The dawn bell rang through the academy like a distant hammer striking stone, pulling me from a restless half-sleep. My eyes opened slowly, the small basement room still dim, the mana-lamp flickering weakly overhead with a faint ozone tang. Nyx was still in my arms, cradled against my chest—warm, pulsing faintly, the violet and blue veins shimmering in the low light like distant stars caught in obsidian. The crying had quieted to a soft, almost content hum in my mind, like a lullaby only I could hear. It was comforting. Strange. And constant.
The air was cold and stale, the basement chill seeping through the thin blanket, making my breath fog in faint white clouds. I sat up carefully, the cot creaking under me with a low, rusty groan. The egg didn't stir, but I felt its presence—steady, alive, like a second heartbeat pressed against my ribs. No mana. No detectable energy. Just… there. Waiting.
I placed Nyx back in the storage ring with a gentle touch. The pulses continued—soft, rhythmic—but the crying faded to a whisper. Like it knew I had to move.
I dressed in silence—uniform rough against my skin, sleeves pulled down over the bandages that still itched faintly. The scars tugged with every movement, a dull, familiar ache that smelled faintly of old healing salve and sweat. The cold in my mana was still there, but it felt less like a curse. More like… part of me.
I headed out.
The training hall was already alive—the sharp clang of steel on steel, the crackle of mana bursts, the low grunts and shouts of early risers sparring in the main circles. The air smelled of sweat, scorched stone, and ozone. Elara and Lyra were waiting in our small side circle.
Elara nodded as I entered, her short brown hair catching the early light. "On time."
Lyra grinned, stretching with a soft pop of joints. "You look…rested. Glitch."
I nodded. "Yeah—Slept okay."
We started—mana circulation first. Breathe in the cold air, feel the core, let mana flow. Mine stirred — sluggish, icy, but there. Elara's corrections were quiet, precise, her voice cutting through the distant clamor like a blade. Lyra pushed my reflexes with light pulses—green orbs that hissed through the air, stinging when they grazed skin with a sharp, electric bite.
I blocked. Missed less. Blocked again. Sweat beaded on my forehead, salty on my lips. My arms burned, but not from poison — from effort. The cold in my mana eased, flowing smoother with each pass.
At the end, I exhaled, leaning on my knees, chest heaving, the taste of iron in my mouth from breathing hard. "I feel… ready."
Elara lowered her hands, silver threads fading. "You are. But today's sparring will test you differently. Against a person, not monsters. Watch their eyes. Anticipate. Use your affinity—undefined means unpredictable."
Lyra wiped her forehead, sweat glistening on her skin. "And if it's Taren? Hit hard. He talks big, but he's sloppy. Use that new skill when ready."
I smiled faintly, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. "I'll try."
Lyra ruffled my hair—damp, messy. "You'll do more than try. We'll be watching. Don't embarrass us, glitch."
Elara's voice was steady, her hand resting briefly on my shoulder—warm against the chill. "You won't. Family fights together."
I nodded, throat tight. "Family."
They left for their classes—footsteps fading down the corridor. I headed to the training grounds.
The grounds were packed when I arrived. The air smelled of fresh dirt, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of mana. Students crowded the edges—first-years nervous, second and third-years watching from the stands. Draven stood near the front, smirking, arms crossed. Elara and Lyra were in the third-year section, eyes on me.
Professor Thorne stood in the center of the arena, voice booming over the low murmur of the crowd. "Today, first-years fight one after another. No mercy. No holding back. Second and third-years observe. Some will participate if needed. Begin."
He called the first pair.
Celine vs. Mira
Celine stepped into the circle—silver hair catching the sunlight, her presence calm and radiant, like a soft dawn. Mira followed—smaller, book tucked under her arm, eyes bright with determination, a small pouch of vials clinking at her belt.
Thorne raised his hand. "Begin."
Celine moved first—divine light flaring in her palms like liquid sunlight, warm and golden, rolling toward Mira in a gentle, inevitable wave. The light wasn't aggressive; it was inescapable, filling the arena with a soft, radiant heat that made the air shimmer.
Mira dodged sideways, quick and agile, her boots kicking up dust. She flicked a potion vial from her sleeve—it spun through the air, shattering mid-flight with a sharp crack. A thick cloud of purple smoke exploded outward, swallowing Celine in an instant. The smoke smelled acrid, like burning herbs, and the crowd leaned forward, breaths held.
Inside the cloud, Celine didn't panic. She raised both hands—divine light surged outward in a perfect sphere, burning the smoke away in a burst of white-gold radiance that stung the eyes. The arena cleared in a heartbeat, the smell of scorched herbs lingering.
Mira was already moving, another vial in hand—this one bursting into writhing vines that shot from the ground like green whips, wrapping around Celine's ankles with a wet snap.
Celine's light flared again—vines charred and crumbled to ash with a hiss, the smell of burnt greenery sharp in the air. She stepped forward, hand outstretched. A soft pulse of divine mana washed over Mira—gentle, calming, like a warm breeze on a summer day. Mira's movements slowed, eyes glazing slightly, her next vial slipping from her fingers to clatter on the stone.
Mira blinked, shaking her head, voice soft. "That's… not fair."
Celine smiled gently, light fading. "It's not meant to be."
Prof. Thorne raised his hand. "End. Celine wins."
The crowd murmured—awe mixed with respect. Mira bowed. "Good fight."
Celine helped her up, voice soft. "You too. Your potions are clever."
Raiden vs. Silas
Raiden stepped in—golden hair gleaming, regal stance, light mana already shimmering around him like a halo. Silas followed—broad-shouldered, steady, knightly armor of mana forming over his uniform with a low hum, shield raised, sword drawn. The air smelled of ozone and steel.
Prof. Thorne: "Begin."
Raiden moved—light mana coalescing into a blade of pure radiance, sharp and blinding, the air around it crackling with heat. Silas charged—shield of knight mana raised with a metallic clang, sword swinging in a heavy arc that cut the air with a whoosh.
Raiden sidestepped with effortless grace, light blade slicing across Silas' shield. Sparks flew—knight mana crackling against divine light, the impact ringing out like a bell struck hard. The ground trembled slightly, dust rising.
Silas countered—a heavy strike that Raiden parried with ease, the clash sending shockwaves through the arena, cracks spiderwebbing across the stone floor. Raiden's light flared brighter—a blinding pulse that forced Silas to squint, his next swing going wide with a grunt.
Raiden's voice was calm, almost gentle. "You're strong. But light always finds the cracks."
Silas roared—knight mana surging, shield glowing brighter with a deep golden hum, sword igniting with golden fire that smelled of molten metal. He charged again, shield leading like a battering ram.
Raiden met him—light blade clashing with sword. The impact shook the grounds, a thunderclap of light and steel. Silas staggered back, shield dented, sword trembling in his grip, sweat dripping from his brow.
Raiden pressed—light pulse pushing Silas further, the prince's blade now a streak of blinding white that left afterimages in the eyes.
Silas dropped to one knee, shield raised in surrender, chest heaving.
Prof. Thorne: "End. Raiden wins."
Silas bowed deeply, voice rough. "Good fight, Your Highness."
Raiden nodded. "You too. Your shield held longer than most."
Kael vs. Elira
Kael stepped in—dark hair falling over his eyes, cloak edged in shadow, silent as death. Elira followed—noble poise, calm, mana already shimmering around her like a soft aura of silver-white.
Prof. Thorne: "Begin."
Kael moved—shadow threads lashing out like whips, fast and silent, cutting through the air with a low hiss. Elira dodged—noble mana flaring, a shield of light forming in front of her with a soft chime.
Kael's shadows coiled around the shield—testing, probing, seeking weaknesses with a wet, slithering sound.
Elira countered—light blade slashing through shadows, cutting them apart like paper with sharp snaps.
Kael's voice was low, almost amused. "Impressive. But shadows consume light."
Elira's shield shattered—shadows wrapping her arms, tightening like chains with a cold, constricting grip.
She twisted free, light flaring brighter, a pulse of radiance pushing shadows back with a searing hiss.
Kael pressed—shadows thickening, forming claws that raked the air with a low growl.
Elira's light dimmed under the pressure. Kael's shadows tightened, the air growing colder.
Prof. Thorne: "End. Kael wins."
Elira bowed, breathing hard. "Well fought."
Kael nodded once. "You too."
Riven vs. Lena
Riven stepped in—lanky, nervous, but determined. Lena followed—small, fierce, eyes burning with resolve.
Prof. Thorne: "Begin."
Riven attacked first—basic mana strike, a burst of raw energy that crackled through the air. Lena dodged, countering with a quick kick to his side that landed with a meaty thud.
Riven stumbled, pain flashing across his face. Lena pressed—mana-infused punches, fast and precise, each one whistling through the air.
Riven blocked—barely. His mana flared—weak, but stubborn. He countered with a sweeping kick, forcing Lena back with a grunt.
They circled. Lena: "You're tough, Riven."
Riven: "You too. Let's end this."
They clashed—mana sparks flying, fists and feet blurring, the sound of impacts echoing across the grounds.
Riven landed a solid hit to Lena's shoulder—she staggered, but fired back—a mana-charged palm strike to his chest that sent him flying back, hitting the ground hard with a thud.
Prof. Thorne: "End. Riven wins."
Lena bowed, breathing hard. "Good fight."
Riven helped her up, grinning weakly. "You too."
The crowd cheered—F-Class pride.
Prof. Thorne looked at me. "Last fight. Eryndor Vale vs. Taren Voss."
The grounds fell quiet.
A hush rippled through the crowd—first-years tense, second and third-years leaning forward, the air thick with anticipation and the faint smell of scorched earth from earlier fights. Taren stepped into the circle first—smirking, confident, cracking his knuckles with a sharp pop that echoed across the stone. His eyes locked on me, full of mockery, like he'd already won.
I stood at the edge of the arena, heart hammering against my ribs. The crowd's murmurs faded to a low buzz in my ears. The sun beat down, hot on my skin, sweat already prickling at my temples. Nyx's pulse in my ring was steady—warm, reassuring—but the book's silence felt heavy, like it was waiting too.
Before I stepped forward, I looked back.
Elara and Lyra were in the third-year stands, standing close together. Elara's gaze was steady, unwavering—her short brown hair catching the light, silver wards faintly shimmering around her fingers as if ready to leap to my defense. Lyra leaned forward, arms crossed, but her crooked grin was there—fierce, proud.
I met Elara's eyes.
She stepped to the railing, leaning just enough to make it clear this was for me alone. Her voice carried low—a whisper that cut through the hush, meant only for my ears, though the nearest stands might have caught fragments.
"Eryndor."
She held my gaze, unflinching.
"You've survived watchers. Poison. The book's lies. You've trained harder than anyone here. You've grown stronger than you know. Taren talks. He sneers. But he's never faced what you have. He doesn't know what you're capable of."
She leaned forward slightly, voice dropping even lower—intimate, fierce.
"You are not just F-Class. You are not just an extra. You are ours. And you are enough. Right now. Exactly as you are."
She paused, letting the words sink in, her eyes never leaving mine.
"Fight like you belong. Because you do."
Lyra leaned in beside her, lips moving in a silent, exaggerated mouthed encouragement, her grin wide and defiant:
Kick his ass, glitch.
No words carried—just the shape of her lips and the fierce light in her eyes.
The moment was theirs—ours. No ripple of laughter from the stands. No murmurs. No public spectacle. Just a quiet, private anchor before the storm.
I felt it—warmth spreading through my chest, chasing away the cold knot of nerves. Not just Nyx's pulse. Not just the book's silence. Them. My family.
I turned back to the circle.
Taren's smirk returned, sharper. "Cute. Your cheerleaders won't save you."
I stepped forward.