After two days of recovery, Siege returned to training.
The courtyard reeked of sweat, old blood, and something sour—like rusted fear cooked beneath the high sun.
Siege stood alone before a slab of obsidian, steam rising from its heat-slick surface.
His shirt clung to his back, soaked through from hours of brutal drills.
Around him, the other students trained in squads—sparring, grappling, collapsing, rising again.
The Pit had broken many of them. But this wasn't the Pit.
This was worse.
He clenched his fists, black crusted scabs flaking from his knuckles.
"Try again," Thrakkor's voice echoed from somewhere above, half-bored, half-daring.
"Summon the weapon. Speak to your soul."
*Speak to it?* Siege thought bitterly. *It doesn't talk.*
He grit his teeth, closing his eyes.
Somewhere in the core of him, the Titanic Aspect {Dragon Slayer} stirred.
A vast sea of dark memories and older pain swelled beneath his skin. But it wouldn't rise.
And Gram—his Armament—lay dormant.
No weight. No hilt. No blade.
Just silence.
He opened his eyes and stumbled back, gasping. His breath fogged in the crisp air.
"Still nothing?" came Leo's voice, far too casual for the hell they were in.
"Bro, you're doing it wrong. You gotta think more edgy thoughts."
Siege blinked.
Leo was upside down once again—doing handstand pushups beside a flame-scarred column, shirtless, grinning like a golden lion cub high on battle fumes.
"My Aspect activates when I think about punching stars," Leo continued, bouncing on his palms.
"Or wrestling giant monsters. Depends on the weather."
Albion, seated on a cracked bench with a book in hand, didn't look up. "Don't ask for logic."
"You're one to talk," Leo said. "Mr. {Ouroboros}, all gloom and apocalypse. Bet your halberd cries when you draw it."
Albion finally looked up, one brow arched. "It sings."
Cassiel strolled by just then, her coat unbuttoned, hair tied up. She glanced at Siege, gave a short nod.
"You look like you've been headbutting minotaurs ," she said.
"Feels like it," he muttered.
Seraphina, the green-haired elf girl, passed silently behind them, carrying a bow taller than she was.
Her gaze lingered on Siege, unreadable as ever. Her voice, when it came, was like wind through leaves.
"You fear the fire inside."
Siege turned to her. "What?"
Seraphina didn't stop walking. "The blade won't come until you accept it."
---
Hours passed. Siege was thrown into mock duels again and again—each a reminder of his weakness.
Leo took him down twice, laughing as he did, then pulled him up by the wrist. "Come on, buddy! Where's the killer instinct?"
Albion beat him once and said nothing, only watching him with those cold, pale eyes.
Cassiel didn't go easy on him. Her strikes were clinical. Surgical. But after knocking him flat, she offered a hand.
"I saw what you did to Laxus," she said. "Don't lie—something inside you is trying to get out."
Siege didn't reply. He didn't want to think about it.
Not the horns. Not the heat. Not the moment he thought he was going to die beneath the sun-iron of Therme.
---
Night came. Training still hadn't ended.
Thrakkor stood like a monolith at the center of the darkened yard, watching his students with volcanic silence.
Siege approached again. Alone.
His body screamed at him to stop.
He stepped into the circle.
"Once more," Thrakkor said. "Or I'll drag the Aspect from you with my own hand."
Siege closed his eyes.
And this time, he didn't force it.
He remembered Fafnir.
Not just the pain—but the voice. The smoke. The way its eyes looked through him as it whispered every failure, every doubt.
His legs shook.
Fear rose. A wave of it.
And beneath that—
Overwhelming hate.
A roar built in his throat, and for a moment, he welcomed it.
Then once more something clicked inside.
A whisper. Then a scream.
The world narrowed to a point of infernal copper fire.
---
The others felt it before they saw it.
The courtyard stilled.
Leo stood mid-laugh.
Cassiel turned sharply.
Albion closed his book.
Seraphina lowered her bow.
Laxus dawned a smile.
From Siege's shadow, a shape began to rise. Dark. Twisting. Toothed with grief.
Then—
The horns. Black, jagged things, curling from his skull.
The flame. Burning dark-gold, spilling from his lips.
And then, in his hand, with the sound of ice shattering on stone—
Gram appeared.
The blade was large. Too large..
Its edge shimmered—silver veining through dark metal, almost alive.
Siege fell to one knee, gripping it.
Breathing hard.
He didn't feel stronger.
He felt like he was dying.
Albion approached cautiously. "That sword is alive."
"It doesn't want me," Siege rasped. "And it craves blood."
"Then give it some," Leo said, stepping forward, grinning.
"Spar with me, Dragonboy."
Siege looked at him, half-laughing, half-terrified.
"Really?"
"Yeah," Leo said, rolling his shoulders. "You've got your demon-sword. I've got this."
He held up his wooden club—Clava.
---
Their spar drew a crowd.
Leo danced across the stones, movement like poetry scribbled in combat ink.
Siege's strikes were slower—tentative—but the blade moved for him.
Each swing carried weight, force, and a darkness that rippled in the air.
Leo cackled as they fought.
"This is great! You finally look like you want to kill something!"
Siege ducked under a haymaker, pivoted, and slashed—not to wound, but to test the sword.
It howled through the air.
Leo flipped back, landing lightly. "Gods, I love this school."
They clashed again. Sparks. Roars. Footsteps in fire.
By the end, Siege's arms ached and Gram trembled with residual energy.
Leo stood opposite, bruised and delighted.
Cassiel walked past, shaking her head. "Both of you need therapy."
Albion, leaning nearby, offered his own verdict:
"You still suck, Siege. But now you're dangerous too."
---
Later that night, Siege sat beneath the statue again. Gram rested beside him in the dirt, humming softly in the dark.
He didn't feel whole.
But he felt awake.
And for now, that would have to be enough.