The phantom impact of Jax's practice sword seemed to linger on Adam's forearms, a dull ache that served as a constant reminder of his public failure. The true injury was not physical. It was the memory of his own hesitation, the way his focus had crumbled under the weight of a guilt he couldn't rationalize away. He stood in the dim light of the academy's eastern colonnade, the morning sun struggling to break through the low clouds. The sounds of other students heading to their next classes felt distant, muffled. He replayed the session not with anger, but with a detached, clinical horror. His mind, his greatest asset, had become his weakest point.
Across the academy grounds, in the soot-stained, heat-hazed air of the forge, a different kind of reckoning was underway.
The rhythmic clang of hammers on steel provided a percussive backdrop to the scene. Cain stood before Forgemaster Vance, the two halves of his shattered longbow lying on the heavy anvil between them. The weapon had been more than wood and horn; its heart had been a concentrated Wind-Sprite's Core, an E-Grade crystal that had granted his arrows unerring accuracy and a whisper of guidance on the wind. Now, that core was dark and inert, its connection to him severed along with the bow itself.
"The bond is broken," Vance stated, his voice a low rumble. He picked up one of the halves, his thick fingers tracing the fractured etchings that had once channeled mana. "The core is spent. You can't simply mend the wood. The spirit has fled. What is your intent?"
Cain's eyes, red-rimmed but now dry and unsettlingly clear, swept over the racks of finished weapons. He bypassed the elegant dueling rapiers and the sturdy legionnaire's swords. His gaze landed on a weapon of function over form. It was a Chakram, but of a heavier, more brutal design—a steel disc the size of a large plate, its outer edge honed to a razor-sharp bevel. Three shorter, wickedly curved blades were welded at equidistant points around its circumference. It was a tool for decisive, close-quarters violence, capable of being used to slash and block in melee or spun and hurled with devastating force.
"It is a pragmatic choice," Vance grunted, following his gaze. "The core within is from a Gloom Panther, an E-Grade shadow-affinity beast. It does not guide. It hungers. It lends the blade a passive ability to sever minor enchantments on contact and leaves a faint, disorienting shadow-trail in its wake. It is a weapon of negation."
Cain reached for it. The grip was wrapped in rough leather, and the weight was substantial, demanding strength and commitment. It felt nothing like the graceful pull of his bow. It felt like a necessary truth.
"I do not require guidance anymore," Cain said, his voice flat. "I require certainty."
He paid Vance with the few coins he had and the salvaged, dormant Wind-Sprite's Core from his bow. The transaction was silent, an understanding between them that some prices were paid in more than coin.
As Cain left the forge, the Chakram hung heavy at his side. The archer was gone, his artistry replaced by a stark resolve. The weapon was not a symbol of villainy, but of a profound metamorphosis. He was shedding the skin of a boy who believed in fair fights and perfect shots, and armoring himself with the conviction that survival demanded a sharper, colder edge.
Adam finally pushed away from the cold stone column. The ache in his arms was fading, but the lesson remained. He turned toward the library, deciding that if he could not yet control his mind in combat, he would feed it with knowledge. He would research focus, control, the mechanics of the mind under duress. It was a quieter path, but it was his.
Cain moved toward the deserted training grounds, the weight of his new steel a constant reminder of his purpose. One sought to master the storm within his mind, the other to become the storm itself. The academy held them both, two students being reshaped in different fires.