The morning breeze was calm. unnaturally calm, like the world itself held its breath for his departure.
Nazeku stood in the middle of the worn-out training yard, surrounded by cracks and faded scorch marks that told the story of every strike, every lesson, every drop of sweat spilled under the sun.
He looked around one last time, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the gauntlet strapped to his right arm, the one he had used to climb from weakness to power.
His lips curved into a faint smirk.
In my previous life… I didn't even touch Bronze 2 until sixteen," he thought.
"Now? Hah. This time will be different."
The sound of footsteps echoed from behind, heavy, steady, confident.
Nazeku didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"Hey, kid! Catch!" came Varric's rough voice.
Nazeku turned just in time to snatch something wrapped in a black cloth flying toward him. The weight was familiar, dense, balanced.
He pulled the cloth away and blinked in quiet appreciation.
A pair of silver-gray gauntlets gleamed beneath the morning light, elegant but forged for war. The lines etched along the sides pulsed faintly with aura-reactive veins, beautiful craftsmanship.
Varric crossed his arms, watching with that half-grin of pride and irritation.
"That's your new toy," he said. "Grade 2 Silver Gauntlet. Shouldn't bust as easily as the last onces, unless, of course, you decide to punch through another wall."
Nazeku smiled faintly, fastening the gauntlet onto his arm. The fit was perfect, almost too perfect.
"Guess that means you'll miss fixing my broken ones," Nazeku replied, voice light with mischief.
Varric snorted, scratching the stubble on his chin.
"Tch. You're lucky I didn't make you buy it yourself. Do you have any idea how much silver alloy costs these days?"
Nazeku only shrugged. The humor between them was easy now, the kind built from countless battles and bruises shared under the same sky.
But behind that hardened face, Varric's thoughts were far from casual.
This kid… just a few months ago, he was at the mid stage of Bronze 3, barely holding his aura together. Now he's standing at the bottleneck of Bronze 1.
At this rate… he'll surpass every student I've ever seen, and soon enough even me.
A proud smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
He'd trained prodigies before, nobles, and even royal guards, but none with this level of raw focus, precision, and silence. Nazeku didn't just train; he consumed every lesson.
Varric sighed and reached into his coat, pulling out a small pouch.
He tossed it toward Nazeku, who caught it midair. The faint jingle of coins followed.
"Consider that your travel fund," Varric said. "Don't waste it on fancy meals or whatever stupid things kids do these days. Save it for when you actually need it."
Nazeku blinked, genuinely surprised. "Didn't expect you to be so generous, old man."
"Generous, my ass. Think of it as an investment. You better not die before I see some returns," Varric replied, tone sharp but his eyes softening for a heartbeat.
Nazeku chuckled. "Fair enough."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was filled with months worth of meaning, of mornings spent training until dawn, of pain turned into strength, and of lessons forged through countless mistakes.
Then Varric broke the stillness.
"Kid," he said quietly, his gaze steady. "Listen carefully. Power's a fine thing, but it's a double-edged sword. You wield it too carelessly, and it'll cut deeper than you can handle."
He stepped closer, his aura flaring slightly, carrying weight and age in its hum.
"I've seen many warriors rise, and just as many fall. Remember this: the moment you start fighting for pride, you've already lost."
Nazeku met his gaze, expression unreadable.
Varric continued, voice lower now, almost solemn.
"There'll come a day when you'll hit a wall, a real one. Stronger than stone, higher than fear. When that happens, don't try to smash through it like a fool. Find a way over it. Or around it. Because the ones who survive are those who think before they strike."
He paused. "Understand?"
Nazeku's eyes softened, just slightly. "I understand."
A rare smile crossed Varric's face.
"Good. Then there's nothing left for me to teach you."
The two stood in silence for a long while, the wind carrying the scent of dust and steel.
Finally, Nazeku slung his small pack over his shoulder, checking the straps of his new gauntlet one last time.
"Well, this is it," he said, voice low. "Guess I'll be on my way."
Varric gave a curt nod. "Don't get yourself into much trouble. And don't let those academy brats push you around. Most especially those nobles, their pride's the only thing heavier than their purses."
Nazeku grinned. "I'll keep that in mind."
As he turned toward the waiting carriage by the roadside, Varric called out one last time.
"Hey, Nazeku!"
Nazeku looked back, one brow raised.
Varric's expression hardened, but there was warmth hidden behind the stern lines of his face.
"Don't just thrive in the academy, boy. Make them remember your name."
Nazeku's lips curled into that familiar, dangerous smirk.
"Oh, they'll remember," he said, voice dipping low. "I'll make sure they all do."
He climbed into the carriage. The driver flicked the reins, and the horses began their steady trot down the winding road. The air outside shimmered with dawn's first light.
Inside, Nazeku leaned back against the seat, eyes half-closed.
His thoughts drifted to his past life, a life of failure, frustration, and regretful years.
"Nineteen… that's how old I was when I barely managed to enter the academy back then," he thought.
"Bronze 1, desperate, unprepared. But this time…"
He looked down at his new gauntlet. The metal reflected his crimson eyes faintly, a glimmer of power buried deep within.
The carriage rocked gently as it moved. Time blurred.
Then, after what felt like hours, it stopped.
Nazeku opened the door and stepped down onto solid stone.
Before him stretched the colossal gates of Iron Academy, towering walls of black marble, engraved with the crest of the Iron Kingdom. The air buzzed faintly with aura pressure, as if the academy itself was alive.
He took a slow, deliberate breath.
A smirk, sharp and sinister, crept across his lips.
"The Academy," he murmured, his voice low and deliberate.
"Oh… this time, things won't go the same way."
The wind carried his words as he walked through the colossal gates of the Iron Academy.
And for a fleeting second, far beyond mortal perception, something ancient stirred, a whisper deep in his soul, the faint growl of a dragon's amusement.