three explosive steps. His axe came up in a rising diagonal slash that would have gutted me if it connected.
I sidestepped left, blade coming up to deflect rather than block. The axe's edge scraped along my sword with a screech of metal, momentum carrying Stark past my position.
He recovered instantly—four days ago, that overextension would have left him exposed for a full second. Now he was already pivoting, using the axe's weight to spin into a horizontal chop at chest height.
Fast. Much faster than before.
I ducked under the swing, feeling wind from the blade's passage ruffle my hair, and lunged forward with a thrust aimed at his exposed ribs.
Stark twisted, and my sword point missed by inches. His left hand released the axe haft and shot out, grabbing my wrist.
Shit—
He yanked me forward while simultaneously bringing the axe down one-handed. The blade descended toward my shoulder in a brutal chop that would break bones even with the flat.
Combat Instinct screamed. I let my legs give out, dropping into a crouch. The axe whistled over my head, and Stark's grip on my wrist pulled him off-balance.
I swept his legs.
He went down hard, releasing both axe and wrist to break his fall. But he rolled immediately, coming up in a defensive posture with the axe somehow back in his hands.
"Better," I said, backing up to reset distance. "You're thinking three moves ahead now."
"Had a good teacher," Stark replied, breathing hard but grinning. "Again?"
We engaged again, and this time Stark tried a different approach. Instead of his usual aggressive rushes, he stayed defensive, forcing me to come to him.
Smart. His reach with the axe was longer than my sword. If he could control distance, he had the advantage.
I probed his defense with a series of testing strikes. High slash, low thrust, feinted overhead. Each one he parried or evaded with minimal movement, conserving energy.
He was baiting me. Waiting for me to overcommit.
Fine. I'd give him what he wanted.
I launched into a combination—three rapid strikes in succession, each one hard and committed. Stark's defense held for the first two, but the third forced him to step back.
Exactly what I wanted.
I used Phantom Step.
Mana flooded my entire body in the pattern Father had taught me. Not just my legs—everything. Core for stability, arms for control, mind for processing the increased speed.
The world slowed around me as I accelerated. Stark's eyes widened as I blurred from in front of him to his right flank in less than a heartbeat.
My blade came in from the side in a horizontal slash he couldn't possibly block in time—
Stark's axe snapped up, catching my sword on the flat of the blade with a teeth-rattling impact that sent vibrations up my arms.
He'd predicted it. Somehow, he'd known where I'd appear and positioned his defense before I'd even moved.
"Gotcha," he said, grinning fiercely.
His axe rotated, using the caught momentum to redirect my blade downward while his other hand released the haft and drove a punch toward my face.
I leaned back, the punch grazing my chin, and kicked out at his forward knee.
The kick connected solidly. Stark grunted, stumbled, and I pressed the advantage.
But he didn't go down. Instead, he used the stumble, let his body fall into it, and swept his axe in a wide horizontal arc at ground level.
I had to jump back to avoid having my ankles cut off.
The exchange lasted another twenty seconds—both of us moving at combat speed, trading position and advantage, neither able to land a decisive blow. Stark's defense had become layered, adaptive. When I tried Phantom Step again, he was already moving, anticipating not where I was but where I could be.
He launched a feint—the overhead chop that I knew would turn into a horizontal slash. But this time, when I moved to counter the horizontal slash, he didn't follow through.
Instead, he dropped the axe entirely.
His hands shot out, one grabbing my sword arm, the other driving toward my throat in a strike that would have crushed my windpipe if it connected.
Combat Instinct saved me. I twisted hard, taking the throat strike on my shoulder instead. Pain exploded through the joint, but I was still functional.
Stark tried to capitalize, using his grip on my sword arm to pull me into a knee strike.
I went with the pull, using the momentum to drive my forehead into his face.
The headbutt connected solidly. Stark's nose crunched, blood spraying, and his grip loosened for just a moment.
I ripped my arm free, kicked his chest to create distance, and had my blade at his throat before he could recover his axe.
"Dead," I said, withdrawing the blade.
Stark touched his nose gingerly, wincing when it came away bloody. "Fuck. I really thought I had you that time."
"You almost did," I admitted, rolling my shoulder to test the damage. It ached but nothing was broken. "That throat strike would have ended the fight if it connected. And dropping your weapon to grapple was genuinely unexpected."
"My father taught me that," Stark said, tilting his head back to slow the nosebleed. "He says warriors who can't fight without their weapons aren't really warriors."
"Your father is right." I sheathed my sword. "Four days ago, you would have been dead in the first ten seconds of that exchange. Just now, you lasted almost a minute and forced me to use techniques I rarely need in sparring."
It was true. The Stark I'd saved from the goblins would have been overwhelmed immediately. This Stark had adapted, evolved, become dangerous enough to require my full attention.
"How do you feel?" I asked. "Honestly assess yourself."
Stark wiped blood from his face, considering the question seriously. "Stronger. Not just physically—I can feel it in everything. My reactions are faster, my instincts sharper. It's like... before, I was fighting with part of my brain focused on remembering forms and techniques. Now those are just automatic, and I can focus on reading my opponent, adapting in real-time."
He paused, then added: "I'm solidly into the middle levels of Mortal rank now. Not quite approaching the upper levels, but definitely past the early stages. Four days ago I was barely past the initial threshold."
I nodded. That matched what I could observe—his mana density had increased noticeably, his physical capabilities enhanced beyond what pure muscle could explain.
My own assessment was more precise:
[STATUS DISPLAY]
NAME: Leon De Stellis
AGE: 17
RANK: Mortal (Mid, 60.0%)
Sixty percent exactly. Four days of brutal combat had pushed me from the middle-low range to solid mid-tier, approaching the boundary of Mortal High rank.
CORRUPTION LEVEL: 14.8%
Still manageable. The price of power, but not yet approaching the threshold where I'd lose myself.
"Tomorrow's the entrance exam," Stark said, pulling me from my internal assessment. "Are you ready?"
I looked at him—really looked. In four days, Stark Dawner had transformed from an overconfident guard's son into a legitimate combatant. His movements were sharper, his instincts honed, his understanding of combat fundamentally deeper.
"I'm ready," I said. "Are you?"
"As ready as I'll ever be." He hesitated, and I saw him steel himself. "Leon, I've been thinking about this for days, and I need to ask. Would you consider taking me as your retainer?"
The question caught me off-guard. "What?"
"A retainer. Your retainer." The words came out in a rush. "You're House Stellis's heir. You'll need people you can trust at the Academy, and I—you saved my life. I owe you everything. I'm good in a fight, I'm loyal, I learn fast. I could serve you, help you navigate Academy politics, watch your back—"
"Stark," I cut him off gently. "Stop."
He stopped, looking at me with desperate hope mixed with fear of rejection.
"I don't need a retainer," I said carefully. "I need allies. Friends, if we're being optimistic about Academy politics."
"But—"
"The retainer system is about hierarchy," I continued. "One person serving another. Master and servant. That's not what I want." I met his eyes directly. "You're a capable fighter who's proven himself over four days of hell. You've got solid instincts, good fundamentals, and the drive to improve. I'd rather have you as someone who fights beside me because he chooses to, not because he's bound by obligation or debt."
Stark stared at me, clearly not expecting that response. "That's... nobles don't usually think like that."
"I'm not most nobles." I paused. "My perspective on power is different from traditional noble thinking. I don't want subordinates who obey out of duty. I want allies who stand with me because they believe in what we're doing."
"And what are we doing?" Stark asked quietly.
"Surviving," I said simply. "And maybe, if we're lucky, becoming strong enough that survival isn't constantly in question."
A slow smile spread across Stark's face. "So... friends then?"
"Friends," I confirmed, offering my hand.
We clasped forearms in the warrior's grip—not the formal gesture of lord and retainer, but the equal exchange of combatants who'd bled together.
"One more round," I said. "Show me that combination we worked on yesterday."
Stark's grin turned fierce. "The rising slash into spinning chop?"
"The one where you chain them so fast I actually have to use Phantom Step to avoid both strikes."
"One of these days, Leon, I'm going to surprise you. Land a real hit."
"I look forward to it."
We fought for another hour as the sun climbed higher. When we finally stopped, exhausted and drenched in sweat, we mounted our horses and rode back toward Lourven Domain in comfortable silence.
---
The evening passed in final preparations.
Rita had laid out formal traveling clothes—black and silver, House Stellis colors. Expensive but practical, designed for someone who needed to look noble while potentially fighting for their life.
I dressed mechanically, mind already on tomorrow. The entrance exam. Stage One's individual assessment. Stage Two's group survival. Stage Three's tournament where I'd face Arielle De Luna.
Father summoned me to dinner one final time. Frey and Kira were there, both watching me with expressions I couldn't quite read.
"The carriage arrives at dawn," Father said without preamble. "Griffin-drawn transport to Astral Island. Six hour journey."
"I'll be ready."
"I'm sure you will be." Father set down his fork, fixing me with that steel-gray stare. "Leon, you've prepared more thoroughly than any entrance exam requires. You've pushed yourself harder than most students push themselves in their entire first year."
He paused, and something shifted in his expression—something that might have been concern on a man less controlled.
"Whatever you think is coming, whatever you're anticipating..." His voice dropped slightly. "Don't die. The paperwork would be tedious, and your mother would never forgive me."
It was the most emotional statement Duke Aldric De Stellis had made in my presence. Coming from him, it was practically a declaration of love.
"I won't die," I promised.
Frey finally spoke. "Brother, things have been strange between us. But good luck. And please come back."
Kira's voice was barely a whisper. "Don't die, Leon. I just started to like you."
Something tightened in my chest. "I'll come back. And I'll write—let you know how it's going."
Both looked surprised. The original Leon would never have made such a promise.
After dinner, Rita appeared with supplies. "Healing potions. Military grade. Antidote for common poisons. Preserved food, water purification, basic camping gear."
She produced a small obsidian mirror. "Communication mirror. Keyed to one I'll keep. You can contact the estate in emergencies."
"Thank you, Rita."
"Young master, whatever you face at that Academy... you've done everything possible. You're strong enough."
I practiced my abilities one final time. Shadow tendrils, Silent Steps, Stasis Sphere. Each one responding smoothly to my will.
[CORRUPTION LEVEL: 14.8% → 15.1%]
Small increase. Acceptable.
I lay down, Blackheart within reach, and let Master Circulation work as I slept.
Tomorrow, everything would change.
---
Dawn arrived with massive wings beating air.
The Griffin was magnificent—size of a large wagon, golden eagle features merged with a lion's powerful body. Its eyes held ancient intelligence, and when it looked at me, I saw recognition of Blackheart's wrongness.
But it held its ground. A Griffin's pride wouldn't allow fear, even when instinct screamed danger.
The carriage was elegant craftsmanship—dark wood reinforced with steel, large enough for six passengers, windows of treated glass.
Father gripped my shoulder. "Make House Stellis proud. Come back alive. In that order."
"I will."
"Your mother's watching from the eastern tower. She finds goodbyes difficult."
I looked up and saw her figure in the window, hand pressed against glass. I raised my hand in acknowledgment.
Frey clasped my arm. "Be careful, brother."
Kira hugged me quickly. "Don't die. Please."
Then Stark arrived, slightly breathless. "Ready to see a floating island?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
We climbed into the carriage. Three others were already inside—a red-haired girl with Fire affinity a thin scholarly boy clutching a book, and a stocky young man with a soldier's bearing.
All three reacted to my entrance—that instinctive pull-back from the Malevolent Aura. But they controlled it, made space, nodded politely.
"I'm Mira Vex," the red-haired girl said, forcing a smile. "Fire affinity. This is Thomas Crane and Marc Thorne."
"Leon De Stellis," I said.
Recognition flashed in their faces. House Stellis was known—feared, respected.
"Everyone ready?" the driver called. "Six hours to Astral Island. One rest stop halfway. Try not to throw up—cleaning costs extra."
The Griffin launched skyward.
The ascent was chaos—stomach-churning angles, ground falling away impossibly fast. Thomas looked green immediately. Marc gripped his seat with white knuckles. Even Mira's confidence faltered.
But I felt exhilarated.
This was magic. Real, impossible, beautiful. A myth-creature carrying us toward an island floating above clouds.
Jake had been confined to a bed. Leon had been trapped in a fate ending with death at seventeen.
But I was neither now. I was something new, soaring toward a future I'd write myself.
We broke through clouds, and above was infinite blue. In the distance—
"Is that it?" Stark pressed against the window. "Astral Island?"
A massive landmass floating in sky, held by forces beyond understanding. Waterfalls poured from its edges into endless nothing. Buildings covered its surface, and at the center—
The Academy itself. White stone spires catching sunlight, walls shimmering with enchantments, grounds sprawling across impossible terrain.
"Astral Island," the driver confirmed.
I was heading to the Academy.
To face an exam designed to kill Leon De Stellis.
To fight Arielle De Luna, the protagonist with destiny on her side.
I touched Blackheart's hilt, feeling it pulse in response.
But I had preparation. Brutal training. Solid mid-rank power. Advanced techniques. Dark abilities. A legendary cursed weapon.
The Griffin angled toward Astral Island, beginning its descent.
Tomorrow, the entrance exam would begin.
Tomorrow, I'd prove I was strong enough to survive.
And if fate disagreed?
Then fate could go fuck itself.
I'd already died once.
This time, I was going to live.
No matter what it took.
The carriage descended toward Astral Island, and my future waited below.