The training room was sealed. No windows. No vents. The walls were lined with runic stone, designed to contain magical fallout. Instructor Kael stood behind a barrier of translucent blue mana. He held a staff topped with a crimson crystal.
"Last chance to stop," Kael said. His voice was muffled by the barrier. "This isn't adaptation. This is incineration."
Cassian stood in the center of the room. He wore only trousers. His torso was a map of gray scars. The skin over his ribs looked like plated armor. The veins beneath pulsed with a slow, violet rhythm.
"Begin," Cassian said. His voice was devoid of timbre. It was a flat vibration.
Kael hesitated. He looked at the ledger in his hand. Cassian's name was at the top. *Asset Status: Critical.*
Kael raised the staff. The crystal glowed. Heat waves shimmered in the air. The temperature in the room spiked from twenty degrees to two hundred in seconds.
Cassian didn't sweat. His pores had sealed weeks ago. He stood still. He let the heat wash over him.
His skin began to blister. The gray tissue bubbled, cracked, and peeled. The smell of cooking meat filled the room. It was his own flesh.
Kael widened the spell. Fire erupted from the crystal. A jet of white flame engulfed Cassian.
Cassian didn't move. He didn't shield his face. He let the fire burn.
Inside the inferno, his nervous system fired wildly. *Damage detected. Thermal threat. Structural integrity compromised.*
The body responded. It didn't heal the burn. It replaced the burned tissue. The blisters hardening into obsidian scales. The flesh beneath turning dense, carbon-rich, fireproof.
It took ten minutes. The fire stopped.
Cassian stood in the ash. His skin was black now. Not burned. *Forged.* It shimmered with a dull, metallic sheen. He looked like a statue pulled from a kiln.
He took a breath. The air inside his lungs was hot. It didn't scorch. The lining of his throat had adapted to the temperature.
Kael lowered the barrier. He stepped into the room. He kept his distance. The heat radiating from Cassian was intense.
"Can you move?" Kael asked.
Cassian lifted his arm. The joints clicked. The new skin was less flexible. He had gained immunity to fire, but lost range of motion. His elbow locked at a specific angle. He would have to fight around it.
"Yes," Cassian said.
"Your heart rate?"
"Forty beats per minute."
Kael nodded. He made a note in the ledger. "You're becoming a construct, Vane. There's a line between weapon and monster. You're crossing it."
"Did I survive?" Cassian asked.
"Yes."
"Then the cost is acceptable."
Cassian walked past Kael. He didn't wait for permission to leave. He needed water. He needed to cool down. The internal heat was lingering, cooking his organs from the inside. He needed to adapt his blood next. Cool it. Thicken it.
He walked through the academy corridors. Students scattered. They didn't just avoid him; they pressed themselves against the walls. They crossed themselves. Some whispered prayers.
He was no longer a student. He was a walking omen.
He reached the dormitory. Julian was packing a bag. He stopped when Cassian entered. He looked at the black skin. The lack of eyes whites. The way Cassian moved, stiff and mechanical.
"You're burning," Julian said. He didn't mean metaphorically. Heat waves rose off Cassian's shoulders.
"Cooling," Cassian said. He went to the basin. He poured water over his head. It steamed on contact.
"The tournament list is posted," Julian said. He didn't look at Cassian. He looked at the floor. "I saw it on the way back."
Cassian dried his face. The towel smoked slightly. "Who?"
"First round. You versus Thorne."
Cassian paused. Thorne. The boy who had tried to bully him in the mess hall. The boy who had felt the hardness of his shoulder.
"Kael arranged it," Cassian said.
"Probably," Julian said. "To test you. Publicly."
Cassian turned to the mirror. He looked at his reflection. The black skin made him look like a shadow given form. His eyes were completely dark now. No pupil. No iris. Just void.
"Will you kill him?" Julian asked. The question was quiet. Desperate.
Cassian thought about it. He analyzed the variables. Thorne was weak. Unadapted. If Cassian struck with full force, Thorne's bones would shatter. His organs would rupture. Death was a high probability.
"If he stands in the way," Cassian said.
"He's a person, Cassian. Not a dummy."
Cassian turned from the mirror. He walked to his bed. He sat down. The mattress creaked under his density.
"People are obstacles," Cassian said. "Some are larger. Some are smaller. Thorne is small."
Julian stood up. He grabbed his bag. "I'm sleeping in the library tonight."
"Smart," Cassian said.
Julian left. He didn't say goodbye. The door clicked shut.
Cassian was alone. He lay back on the bed. He couldn't feel the mattress. He couldn't feel the heat of his own body. He was isolated inside his own skin.
He closed his eyes. He reviewed the tournament bracket in his mind.
*Round 1: Thorne.*
*Round 2: Unknown.*
*Round 3: Elian.*
The path was clear. Kael was pushing him toward the Hero. The weapon toward the target.
Cassian raised his hand. He flexed the black fingers. They moved with a sound like grinding stones.
He needed to prepare for Thorne. Not to win. To send a message. If he killed Thorne quietly, it was murder. If he killed him publicly, it was a statement.
But Kael wanted him to win. The academy wanted blood.
Cassian sat up. He reached under the bed. He pulled out a box. Inside was the Cipher Blade. He hadn't given it to Kael. He had handed over a duplicate he'd forged in the alchemy wing. Kael hadn't noticed. The man was arrogant. He assumed Cassian was obedient.
Cassian drew the blade. The dull iron caught the light. It didn't shine. It absorbed the light.
He ran his thumb along the edge. The skin didn't cut. It was too hard.
He would use it on Thorne. Not to kill. To break. To show the academy that their magic meant nothing against flesh that had accepted the fire.
He stood up. He walked to the window. The moon was full. It cast a silver light over the academy.
Cassian held the sword up to the moon. He looked at his reflection in the blade. The black skin. The void eyes.
He didn't recognize the face.
He remembered his mother's face. He remembered the office in 2024. He remembered the smell of coffee.
The memories were fading. Like files being deleted to make space for new data. The adaptation was overwriting his mind. The neurons were hardening along with the skin.
He sheathed the sword. He tucked it into his belt.
*Loss recorded,* he thought. *Memory capacity reduced. Combat efficiency increased.*
The ledger balanced.
He lay back down. He didn't sleep. He entered suspension. His heart beat once every twenty seconds. *Thump... ... ... Thump...*
He was a clock winding down. Ticking toward the tournament. Ticking toward the Hero.
He would win. He would break the script.
And when it was over, he would look in the mirror again. He wondered if there would be anything left looking back.
The night passed. The sun rose. The heat in his body dissipated. He was cool now. Cold.
He stood up. He dressed in heavy robes to hide the black skin. He pulled the hood up.
He walked to the door. He opened it.
The tournament awaited.
The debt was due.