The sparring grounds were cloaked in a dusty haze, with runic etchings glowing faintly beneath the faded marble floor—a wide circular space enclosed by fractured walls and broken pillars that whispered of past battles. The air was stagnant but charged, as though something ancient watched from the dark corners. At the center stood Zeke, towering like a mountain in motion, while Rael stood across, his body poised but uncertain, like a blade freshly drawn but untested.
Without warning, Zeke lunged forward. The ground cracked beneath his heel as he closed the distance with terrifying speed. Rael barely managed to sidestep the incoming fist—a gust of air brushing his cheek from the force. His feet skidded back against the stone as he dropped low, his breath uneven.
Zeke didn't relent. He came again with a flurry of strikes—hooks, elbows, low kicks. Each movement was honed, savage, bearing the weight of years. He was no mere brute. His martial discipline was evident—a fusion of precise footwork, close-quarter combat, and raw strength. Zeke moved like a predator, fists snapping out like coiled vipers.
Rael twisted, ducked, and weaved, his body moving instinctively. But it was clear. He was barely keeping up. Seth, leaning casually against a pillar, watched with narrowed eyes.
"Just yesterday, he looked like a weakling," she mused. "Now look at him—moving like a damn shadow. That's Cool."
Zeke's momentum built. A punch grazed Rael's shoulder. Another nearly clipped his jaw. Sweat beaded down his back. His breathing sharpened. His muscles screamed. Then—
a fist came hurtling toward his ribs, faster than the rest. In that fleeting instant, something in him remembered.
His mind snapped inward. A memory. A sensation.
Rael closed his eyes.
He felt it.
The world slowed, like a deep breath held beneath water.
The Myre.
It was no longer some abstract force. It was present. It pulsed inside him—subtle, waiting. Not energy. Not emotion. It was intention. It was as though the weight of his soul stretched out to meet the world.
He concentrated.
He let it flow.
He pictured it spiraling up his spine, curling down his arms, like black smoke threading through veins of silver. It coiled within his right hand, dense and volatile, like he was cradling a tiny star.
The punch landed—but Rael didn't flinch.
Zeke blinked. His knuckles collided against something hard, something unmoving. Not bone. Not flesh.
"The hell?" Zeke muttered.
Rael's arm shimmered faintly. His skin was pale, but now it gleamed like obsidian.
"He... reinforced his limb," Ethan whispered under his breath. His eyes were gleaming. "He channeled Myre into it. Without a guide. On instinct."
Zeke grinned like a man tasting blood. He stepped back, fists rising.
"You're full of surprises, pretty boy."
Rael said nothing. He was still breathing hard, trying to understand. The Myre hummed in his blood, but he couldn't match Zeke's rhythm. He was too slow. He couldn't read the next blow, couldn't close the gap between thought and reaction.
He needed more.
Then, without knowing how, he dove deeper. Not into the Myre—but into himself.
Something pulled.
Time bent.
In that fragment of existence, everything stretched thin. His breath froze. The world fragmented, colors swirling like liquid glass. He saw the punch coming again—but now, he was no longer bound to when he stood.
Rael vanished.
No sound. No flare. One blink—and he stood behind Zeke.
Seth flinched.
Ethan's mouth opened slightly. "Did he... skip time? No—he moved between moments..."
Zeke turned, but it was too late.
Rael exhaled. He let all the Myre gather into his right arm—a spiral of black and silver threads knotting into his fist. Then he punched.
It wasn't elegant.
It wasn't even fast.
But it landed.
Zeke staggered. The air rippled with the blow. Dust lifted. The big man dropped to one knee, grinning wide like he'd been blessed with violence.
Rael stood over him, panting.
The match ended.
Zeke laughed and stood. "You got me. That wasn't luck. That was a clean hit."
Rael blinked, the weight of everything catching up to him. The pain. The exhaustion. But also—a strange clarity.
Ethan walked up, smiling with faint disbelief. "He didn't just use Myre. He bent the very perception of time to find an opening. Is it because he's an Eidolon?"
Zeke slapped Rael's back hard. "You're not normal. No way. I like that. Let's spar again sometime. But next time, I won't go easy."
Rael could only nod, the Myre slowly settling in his limbs, like a storm quieting.
From the sidelines, the old man with the cane, still slouched in his thug-like trench coat and crooked sunglasses, merely chuckled.
"Tch. Not bad, Eidolon boy. You're accelerating too fast. Be careful you don't break."
As Rael walked off the field, his mind still burning.
Rael stood still, his chest heaving faintly as the echo of his punch faded into the training hall. Zeke had been knocked back, not violently, but firmly—his balance broken, his form disrupted. For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the residual hum of Myre dissipating into the still air like smoke after a fire.
Zeke grinned, brushing dust from his shoulder. "Well damn," he said, voice breathless but sincere. "Didn't expect that from the guy who couldn't hold a stance yesterday."
Rael let out a weak laugh, one part disbelief and two parts relief. "Neither did I."
"You've got something," Zeke added, walking back to him and offering his hand. "No—you're something."
Rael hesitated, then clasped the hand. Zeke's grip was firm, grounded, but there was no hostility. Only acknowledgment.
From behind them, a slow clap rang out.
Ethan approached, his silver-streaked hair glinting under the light, an unreadable calm on his face. "That was... surprisingly entertaining. And rare. Zeke doesn't often lose."
"He didn't lose," Rael said quickly, his humility instinctive.
Ethan tilted his head. "Modest, too. Typical protagonist behavior."
Rael blinked, confused by the remark. But Ethan was already smirking.
"I'm serious," Ethan continued. "You've got raw instincts, Rael. Unpolished, but… wild. That Myre surge—did you know you'd teleport?"
Rael shook his head slowly. "I didn't even know I could. It felt like... like everything around me froze for a split second, but I was still moving. I wasn't thinking. I just—moved. The Myre, it pulled me."
Zeke folded his arms. "That's dangerous."
"But effective," Ethan added. "If you can control it."
They stood in a loose triangle, three silhouettes in the low light of the training chamber—sweat-streaked, bruised, but bound by something growing stronger than rivalry: recognition.
Then, a grating voice tore through the quiet.
"OI, KIDS!"
All three turned in perfect sync as the door creaked open. A crooked cane slammed the ground like a war drum.
There he was—Mr. Seth, the old man who walked like he had one foot in the grave but talked like he had outlived death itself. His long gray hair was tied behind his back, though most of it was lost beneath a dark cloak speckled with ash and time. His eyes, pale like moonlight through fog, pierced the distance with unsettling clarity.
"You're done playing?" the old man barked. "Good. Because you'll need to do better than punches and teleportation tomorrow."
Rael blinked. "Tomorrow?"
"Your first field mission," Seth announced. "The Council's orders. Three apprentices. One real assignment. Try not to die."
Ethan's eyes lit up with quiet fire. "Finally."
Seth, the younger one—not the teacher—pumped his fist. "Let's gooo! I've been waiting for this. No more mock duels, no more lectures. Time to see real action."
Rael swallowed. His throat was dry.
A mission.
Tomorrow.
His mind spun like a wheel without friction. What kind of mission? Were they ready? Was he ready?
He glanced sideways at the others.
Ethan was calm—too calm. But there was confidence in his stance, assurance in his aura. He was the type to plan for war while peeling an apple.
Seth was beaming like a firework ready to ignite. Reckless, hungry, and endlessly brave.
And Rael? Rael felt the tremor in his fingertips. A dull pressure behind his eyes. But beneath the nerves, under the questions, there was something blooming—a strange heat that sat in the center of his chest.
Excitement.