?The Academy cafeteria was usually a war zone of noise. But today, the F-Class table was quiet.

  Amari sat at the end of the table. He wore a fresh grey uniform, his locs tied back neatly, the fade on the sides sharp. He was eating a mountain of eggs and sausage. His metabolism was still burning through the Alpha meat he had eaten the night before.

  Across from him sat Elara. She looked different today. She wasn't hiding behind her hair anymore. Her dark curls were pulled back, showing off her light brown skin and the sharp features she inherited from her Spanish mother.

  She poked at her food. "They’re staring at us, Amari."

  "Let them stare," Amari said, chewing. "They're trying to figure out if we're liars or monsters."

  He looked around the room.

  At the Hero Class table, Prince Caelum was holding court. The pale, English royal was laughing with his friends, but every few seconds, his eyes darted toward Amari. It wasn't a look of contempt anymore. It was a calculation.

  "The rankings are frozen," Elara whispered. "Uncle... I mean, the Dean, still has you listed as 'Pending Review.' People are saying you cheated."

  "Good," Amari said. "If they think I cheated, they won't train to fight me. They'll underestimate me."

  He finished his eggs and stood up. "I have to stop by my locker before Physical Training."

  "I'll see you there," Elara said. "I have to go to the Bursar's office. The replacement wand fee is expensive."

  Amari walked out of the cafeteria. The hallway parted for him. F-Class students looked at him with awe. C-Class students looked at him with suspicion.

  He reached his locker—number 402. He pressed his thumb against the scanner. The metal door clicked open.

  Inside, sitting on top of his gym shoes, was a piece of paper.

  It wasn't a digital pad. It wasn't a hologram. It was actual paper—thick, yellowed parchment.

  Amari picked it up. It smelled of sage and pipe tobacco.

  There was only one line written in elegant, flowing cursive:

  You have the strength of a bear, but the grace of a drunk cow. Come downstairs.

  Amari frowned. He looked down the hallway.

  At the far end, near the Maintenance elevator, he saw a flash of orange—a janitor's jumpsuit.

  Amari closed his locker. He didn't go to gym class. He walked toward the elevator.

  [SYSTEM NOTICE: Restricted Access Path Detected]

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  [Flag: "Void Vessel" — Movement Logged]

  [Advisory: Report to Guidance for Core Evaluation]

  Amari ignored the notification and swiped his thumb. The doors groaned open.

  Sub-Basement Level 4: The Boiler Room

  The elevator ride took a long time. When the doors opened, the air was hot and dry. It smelled of oil and rust.

  This was the heart of the Academy, where massive mana-furnaces powered the floating island.

  Sitting on a crate in the middle of the room was the Janitor.

  He was a striking man. He had dark skin that looked like weathered leather, and a short, well-groomed white beard. He wore the orange jumpsuit like it was royal finery. His eyes were dark and deep, rimmed with the wisdom of someone who had lived three lifetimes.

  He was stirring a small pot of tea on a portable burner.

  "You came," the man said. His voice was deep, with a rhythmic accent that sounded like the old dialects of North Africa.

  "You left a note in my locker," Amari said, stepping into the room. "That's a security breach. I could report you."

  The old man laughed, revealing a gold tooth. "Report me? To whom? The System that thinks you are a calculator error?"

  He poured two cups of tea. He kicked a spare crate toward Amari.

  "Sit, Amari Malik."

  Amari didn't sit. He stayed standing, his muscles tensed. "Who are you?"

  "They call me Idris," the old man said, taking a sip of tea. "But down here, I’m the Custodian."

  Amari narrowed his eyes. "And you watched me kill the wolf."

  "I saw everything," Idris said. "I saw you trap it. I saw you burn it. And I saw you try to use the Spear-Hand strike."

  Idris shook his head, looking disappointed.

  "Terrible form," Idris tutted. "Your fingers were misaligned. Your wrist was loose. You broke your own hand because you struck like a thug, not a martial artist."

  Amari bristled. "It worked. The wolf is dead."

  "The wolf is dead because you have the Void Body," Idris countered sharply. "You won because you were stronger than it. But what happens when you fight something you cannot overpower? What happens when you fight Caelum?"

  Idris stood up. He wasn't tall, but he stood with perfect balance.

  "You have power, boy. Infinite power. But power without flow is just noise."

  "Flow?" Amari asked.

  "Attack me," Idris said.

  Amari blinked. "Old man, I just crushed a Silver-Back's throat. If I hit you, you'll turn to dust."

  "Try," Idris smiled.

  Amari sighed. He didn't want to hurt a senior citizen, but he needed to make a point.

  He stepped forward and threw a simple jab. He aimed for Idris’s shoulder—a warning shot. He used about 10% of his speed.

  Idris didn't block. He didn't dodge.

  He used minimum effort—maximum efficiency.

  Idris rotated his hip one inch, let his shoulder fall a fraction, and Amari’s fist sailed past empty air.

  Before Amari could retract his arm, Idris’s hand—calloused and dry—tapped Amari’s elbow. It wasn't a hard hit. It was a gentle touch on a specific nerve cluster.

  A precise tap—brachial nerve.

  Amari’s entire arm went numb.

  "What the—?"

  Amari spun, throwing a kick.

  Idris stepped inside the kick. He placed his foot behind Amari’s standing leg and pushed Amari’s chest with two fingers.

  [Technique: Iron Root Trip]

  It was the exact same move Amari had used on the Alpha. But Idris did it effortlessly.

  Amari’s feet flew out from under him. He slammed onto the concrete floor, the wind knocked out of him.

  Idris stood over him, hands clasped behind his back. He wasn't even breathing hard.

  "You know the what," Idris looked down at him. "You know the cultivation. You know the breathing. You remember the future."

  Amari froze on the floor. "How do you—"

  "But you have forgotten the how," Idris continued, ignoring the question. "You fight like a brawler. I can teach you to fight like a Sovereign."

  He extended a hand to help Amari up.

  "The Tournament is coming, Amari. The Hero Class uses magic. You cannot block lightning with your face forever. You need a style that can redirect it."

  Amari looked at the old man's hand. He realized, for the first time since coming back, that he wasn't the only predator in the room.

  Amari grabbed Idris’s hand and pulled himself up.

  "When do we start?" Amari asked.

  Idris grinned, his gold tooth shining in the dim light.

  "We start now," Idris said. "Pick up that wrench. We are going to fix your grip."