The ruins of the Academy stood like scars against the morning sky. Crumbled walls, scorched halls, broken glass glittering across the courtyards—it was more than just stone destroyed. It was pride.
And Celestial Tempest was the first to pick up the pieces.
Bolt swung a hammer down, sparks flickering with every strike as he reinforced broken beams with raw lightning energy. Sylva pushed boulders into place with earth manipulation, sweat streaking her forehead. Akane carried blazing torches, melting warped metal so Valea's light could fuse it back into shape.
They weren't builders. They weren't masons. But together, they rebuilt—not just the Academy, but themselves.
For the first time since the attack, there was laughter. Small. Weak. But real.
Ren balanced planks of wood on his shoulder, smirking at Akane. "Careful, or your flames might bring this whole thing down again."
"Please," Akane shot back, eyes narrowing. "At least my flames build things now, not just destroy them."
"Your flames destroyed half my tent last week," Ren muttered.
Bolt sat nearby, tying supports together, a faint smile tugging at his lips. It was fragile, but these moments mattered. In the cracks of ruin, their bonds were mending.
By afternoon, the other factions—older, stronger, veterans of the Academy—returned from their missions. They found the Academy in ruin, half standing, half rubble, and Celestial Tempest leading the rebuild.
Instead of gratitude, the seniors sneered.
"So this is what happens when children play hero?" one scoffed, arms folded. His faction laughed behind him.
"You call yourselves Celestial Tempest?" another spat. "You couldn't even defend your own walls. What a joke."
The words stung. Akane's fists clenched, flames trembling. Darian scowled, Sylva's jaw tightened, even Ren's sword hand twitched.
But Bolt… he just stood tall. His shadow stretched across the broken courtyard, lightning flickering faintly around him.
He didn't shout. He didn't curse. He simply said, voice ringing like thunder across the ruins:
"We failed once. But never again. Even if it costs us our lives, Celestial Tempest will protect this Academy until the end."
The courtyard fell silent. The sneers faded. Even the mocking seniors found no words. Because Bolt's eyes burned—not with arrogance, but with unshakable resolve.
That night, while others rested, Celestial Tempest trained.
Bolt sparred Ren until both collapsed. He pushed against Darian's waves until his body was drenched. He shattered Sylva's stone walls until his knuckles bled. He faced Akane's flames until the heat blistered his skin.
And when his team collapsed, Bolt kept going.
He struck the ground again and again, lightning splitting the training yard. He froze buckets of water with shaking hands, forcing the frost to obey. His body trembled with exhaustion, but his eyes stayed sharp, his breaths steady.
"Stronger. Stronger. Stronger…"
The senior factions watched in silence from the shadows. They had mocked him hours ago. Now they saw him drenched in sweat, barely standing, yet still training until dawn.
"He doesn't stop," one whispered.
"He'll break himself," another muttered.
"…Or he'll become something terrifying," a third admitted.
For the first time, the sneers were gone. What replaced them was respect.
By the third night, Bolt hadn't slept more than a handful of hours. His team begged him to rest, but he refused.
"We don't have time," he said, frost coating his arms, sparks dancing across his skin. "Kairos won't wait for us to be ready. So we'll force ourselves ready."
Even exhausted, even battered, the fire in his voice never wavered.
Celestial Tempest wasn't following a boy anymore.
They were following a leader.
As the fourth dawn rose, the War God's voice echoed faintly in Bolt's dreams—half warning, half prophecy:
"The storm grows, child. Power comes at a cost. Do not forget the price."
Bolt woke up drenched in sweat, his arms numb from frost and lightning burns. He dragged himself up, staggering back to the training grounds.
And the seniors—those who once mocked him—stood waiting in silence, watching. Not to la
ugh. But to witness.
Because they knew now: Bolt Vega would fight until death itself took him.