The Academy’s corridors buzzed like a disturbed hive.

  Voices, laughter, echoing footsteps, and the clatter of metal merged into a living, pulsing cacophony. Students bustled about, chatting—some arguing over lessons, others about the upcoming duels.

  Today held a special kind of energy. Tension hung in the air—the day of sparring matches was always both a celebration and a trial.

  Kael walked calmly down the hall, his gaze sliding over the faces of the students. Everywhere he looked, he saw impatience, excitement, and youthful fire.

  Two boys ran past, talking animatedly:

  “When’s your sparring match?”

  “Third period,” the second one replied with a grin. “Can’t wait to get my revenge on Melana. She really handed me my ass last time!”

  Kael smiled faintly as he overheard them.

  “I can’t wait for my first sparring match either—the first where I can use mana…” he thought.

  He turned a corner where the stream of students thinned, heading toward the entrance to the practice halls, where his lesson would soon begin.

  “My classmates are still stronger,” Kael mused as he walked. “My mana reserves and control are far from impressive. But perhaps the Path of Silent Pillar can make up for that.”

  He clenched his fist, feeling a faint stir of mana beneath his skin, and a sly grin crept across his face.

  Taking hold of the door handle, Kael pushed it open.

  Before him lay a spacious hall with a high ceiling, lit by the glow of magical crystals. The air buzzed with murmurs and shuffling steps—students were already gathering in groups, stretching or discussing their upcoming bouts.

  By the far wall stood a tall man with short silver hair and a heavy scar running across his face—Instructor Ardran.

  The moment Kael entered, several heads turned toward him. Conversations quieted, and dozens of eyes fixed on him, if only for a heartbeat.

  In recent weeks, he had appeared only for practical lessons, and rumors had already spread through the Academy—that “talentless Kael” had somehow, miraculously, awakened his mana.

  In the far corner, Draxion leaned against the wall, watching from beneath lowered brows, his expression dark.

  “I don’t know what happened to him…” he muttered under his breath. “But he’s still trash.”

  He still hadn’t come to terms with being forced to hand over the Concentration Pills to Kael, and every mention of the former errand boy’s name burned his pride.

  Kael caught his gaze and smirked faintly before walking on, paying it no mind. Almost immediately, Lili approached, joined by the twins, Bronan and Dronan.

  “So, we finally get to see you in action today?” Bronan said with a grin.

  To which Dronan added almost instantly, winking:

  “Maybe pick Lili as your sparring partner? She’s not much of a fighter—less chance of embarrassing yourself.”

  “We’ll see,” Kael replied calmly, unfazed by their jabs.

  In truth, over the past few weeks, he had grown a bit closer to that trio. They didn’t talk often, since Kael himself rarely attended the Academy.

  Instructor Ardran, observing the scene, narrowed his eyes slightly.

  “Even if his mana has awakened, such changes shouldn’t be possible in so little time…” he thought, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “Has someone managed to recruit him?”

  He squinted further, adding to himself:

  “According to my sources, it can’t be the Three Families or the Forsaken Brotherhood… Then who?”

  But before he could sink deeper into thought, the resonant sound of a gong rolled through the hall.

  Ardran straightened at once, cleared his throat, and barked:

  “Class begins!” His voice cut through the noise like a blade. “As you all know, today is our monthly sparring day.”

  He stepped forward into the center of the hall and swept his heavy gaze across the students.

  “Today, we’ll see how much stronger your bodies have grown… and how far your mana control has come.”

  For a few seconds, silence hung over the hall—only the sound of breathing and the faint rustle of fabric remained. It seemed everyone wanted to prove themselves, but no one dared to step forward first.

  “Who’s first?” Ardran demanded.

  Hardly had the question left his lips when two figures sprang forward almost at once. One was a wiry, broad-shouldered blond with cropped hair and an unnecessarily loud voice; the other, a tall, lean boy with wild violet hair sticking out in every direction.

  “Allow us, Instructor!” the blond shouted eagerly. “We already agreed! Right, Goro?”

  The violet-haired boy crossed his arms over his chest, snorted, and smirked.

  “Quit talking, Valar. Just don’t start crying again when you end up face-down on the floor.”

  Laughter rippled through the hall—most of the students already knew those two never missed a chance to put on a show.

  Ardran watched them closely, a faint spark of approval glinting in his eyes. He always welcomed youthful fire—so long as it remained under control.

  “Very well,” he said, his voice rising, firm and commanding. “Remember: serious injuries are forbidden.”

  He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the hall—steel glinting in his eyes.

  “And if your opponent yields—you stop immediately.”

  Both boys nodded, stepping simultaneously into the center of the platform. Ardran gave a short grunt and lifted his hand.

  “You may begin.”

  The moment those words left his mouth, Valar lunged forward.

  The air around him shivered—a wave of mana rippled across his body, cloaking him in a faint yellow haze. Streams of mana gathered at his arms and shoulders, forming translucent, trembling shields.

  He moved fast and aggressively, closing the distance step by step. His intent was clear—close the distance, overwhelm his foe, and give him no time to focus.

  Goro, on the other hand, acted differently. He leapt back smoothly, spreading his arms to the sides. His palms glowed with soft blue light, and in the next instant short arcs flared between his fingers—concentrated mana humming like taut strings.

  Zuv! Zuv!

  Thin rays of light sliced through the air, leaving faint traces behind them.

  But Valar didn’t stop. It was as if he’d been waiting for that very moment—he burst forward, sliding low across the floor. Spotting the blue streaks, he snapped his mana shields up to block.

  Pah! Pah! Pah! The blond’s shields shattered, but in the next heartbeat he was already within striking distance.

  With a low sweep, he drove a powerful kick upward, aiming for the gut.

  Goro reacted in time, leaping back—but not completely. The yellow flash of mana from Valar’s foot grazed his side. The fabric at his waist flared and split, as if cut by a blade.

  Yet Goro kept his balance. Still midair, he twisted, arcing his body before thrusting his palm forward. Blue energy gathered in it once more.

  “Take this!” he shouted, clenching his hand.

  The strike landed. Bam!

  The blue burst of mana struck Valar square in the chest, hurling him back several steps. His boots skidded across the floor, but he managed to keep his footing, teeth gritted from the impact. The hastily formed shield over his chest shattered, scattering into motes of light, and his skin still tingled from the blow.

  He blinked, exhaled, glanced at Goro, and let out a hoarse chuckle.

  “Not bad… But now it’s my turn!”

  However, before he could surge forward, Ardran’s deep voice cut through the air.

  “That’s enough.”

  He stepped closer, and even without raising his tone, his words silenced the noise at once.

  “Good exchange,” he said evenly, his gaze shifting between them. “I see you’ve both learned to draw on the unique traits of your mana.”

  Valar, unable to contain his excitement, took a step forward.

  “Instructor! That’s not all!”

  But Ardran lifted a hand, halting any protest. His silver eyes glinted.

  “I’ve already assessed your progress. And your strength.” He paused briefly. “You’re evenly matched—no point dragging this out.”

  He clapped his hands sharply.

  “Draw.”

  Valar frowned, and Goro simply exhaled—but both bowed silently and stepped aside. Back among the students, they exchanged a quick glance—then burst out laughing, diving straight into an animated replay of the fight.

  Clearly, there was no animosity between them—only the thrill of competition and the camaraderie forged through dozens of such matches.

  Kael, standing among the students, had watched the duel from start to finish. When Valar and Goro stepped back, he narrowed his eyes slightly and noted to himself:

  “Valar’s mana suits defense… dense, stable, like earth. He’ll make an excellent defender or close-range mage.”

  His gaze slid to Goro.

  “And Goro’s mana—fluid, agile. He channels the flow well and shapes it with precision. That type of mana is perfect for ranged combat. He’ll build his style around distance. Once those two bond with their spirits, their strengths will show even more clearly.”

  A faint, ironic smile tugged at Kael’s lips. He looked down at his hand—a pale-gray shimmer of mana flickered between his fingers like mist, then faded away.

  “A pity my mana is completely inert… no density, no aggression, no stability,” he thought, clenching his fist.

  “But on the other hand… that means I’ll be able to form a contract with any spirit.”

  He exhaled thoughtfully, watching as two girls stepped onto the arena—both of them, by their movements, clearly ranged specialists.

  “They’re weaker than the previous ones…” Kael observed calmly.

  He was about to keep watching when a familiar mocking voice called out from the side.

  “Same as always—gonna give up? Or did you finally grow a spine?”

  Kael slowly turned his head.

  Draxion was approaching, a crooked smirk on his lips, his eyes burning with open hatred.

  Kael narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest hint of a cold smile.

  “And what business is it of yours?” he tossed back with lazy contempt.

  In Kael’s mind, Draxion was just a spoiled brat with a rotten heart. But his body… the body reacted differently. Something hot and heavy began to rise in his chest, as if his very blood remembered past humiliations. His fingers clenched involuntarily, muscles tensing beneath the skin.

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  “My young body craves revenge…” he noted coldly. “Should I give in to it?”

  Draxion didn’t notice the dangerous glint that flashed across Kael’s amber eyes. He went on, as always, enjoying the attention.

  “I’d like to see for myself,” he sneered, “just how much my favorite trash has really changed, like everyone’s been saying.”

  Kael’s heart jumped. One powerful strike. The Mana Core answered instantly, as if stirred by his wrath. A wave of cold rushed through him, from his fingertips to the nape of his neck, and his breathing quickened.

  For a brief moment the thirst for revenge was replaced by something deeper—a primal urge. Not merely a desire to retaliate, but a desire to kill Draxion.

  He froze, tensing inwardly, and instantly suppressed that feeling.

  “What am I even thinking…” He cut himself off, taking a slow breath.

  But the thought didn’t fade. It changed—becoming sharper, colder, and more calculating.

  “Killing him isn’t worth it… but maybe I should still give my body what it wants. If I crush that pampered brat into the dirt, it might finally calm down. Maybe that’s the step I’ve been waiting for—the moment when my soul from the future and this body from the past finally align.”

  He lifted his gaze to Draxion, and at that moment a calculating gleam flashed in his eyes.

  “Draxion’s strong. I’m not sure I can win… but it’s a good chance to test my Path of Silent Pillar,” Kael thought, deliberately letting the body’s desire seep into his mind.

  Just then, Instructor Ardran announced the result of the match.

  “Victory goes to Grill,” he said curtly, clapping his hands. “Who’s next?”

  The hall buzzed with anticipation—several pairs seemed eager to step forward.

  But Kael stepped forward first. He smiled calmly and, without hesitation, walked onto the floor. His voice was steady, almost emotionless.

  “Instructor… we’ll take this one.”

  He cast Draxion a cold, sidelong glance. The students around them froze, staring in disbelief. Some had seen Draxion taunting Kael earlier, but none had imagined he’d actually accept a sparring challenge.

  Draxion lit up with pleasure, laughing loudly.

  “And here I thought you’d chicken out! Guess you’re finally crawling out of the gutter!”

  His lackeys immediately burst out laughing, and murmurs rippled through the crowd. Many of the students looked uneasy—one of the strongest in the class against a boy who, until recently, couldn’t even control mana. The fight was clearly unfair.

  Even Instructor Ardran frowned, his usually cold gaze growing heavier.

  “Are you certain, Kael?” he asked, emphasizing each word. “This doesn’t look like a fair match.”

  The whispers in the hall died instantly.

  Kael didn’t avert his gaze. His voice sounded just as calm as before, but now carried a faint, hard-to-place undertone.

  “Draxion never stops preying on the weak. If people like him aren’t kept in check, Lasthold will rot into a gutter.”

  For a heartbeat, silence hung—then the hall erupted in laughter. Students exchanged looks and laughs; someone even whistled—his words had sounded like a joke.

  But Ardran didn’t laugh. His brow twitched, his gaze sharpening. It was as if he’d heard in Kael’s tone not youthful defiance, but something deeper—something the others weren’t yet able to grasp.

  Draxion only laughed louder, throwing his head back.

  “Ha! I’ve been waiting for this day,” he said with relish, striding into the center of the arena. “It’s been too long since I used you for a warm-up, Kael.”

  He turned toward his opponent, straightening his shoulders under the approving shouts of his lackeys.

  Kael followed, unhurried. His steps were steady, his breathing measured. Stopping opposite Draxion, he turned his torso slightly and set his right foot back. His knees bent slightly; his hands lifted, palms open and facing outward.

  No fists, no aggression—just a calm, fluid stance, as if he had no intention of attacking at all.

  Draxion burst out laughing.

  “What are you doing, idiot? I can’t even see your mana!” His voice rang loud and mocking, and the hall buzzed again.

  But from the edge of the arena, Ardran narrowed his eyes.

  “Good stance…” he muttered. “But I’ve never seen anyone use one like that. What’s this boy planning?”

  Mana flared to life around Draxion’s body.

  A violet haze wrapped around him, flashing with tiny sparks, as if small bolts of lightning were crawling across his skin. The air around him began to crackle; his hair lifted slightly in the static breeze.

  He smirked, tightening his fists, and declared proudly:

  “I used to beat you bare-handed, out of pity. But today you’ll taste the mana of the Vengeful Thunder Family!”

  Watching it all, Ardran’s expression hardened—curiosity flickering in his eyes.

  “Since neither of you objects…” Ardran said, his voice ringing like steel. “Begin!”

  Draxion moved the instant Ardran spoke—a blur of motion, like a bolt of lightning. The air howled, and a sharp whistle rose from his feet. In the blink of an eye, his figure blurred into a violet streak.

  “Damn! He’s fast!” flashed through Kael’s mind.

  He barely managed to twist his torso and bring up his palm—right foot sliding back, weight sinking into his heel, shoulder dropping.

  A split second later, Draxion’s fist slammed into his guard.

  Bam! The air shuddered with the impact, a sharp echo rippling through the hall.

  Where Kael’s palm met Draxion’s fist, a burst of force blasted outward—a hiss escaping beneath Kael’s feet as he was driven back several steps. He barely kept his balance, channeling strength into his toes.

  For an instant, Draxion’s face showed triumph—but it quickly shifted into confusion.

  The hall fell utterly silent.

  “He… blocked it?” someone breathed.

  “Draxion’s that fast—how did Kael do that?” came another voice.

  Kael didn’t answer. He gave his hand a small shake; residual energy tingled under his skin—a faint prickling, as if something alive had crawled into his fingers.

  “His mana paralyzes,” he noted mentally.

  He raised his hands again, sinking deeper into his stance. His mind raced, dissecting the exchange.

  “My parry was sloppy—the lightning carried into my palm. I need to get used to his speed and the arc of his strikes. Once I catch his rhythm, I can redirect the flow.”

  “You just got lucky!” Draxion barked, lunging again without a pause.

  The air in front of him seemed to rip open—a burst of mana, a trail of lightning, and another barrage of blows.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Each strike came with a crack like a mini explosion, the air shattering around them. Kael barely kept up—body twisting, palms catching and deflecting blows, each motion punctuated by short bursts of mana.

  Pf! Pf! Pf! Three counterbursts—three parries. Waves of gray mana crashed against Draxion’s violet arcs, the air vibrating with a sharp electric hum.

  BAM!

  A particularly heavy strike hit home, and once again Kael was thrown back. His soles slid across the floor, but he managed to keep his balance.

  Kael’s palms trembled, the skin reddened, the tips of his fingers going numb.

  Instructor Ardran frowned. His gaze turned cold and focused.

  “What kind of style is this…” flashed through his mind. “Kael is weaker, with far less mana. But at the moment of each strike, it’s as if he muffles Draxion’s power… How is he releasing such precise bursts of mana?”

  He leaned forward—no longer just observing, but analyzing, the way a master studies an unfamiliar technique.

  Draxion didn’t slow—once again he appeared in front of Kael, slicing through the air with a sharp side strike.

  But this time Kael didn’t retreat. He twisted his torso sharply and thrust both palms forward. He focused a single, precise pulse of mana into his right hand—brief, timed to the fraction of a heartbeat.

  Paf!

  A muffled thud rang out—like a stick hitting a cushion. The vibration rippled through the air, and Draxion’s power suddenly dispersed.

  The crowd gasped. A few people stood up; someone even dropped a scroll.

  “Kael didn’t get knocked back!” one girl shouted. “Did Draxion pull his punch?”

  “No way…” said a boy nearby, eyes wide. “The hit was just as strong…”

  Draxion staggered back a step, blinking in confusion, his fist numb from the rebound.

  Kael exhaled slowly, feeling the muscles in his arm seize with tension. His palms tingled, and a heavy tremor pulsed through his elbows.

  “Good…” he thought. “I’ve roughly gauged how much force it takes to blunt his strikes. But I still need to adjust for his speed… Otherwise my hands will go numb before I can counterattack.”

  He eased back half a step, returning to the same stance—knees relaxed, weight sunk into his heels, palms open once more.

  His eyes stayed calm, yet deep within them a dangerous gleam surfaced. Kael had finally caught the rhythm.

  “What kind of trick is that, you bastard?!” Draxion roared, his face and voice trembling with fury. He couldn’t understand why his punches wouldn’t break through that defense.

  He lunged again—a flurry of rapid strikes, each one crackling with violet mana and sparks.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!—the blows came one after another, like drumbeats.

  Kael moved with greater precision now—each palm releasing a pulse of mana that nullified Draxion’s attacks.

  But on the last charge, Kael didn’t just blunt the blow—he twisted it aside. Draxion’s fist veered off course, the strike’s arc warping and leaving his flank briefly open.

  “What the hell?!” Draxion snarled inwardly, spinning to strike again before Kael could take advantage of the opening.

  Kael sprang back, evading the counter.

  As soon as they broke apart, silence fell over the hall…

  No one could understand how Kael was doing it. But one thing was clear—the last exchange had been even. Draxion was no longer dominating.

  Instructor Ardran raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing like a predator’s. The thought came swift and precise:

  “Just now… he pulled Draxion’s fist off course? Could Kael’s mana have an attractive property? No… when he dampens the strikes, there’s no sign of it.”

  He studied Kael’s stance again, mentally breaking it down—precision, rhythm, the flow of mana. The interest in his gaze was now unmistakable.

  Draxion noticed how the students were looking at Kael—not with mockery, but with awe.

  His jaw tightened, veins bulged on his neck, and his face twisted with rage.

  “Now you’ve really pissed me off!” he roared, the violet mana around him flaring brighter—like flames feeding on rage.

  The air trembled. Sparks raced across the floor, snapping and crackling. The hair of nearby students lifted from the static.

  Instructor Ardran frowned, his gaze turning icy.

  “Burning mana that fast… he’ll damage his core. Reckless. But if Kael can’t endure this, he’ll be finished in an instant…”

  He hadn’t finished the thought when Draxion exploded forward.

  A violet flash split the air—his silhouette vanished, leaving only the afterimage of lightning flickering in the watchers’ eyes.

  Draxion appeared beside Kael, driving a brutal punch straight for his chest. The crowd gasped.

  His mind roared to life, analyzing and calculating—firing signals to his Mana Core and muscles in perfect sync.

  “Damn it! This one’s way stronger! I have to parry it perfectly!”

  Kael gathered every last scrap of mana—every spark still pulsing inside him. The streams surged toward his right palm, the one already poised for the precise moment. His heartbeat aligned with his breath.

  “Now!” flashed through his mind.

  BAM!—the air exploded with a heavy thud. A burst of violet mana blinded the hall, but Kael’s body didn’t move an inch. The wave of power hit him—then broke apart, rippling outward as if it had slammed into an invisible wall.

  The crowd froze.

  Even Draxion, who moments ago had lunged with full fury, stood stunned—his fist numb, his power gone, as if it had been erased from existence.

  “It can’t be…” someone whispered.

  Wasting no time, Kael twisted his palm sharply, redirecting the pull—dragging Draxion’s arm aside and turning his momentum against him. The opponent’s body followed the motion, his flank opening wide.

  “Perfect!” flickered through Kael’s mind.

  His other palm shot forward instantly—a short, precise, nearly silent strike aimed directly at Draxion’s ribs. A dull gray pulse of mana flared around his hand, his eyes flashing with a cold, predatory gleam.

  “Let’s break a few of your ribs, little bastard… this burst should be enough.”

  Anticipating the impact, Kael grinned like a predator as his palm touched Draxion’s side.

  A heartbeat—and the crushing strike should have landed…

  But at the very moment the mana burst was meant to erupt from his palm, there came only a dry, empty pop.

  Paf…

  The light on Kael’s palm flickered once—then died.

  “What?!” Kael shouted inwardly, realizing in the same instant that he had completely exhausted his mana.

  In that split-second mistake, he didn’t even have time to pull his hand back.

  Draxion’s eyes blazed with fury, his lips twisting into a feral grin.

  “Now you’re done, bastard!” he snarled, pouring all his strength into a short, finishing blow.

  BAM!—the explosion of force cracked like a miniature thunderclap under the ceiling.

  Draxion’s fist slammed under Kael’s ribs with a dull boom; the air burst from his lungs in a ragged gasp as his body arched in pain.

  He was hurled backward—feet leaving the floor as he crashed across the stone tiles of the arena, rolling several meters before slamming to a stop near the wall.

  The hall fell into all-consuming silence.

  Even Draxion stood still, breathing heavily, staring at Kael’s crumpled form.

  Ardran, frozen with his mouth half open, finally snapped out of it. His gaze swept across the arena—from Draxion to Kael.

  He exhaled and said loudly,

  “Victory goes to Draxion!”

  The hall erupted at once in shocked cries and disbelief. No one could quite comprehend what they had just witnessed. And paradoxically, every eye was fixed not on the victor, but on the defeated—Kael.

  “He lost, but…” someone said.

  “He used to surrender even to weaklings!” another added. “If Kael keeps training…”

  “Unbelievable! Did you see that last hit?!”

  Even Instructor Ardran’s gaze stayed locked on Kael. He watched as the boy, teeth clenched, was already pushing himself off the ground. His shoulders trembled, his breath ragged, but Kael was standing.

  The murmurs of the crowd swelled again.

  Lili, Bronan, and Dronan hurried toward him, but Kael raised a hand—refusing to fall again.

  “It’s all right,” he breathed out hoarsely, giving a small nod. Then he smiled faintly and added, “I still can’t quite tell when my mana’s about to run out. Misjudged my limit.”

  He stood there, wiping the blood from his lip, still smiling. There was no trace of defeat in Kael’s eyes. If anything, he looked entirely satisfied with his first sparring match.

  At that same moment, Draxion looked like his mirror opposite. He stood in the middle of the arena, motionless, arms hanging at his sides.

  There was no joy in him, no satisfaction—only a tremor in his fingers and a strange, lingering chill he couldn’t shake.

  The crowd buzzed all around, yet somehow it felt as if no one even saw him. Every gaze was fixed on Kael. The boy stood a little apart, one knee bent for balance—weary, but still upright.

  Students were already gathering around him—some asking about his technique, others simply making sure he was all right.

  Draxion watched, and something unpleasant began to rise inside him. He didn’t want to name it, but tiny sparks of fear began to flicker beneath the surface.

  “How… how did he get this strong?” flashed through his mind, sending a chill down his spine.

  His lackeys rushed up then—loud, grinning too wide.

  They tripped over each other to congratulate him—clapping his shoulder, shouting empty praise. But the more they spoke, the tighter something twisted inside his chest.

  Every word rang hollow, and his so-called victory tasted all the more bitter.

  He had won—but it didn’t feel like a win.

  Even now, with the match over, he understood: what everyone would remember wasn’t his final blow, but the way Kael had stood his ground.

  And in that moment, for the first time, Draxion realized that even in victory—he was standing in someone else’s shadow. The shadow of the boy he’d once treated like dirt.

  And that feeling, he hated more than anything.