Dawn arrived without light. The sky remained a bruised purple, heavy with clouds that refused to break. The cold in the dormitory was absolute, seeping through the stone walls and settling into the marrow of the bones.
Julian woke him. He didn't speak, just shook Cassian's shoulder. When Cassian opened his eyes, Julian stepped back quickly, as if expecting a strike.
"It's time," Julian said.
Cassian sat up. His left arm felt heavy, the gray skin cool to the touch. He flexed the fingers. They moved smoothly now, silent and precise. But when he touched the cold iron bedframe, he felt nothing. No chill. No texture. Just data confirming contact.
He stood up. He didn't stretch. Stretching implied warmth. He walked to the door.
"Where are you going?" Julian asked. He was sitting on his own bed, wrapped in a blanket. "The training wards are closed until sunrise."
"I'm not going to the wards."
Cassian left the room. The corridors were empty, lit by flickering mana-lamps that buzzed like dying insects. He descended the stairs, down into the foundations of the academy. The lower levels were unused storage, filled with broken training dummies and rusted armor stands. The air smelled of dust and old iron.
He found a clear space between two stacks of crates. He took off his boots. He stood barefoot on the stone floor.
The adaptation from yesterday had cost him sensation in his arm. Today, he needed speed. The dungeon traps were mechanical; pressure plates, falling blades, swinging pendulums. To survive them, his legs needed to react faster than nerve signals could travel.
He needed to densify the bone.
He picked up a iron bar from a discarded rack. It weighed twenty pounds. He held it in his right hand. He looked at his left shin.
He swung the bar.
He didn't hold back. He struck his own leg with full force.
The sound was a sickening *crack*. Not the bar breaking. The bone.
Cassian fell to one knee. Breath left his lungs in a sharp hiss. The pain was white and blinding, shooting up his leg. He waited. He waited for the nausea, the shock.
Then came the heat.
It started deep in the marrow. A burning sensation, like molten lead being poured into the hollow of the tibia. The swelling subsided almost instantly. The skin over the shin darkened, turning a deep, bruised purple before hardening.
Cassian stood up. He put weight on the leg. It held. It felt heavier, denser. He tapped the shin with the iron bar. It sounded like striking stone.
He swung again. Right leg.
*Crack.*
He didn't fall this time. He absorbed the impact. The heat flared, the bone knit, the density increased.
He repeated the process ten times. Five strikes per leg. By the tenth strike, his legs felt like pillars of concrete. He could feel the weight of them, the lack of flexibility. He had gained durability, but he had lost agility. He couldn't run gracefully anymore. He could only charge.
He pulled his trousers down over the legs. He put his boots on. He walked out of the storage room.
The upper corridors were beginning to fill with students heading to breakfast. They parted when they saw him. Not out of respect. Out of instinct.
Cassian walked with a heavy, rhythmic gait. *Thud. Thud. Thud.* His steps sounded louder than everyone else's. He didn't look at them. He kept his eyes forward.
He heard the whispers.
"...heard Verra wanted to amputate..."
"...looks like he's walking fine..."
"...something wrong with his eyes..."
Cassian didn't blink enough. He knew that. The adaptation drained water from his body. His eyes were dry, gritty. He ignored them.
He entered the mess hall. The noise dropped slightly as he crossed the threshold. He took a tray. Bread, dried meat, water. He sat at an empty table in the corner.
He ate mechanically. The food tasted like ash. His sense of taste was fading too. He noted it in his mind. *Sensory degradation. Cumulative.*
He was halfway through the bread when a shadow fell over his table.
Cassian didn't look up. He chewed. Swallowed.
"Vane."
The voice was familiar. Kaelen Thorne. A second-year noble. In the original script, Thorne was a mid-level bully who eventually joined the Protagonist's entourage as a comic relief lackey. He was currently trying to establish dominance before the rankings began.
Cassian took a sip of water. He looked up.
Thorne stood with two others behind him. They were smiling. They expected fear. They expected the broken noble from the duel.
"I heard you're hiding something," Thorne said. He leaned on the table. "Verra filed a report. Non-magical trauma. But I saw the ward flicker. You're using something banned."
Cassian placed the cup down. The ceramic clicked against the wood.
"Move," Cassian said.
Thorne laughed. It was a nervous sound. He hadn't expected resistance. "Or what? You'll headbutt me? You can't even hold a sword properly."
Thorne reached out to grab Cassian's shoulder.
Cassian didn't stand. He didn't block. He simply shifted his weight.
Thorne's hand landed on the shoulder. He pushed.
Cassian didn't move. His body was too dense. The force dissipating into the floor through his legs. Thorne pushed harder. He frowned. He expected Cassian to buckle.
"Get up," Thorne said. His voice was tighter now.
Cassian stood up. He towered over Thorne. Not because he was taller, but because his presence was heavier. The air around him felt pressurized.
"I said move," Cassian repeated.
Thorne stepped back. He looked at his hand. He was rubbing his palm. It was red. Bruised. As if he had pushed against a iron wall.
"You're cheating," Thorne hissed. "I'm telling the instructors."
"Tell them," Cassian said.
He walked past them. His shoulder brushed against Thorne's. The impact sent Thorne stumbling sideways into a bench. He didn't mean to hit him hard. He just couldn't control the force anymore. His body was too heavy.
Cassian left the mess hall. He didn't look back to see the confusion on their faces.
He had a destination. The library.
He needed to find the records for the Northern Dungeon. Specifically, the maintenance logs. In the book, the Protagonist found a hidden entrance because a wall had collapsed during a storm. Cassian needed to know when that storm was scheduled.
The library was vast, filled with the smell of old paper and dust. The librarian, an ancient elf named Sylas, watched him from the high desk. His eyes followed Cassian's movement.
Cassian walked to the archives section. He pulled out the logs for the last ten years. He spread them on a table.
He scanned the dates. *Storm season. Mid-winter. Dungeon instability.*
He found the entry. *Day 29. Structural failure in Sector 4.*
The trial was on Day 30.
Cassian traced the line on the paper. His finger left a smudge of gray dust on the page. He looked at his fingertip. The skin was flaking. Tiny particles of the adapted flesh were shedding.
He was decaying.
Every adaptation burned through his biological mass. He was converting himself into something else. Something stronger. Something less human.
He had twenty-six days until the trial.
He closed the book. He stood up.
Sylas was standing behind him. The elf hadn't made a sound.
"You are damaging the books," Sylas said. His voice was soft, like wind through leaves.
Cassian looked at the page. The gray smudge. "I'll pay for it."
"It is not the cost," Sylas said. He stepped closer. His eyes narrowed. He was looking at Cassian's hand. "It is the residue. You are shedding mana-saturated tissue. That is not natural."
Cassian clenched his hand into a fist. The gray dust fell to the floor.
"I said I'll pay," Cassian repeated.
Sylas didn't move. He didn't blink. "The flesh remembers, boy. But does it remember who you were?"
Cassian stared at the elf. The question hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
Cassian turned away. He walked to the exit.
"Day 29," Cassian said without looking back. "The storm comes on Day 29."
He left the library. The cold air hit him again. He looked at his hand. The flaking had stopped. The skin was smooth again. Hard.
He walked toward the training wards. He needed to test the density of his legs against a target. He needed to know how much force he could exert before his bones shattered from the recoil.
He was a weapon being forged in reverse. Instead of heating and hammering steel, he was breaking and rebuilding flesh.
He reached the wards. They were empty. He found a training dummy. Wood and straw.
He kicked it.
He didn't hold back. He put the full weight of his densified leg into the strike.
The dummy didn't break. It exploded. Wood splinters flew like shrapnel. The straw stuffing scattered across the snow.
Cassian stood amidst the debris. His leg didn't hurt. No pain. No feedback. Just the visual confirmation of destruction.
He looked at the scattered straw. It looked like guts.
He turned and walked away. He had twenty-six days. He needed to break everything else before then.