Chapter 172
MIDNIGHT (3)
IAM's goal was simple: ascend to the next level.
After his conversation with Vanessa—and the intense clash with Blaze pushing him forward. He was ready to move on. Ready to leave behind peak novice and step into the realm of the low experienced.
He suspected that he might be the fastest ascender in recorded history to reach peak novice. And if things went according to plan tonight, he would also be the fastest to break into the next level.
Faster even than the so-called geniuses.
But he wasn't letting that thought swell his ego. He hadn't earned this speed through his talent alone—far from it. His progress had been shaped by strange circumstances and means he still didn't fully understand. And he knew it wasn't something he could repeat at will.
If he succeeded, he'd be ahead of his peers—for now.
But time had a way of humbling everyone. Eventually, others would catch up. Some might even surpass him. That was something he accepted and expected.
Still, reaching the experienced rank meant something. The difference between a novice and an experienced ascender was significant. And as one advanced further toward peak experienced, that gap only widened.
A little fun fact—was that the level known as Experienced was actually where most ascenders remained… for the rest of their lives.
It wasn't just common. It was expected.
Progressing beyond that point required more than determination or raw talent. As you moved into the higher levels, the difficulty of gaining understanding increased dramatically. The tiers weren't just steps anymore—they became towering walls. And the higher you climbed, the steeper those walls became.
Most people simply couldn't make the jump from Experienced to Master.
And it wasn't just a matter of strength. It was understanding, clarity, inner stability, and mental discipline—all at once. The Master level was where the abilities of an ascender began to undergo explosive change and unprecedented growth.
Those who reached it were not just rare—they were respected, feared and admired. Some even called them the true peak of the path. The dream that every aspiring ascender secretly carried in their chest.
But IAM wasn't thinking about that now.
What mattered was the level right in front of him—low experienced. That was the step he had to survive. That was the hurdle standing before everything else.
And breaking through was no small matter.
Advancing to a new tier wasn't just a rush of power or a flash of light. It was a dangerous, complex and delicate process that demanded complete focus and emotional control. The body, the mind, and the path had to align—and if they didn't, the consequences could be… fatal.
You couldn't afford distractions and you definitely can't afford mistakes.
More than one ascender had lost their lives because they underestimated the process. In the worst-case scenarios, your head could literally explode.
IAM wasn't about to take any chances.
He had chosen the reading booths inside the academy's library for a reason. It was one of the few places left that offered true privacy— there was no cameras, noise and unwanted eyes.
It was a quiet pocket of space where people were too busy reading their books to pay attention to anyone else.
IAM sat very still.
Inside the quiet booth, away from the world, he began to steady himself. He closed his eyes, letting the silence reign over him like a curtain being drawn. It wrapped around him, soft and absolute.
His breathing slowed. Each inhale was deeper, more controlled. His muscles began to loosen, the pressure in his chest easing as tension quietly bled from his limbs. Every sound, every weight, every lingering thought faded into the stillness.
Then, without warning, his eyes snapped open.
There was something in them now—something still and unreadable. Deep and unfathomable. The eyes of someone who had already decided. He took a long breath and exhaled slowly, feeling everything inside him settle.
It was time.
...
What is speech?
By definition, speech is the process of using the mouth, tongue, and vocal cords to produce sounds—sounds that become words, and words that form sentences. It is, at its core, a tool to communicate messages between people.
But IAM had his own definition.
To him, speech wasn't just about sound or language. It was about intent—the act of pressing one's will into the world and directing it at another. It was the delivery of your mind and heart in a form that could strike others, change them, move them. Whether for good or evil, praise or punishment, inspiration or manipulation—speech was about influence.
Speech was the act of delivering one's intent in its purest form.
And intent was everything.
Intent fuels influence. Influence shapes intent. The two are bound together. If one falters, the other loses strength. But when both are aligned—when speech becomes a vessel for unwavering intent—it becomes something far more powerful than noise.
It becomes a force.
IAM understood this.
He had lived through it. He had seen what words could do—how they could lift someone from despair or push them to ruin. Words could cut deeper than blades. They could carry truth, lies, love and hate. The shape didn't matter as much as the will behind them.
That was the truth of his path.
That was the heart of what he had come here to master.
When I speak, I must speak with intent.
When I speak, I must speak to influence.
As IAM started to form his concept together, he could feel a growing pressure in his head—more specifically, in his core.
It was subtle at first. A tightness. A quiet strain. But the longer he focused, the heavier it became, like something pressing inward from all sides. His skin began to tingle, overly sensitive to the air around him, and goosebumps started to roll across his arms—again, and again, and again. Each wave came stronger than the last.
Then it happened.
IAM could feel it—his Avien. The long, thin connection that joined his brain to the rest of his body. It was starting to come apart.
He felt the flow of mana inside him slow to a crawl. The flow staggered, broke, and began to disappear altogether.
Snap.
Crack.
Snap.
Fragments of something that once felt permanent were now shattering inside him.
His eyes widened.
Was this what Mia had felt when she ascended to the level of Master?
IAM had grown used to the presence of his Avien—its pulse and the constant current of mana always humming just beneath the surface of his awareness.
Now that it was dying, his entire being felt… wrong.
His chest began to tighten. His ribs creaked under invisible pressure, and his heartbeat started to climb.
It became a frantic rhythm.
Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump—
Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump—
It wouldn't stop. It just kept pounding. Each beat like a hand slamming against the inside of his ribcage, demanding to be let out.
IAM was suddenly hyperaware of every inch of himself. His skin felt thick and too loose, like it was hanging off him the wrong way. Like it didn't belong to him. There was a horrible itch under the surface—an itch to be ripped away.
The sensation crept up his arms, across his chest, down his back. Like he was wearing someone else's body.
Like a disguise.
He felt the overpowering urge to tear it off.
His eyes felt too wet and too big, as if they were floating in his skull. His jaw pulsed. His scalp burned. His nose, his lips, his chest—all of it felt alien. Like a cheap costume he had been forced to wear.
Get it off.
It was useless.
IAM's hand began to rise—slowly, trembling, as if it had a will of its own. His fingers shook as they neared his face, drawn there like magnets, compelled by something beyond logic.
IAM's fingers reached his skin and paused.
His fingertips felt both freezing and burning at once.
And then—
He began to pull.