The arena had barely settled from Nyx's clash with Petra. Dust still hung in the air, swirling in thin rays of sunlight that pierced the high windows. Class 101's chests heaved, hearts pounding, bruises stinging. For a moment, they allowed themselves to breathe — a moment too long.
The doors at the far end of the hall boomed open.
Silence fell like a blade.
A single figure emerged.
Tall. Lean, yet every muscle coiled with restrained power. Pale-gray eyes that seemed to see through stone and bone alike. Hair like ash, swept back with effortless precision. His uniform flawless, every line sharp, his boots striking the floor like war drums.
Aulerian Dawncrest.
Not a flicker of arrogance. Not a smirk. Only absolute control. Every step carried the weight of someone who had never known weakness and had no patience for it.
Joren's grin faltered, his usual theatrics gone, replaced by the faintest flicker of respect — or perhaps recognition.
Aulerian's gaze swept over Class 101, then lingered on the next challenger: Darius Quell. The large, stocky boy who had saved Talia Nyx's life once, who had trained hard, but had never faced someone like this.
"Your turn," Joren drawled, voice flat now, almost hesitant. "Darius. Step forward."
Darius swallowed, straightened his shoulders, and stepped into the arena. Confidence faltered the moment Aulerian's eyes fixed on him.
Aulerian's voice, calm, precise, echoed through the hall, each word measured:
"Strength is not about surviving the world… It is about ensuring the world survives you, And boy you aren't even my match."
He moved first — and yet he barely moved at all. The air seemed to bend around him, the faintest pulse of wind following his steps. Then, lightning fast, he struck.
Darius reacted, swinging his arms, roots lashing out. Aulerian sidestepped with surgical precision, each dodge effortless, like watching a shadow slide across stone. A flick of his wrist — Darius was slammed into the ground, ribs cracking against cold marble. Pain exploded across his chest; his breath caught in his throat.
Darius rolled, tried to rise. Aulerian's boot connected with the side of his torso, hurling him across the arena. The impact shattered stone beneath him. Students of Class 101 flinched. They had trained hard, fought hard, yet Aulerian made it clear: their limits were nothing.
Another strike. Darius's defenses, fire and earth alike, shredded like paper under Aulerian's precision. Every blow calculated, every pause deliberate, every movement a lesson in absolute dominance.
Aulerian's voice cut through the chaos, calm and commanding:
"Power is earned, not given. You either take it… or the world takes it from you."
Darius tried again — a desperate surge, a throw of raw energy. But Aulerian read every intention before it happened. With a motion so smooth it was almost lazy, Darius was pinned mid-air, roots crushed in his grasp, his energy draining. He hit the ground — hard — coughing, blood tasting metallic on his tongue.
Class 101 gasped. Even Kael's jaw clenched. The brutality was not senseless — it was perfect, disciplined, surgical. Every strike was a message. Every slam an echo of reality.
Aulerian's calm, pale-gray eyes scanned the hall, letting Class 101 feel the weight of his words as much as his fists:
"Many believe strength is about survival, about avoiding pain. Weakness is the indulgence of those too afraid to see the truth. Pain exists to remind you of your place. You either rise above it… or it crushes you."
Another strike sent Darius skidding across the floor. His pride, his skill, his will — every shred of it stripped away by mere presence and precision.
"And when the weak cry, when they plead, when they break… the strong do not stop. The strong do not falter. They rise, unbroken, while the world bends to their weight."
The last blow came as Darius tried to crawl to his knees. Aulerian didn't strike wildly; he placed the heel of his boot on Darius's chest, pinning him flat. He leaned down, voice barely a whisper but carrying through the silent hall:
"Remember this. There is no sympathy at the summit. There is no mercy in mastery. Only truth."
Darius lay on the arena floor, bruised, broken, unable to rise. Class 101 could only stare, their cheers frozen in their throats. For the first time, they truly understood the gulf between them and Class 17.
Aulerian straightened, walked off the arena as quietly as he had entered. Every eye followed him. Even Joren sat up straighter, the faintest flicker of pride hidden beneath his usual nonchalance.
As he passed the students of Class 101, his voice cut through again — soft, almost intimate, yet impossible to ignore:
"Your weakness is not a shame. It is a warning. Heed it… or the world will remind you, far more cruelly than I ever will."
Then he left.
Silence hung heavy. Class 101 could hear nothing but their own ragged breathing, the distant clatter of stone settling, and the echo of truth that had just beaten them raw.
Kael, standing at the edge of the arena, clenched his fists. His eyes burned — not just from the fight, but from comprehension. They weren't ready. None of them were ready.
Yet somewhere, beneath the fear, a spark kindled. The hunger to rise, to reach even a fraction of what Aulerian represented.
And somewhere far above, in the shadows of the lecture hall, Joren's smirk returned — just slightly.
"Now… they'll remember why they train."
Now the class watched as Darius quell was dragged out of the arena in a hurry. Nobody dared talk. Joren say's "The joint training is over for today everyone can return to their dorm or do what they want I don't care anyways". Joren stands up and loudly say's. "I declare the joint training over."
The flickering torchlight cast long, trembling shadows across the infirmary room. The scent of antiseptic mingled with iron, sharp and biting, a reminder of the broken bodies this academy produced. Darius Quell groaned, eyelids heavy, his body a map of pain. Every limb screamed, muscles shredded, ribs bruised. The air felt thick, almost unbreathable.
He tried to sit up. Failed. A wave of dizziness struck him, nausea curling his stomach like a storm. His hands, trembling and bloodied, gripped the sheets. Pain was nothing compared to the memory of Aulerian's eyes—calm, unshakable, almost cruelly understanding.
It came back, unbidden.
The arena.
The moment Aulerian had moved—slow, deliberate, precise. Each strike: a lesson, a verdict.
Darius remembered the first slam against the stone floor, the crack echoing like a thunderclap in his skull. The shock from roots and telekinesis tearing him apart, limbs flailing, fists useless. Every attempt at retaliation ended with the same devastating outcome: thrown, battered, humiliated.
The memory of his own fear—a new, raw, paralyzing fear—wrapped around him tighter than any chain.
"Strength without purpose is meaningless," Aulerian had whispered mid-strike.
"You are strong… yet hollow."
Darius's chest heaved. His pride, once a roaring fire, now lay as ashes across the arena floor. He had thought himself capable, worthy of the academy's praise. He had imagined victory. Now, he felt nothing but cold, consuming failure.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple, mixing with blood dried into his hair. He wanted to scream, to curse, to strike—but even the thought made him shiver. He couldn't face anyone, couldn't bear the gaze of Class 101, Kael, or even his own reflection.
The fight had done more than injure his body. It had shattered him.
His mind played back every move. The way Aulerian had advanced—like a shadow made of ice, calm and ruthless, moving with the inevitability of death itself. No hesitation. No mercy. Every dodge, every strike from Darius met with perfect, crushing counter. Every time he thought he might rise, Aulerian's voice echoed:
"You cannot stand because you do not understand the weight of standing."
Darius pressed a shaking hand to his chest. Pain radiated from every bruise, every strike. But worse than that was the emptiness inside him—the confidence that had been the core of him now gone. Replaced with fear. Fear that his power would never be enough, that he could never measure up.
He shut his eyes, trying to flee into darkness, but even in sleep, Aulerian's shadow haunted him. The arena walls, the stone cracking under Nyx's lightning, Petra's shattered shields—they all blurred into a single memory of his own humiliation, broadcast in front of hundreds.
And the worst part: He remembered the silence after the fight. Not just from Class 101. Not just from Class 17. But from himself. His own voice, too broken to speak. His own hands, too weak to rise.
A single thought clawed at him, relentless:
I am weak.
The words reverberated through his mind like a curse. He wanted to rage, to fight back, but the strength to even sit upright eluded him. He was broken, and he knew it.
In that dim room, under flickering torches, Darius Quell realized something far more terrifying than pain: he feared fighting again. Every shadow now whispered his failure. Every heartbeat reminded him of the boy who had destroyed him—Aulerian Dawncrest.
He curled into himself on the bed, shaking. His confidence shattered. His pride, smashed. His body aching and his soul trembling, he understood the brutal truth: the arena had not just beaten him—it had redefined him. And he might never stand the same again.
Outside the infirmary, the night carried on, indifferent. But inside, Darius lay broken, staring at the ceiling, haunted by the echo of Aulerian's calm, terrifying philosophy:
" I'm tired already, why am I even here, I'm so angry at myself, but what can I do I just have to move on". He stared at the wall before closing his eyes "I wonder if this is how Gareth felt that day".
The infirmary room was quiet, save for the soft drip of a leaking candle and the faint rustle of the night wind against the window. Darius Quell lay sprawled on the bed, body aching, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the pale moonlight spilling through the cracked window. He didn't move. He couldn't. Every attempt to shift made his bruises scream in protest.
A sharp knock on the door made him flinch.
"Darius?"
The voice was soft, yet firm—Nyx. He didn't answer. His gaze stayed locked on the moonlit city below, as if staring through the window might somehow erase the memory of the arena.
Another knock. "Darius, I… I came to check on you."
He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of her silhouette in the doorway, her arms crossed, shoulders tense. The anger, fear, and concern in her posture pressed against him even from across the room. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making speech impossible.
Nyx stepped inside, boots silent against the floor. She didn't sit. She didn't approach too closely. She just watched him for a moment, eyes sharp, reading him.
"Looks like the arena really… humbled you," she said quietly. Not mocking, but matter-of-fact. Her words hung heavy in the air.
Darius's chest tightened. Humiliated. Broken. He wanted to argue, to shout, to make some proud declaration but all he could do was stare out the window, letting the light hit his bruised face. His pride felt like it had been scraped away, leaving only raw, aching shame.
Nyx crouched slightly, bringing herself closer without touching him. "Darius… you don't have to lie to me," she said softly. "I saw it. I know. That fight… it shook you."
He didn't respond. His silence spoke louder than words ever could.
"You're afraid," she continued, voice lower now, almost a whisper. "And that's… okay. Anyone would be."
He flinched at the truth of her words, embarrassment burning hotter than any physical pain. To be broken, to be seen like this helpless was unbearable.
"I… I can't…" His voice cracked, barely audible. "I… I just…"
Nyx shook her head gently, letting a small sigh escape. "Shh. Don't try to justify it. Don't… pretend you're not hurting. You lost. It's… brutal. But hiding from it won't make it disappear."
Darius's eyes never left the moonlit horizon. He could feel her presence beside him, steady and unwavering, yet every word stabbed him with the weight of reality. He felt small. Weak. Ashamed.
"Rest," Nyx finally said, voice softer, almost tender. "Tomorrow… we start again. And I'll make sure you remember how to stand. But tonight… tonight, just let yourself feel it."
He didn't answer. He simply closed his eyes briefly, letting the pain and humiliation wash over him. Nyx stayed, silent and patient, until sleep fitful and uneasy dragged him under, leaving his body shattered and his mind haunted by Aulerian's calm, terrifying perfection.
Outside, the moon continued its indifferent watch over Dawncrest Academy, casting pale light over a broken boy who might never see himself the same again.
The streets of Dawncrest were quiet, almost eerily so, as Kael Draven walked home alone. The victory in the arena still throbbed in his veins, but it felt hollow—an echo of triumph with no one to share it with. His armor, scorched and dented, clinked softly with each step, each note a reminder of the toll he had paid.
The front door of his house creaked as he pushed it open. No shouts of celebration. No applause from a family proud of his victory. Just silence.
He dropped his bag by the door and leaned back against the wood for a moment, closing his eyes. The aches in his ribs, the burn of his veins from the shadows, and the sting of blood on his lips made him wince. Yet the loneliness cut sharper.
Kael moved to the kitchen, a small, functional space he barely noticed before. He fumbled through the motions—lighting a flame, tossing ingredients into a pan, stirring mechanically. The smell of food filled the room, but it did nothing to warm him. He cooked not for pleasure, not for nourishment, but because he had to—because staying idle would only let the weight of the day press down harder.
The sizzling of the pan was the only sound that accompanied him. No laughter. No cheers. No voice to tell him he'd done well. Just the quiet hiss of oil and the crackle of heat.
He plated the food, took a seat at the table, and ate slowly, methodically, savoring nothing. Every bite was mechanical, the act of eating itself a ritual of survival rather than enjoyment.
When the plate was empty, Kael leaned back, rubbing his swollen ribs, staring at the empty room around him. For a fleeting moment, he imagined the cheers of his classmates, the smiles of those who had supported him—but it was only a memory of noise, distorted by distance. Reality pressed back in. He was alone.
The shadows outside his window stretched long, indifferent, as if mocking his solitude. The fire in his veins from the arena was fading, leaving only exhaustion and ache. Victory had been his—but at what cost?
Kael Draven rose, brushing crumbs from his sleeve, and left the kitchen silent, the echo of the day following him like a ghost he couldn't shake. Alone, he climbed the stairs to his room, closed the door, and sat on the edge of his bed.
He didn't think about glory. He didn't think about pride. He only thought: "Father… would this even matter to you?. Why do I still love you old bastard you are already dead. I just miss you a lot dad I hope you are happy wherever you are in the sun."
And in the stillness of his empty home, no one answered.
The cell smelled of damp stone and rusted iron. Cold seeped through the cracks in the walls, biting at Gareth's bare wrists and chilled his shoulders as he shifted against the floor. The chains cut into his skin, pressing reminders of his imprisonment into every movement. A faint draft whispered through the small ventilation shaft near the ceiling, carrying the scent of smoke from torches somewhere far above, and the distant, muffled sounds of the academy—voices, footsteps, laughter—mocking him.
His stomach growled sharply, echoing off the stone walls, each pang sharper than the last. He pressed his head against the cold wall, trying to ignore it, but hunger was a living thing, gnawing from within.
Then, faintly at first, came the soft rustle of movement. A shadow pooled near the bars. Umbrael's voice threaded through the darkness like silk.
"I've brought sustenance, young one," she whispered, her presence slipping into the cell with the quiet weight of night.
The faint clatter of a wooden tray scraping the floor echoed in the damp space. The smell of stew and stale bread mingled with the mustiness of the cell, almost overpowering in contrast. Gareth's dry lips parted, and he reached toward it instinctively, chains rattling with the motion.
Umbrael knelt beside him, her shadowed form radiating warmth against the cold stone. Her hands carefully set the tray near his knees. "Eat. Regain your strength," she murmured, her voice soft, almost maternal, but with a hidden undertone of authority.
Gareth's fingers trembled as he took the bread, crumbs scattering across the rough floor. He tore at it hungrily, the dry texture scratching at his throat, but still better than nothing. The stew was lukewarm, watery, but the taste, the mere act of eating, grounded him in the reality of his own body.
He let his eyes close briefly, savoring the warmth, the small comfort. Around him, the cell was alive with its own murmurs: the distant drip of water somewhere in the shadows, the faint skitter of vermin in the corners, the creak of chains when he shifted. The ventilation above carried whispers of movement beyond the walls, the academy still alive while he remained trapped, unseen.
Umbrael hovered in the corner, silent now, watching. Her eyes—ancient, knowing—lingered on him, reflecting the flicker of torchlight that filtered through the shaft.
"You must rest," she said at last, stepping back into shadow, letting the door's metal groan close softly behind her.
Gareth swallowed the last of his meal, leaning back against the stone. Cold seeped into his bones, hunger still a faint echo, but the brief warmth in his chest from Umbrael's presence lingered. Outside, the world moved on, indifferent. Inside, the cell was small, dark, unforgiving—but for a moment, he was alive.
And the shadows in the corner of the room seemed to twitch, waiting, as if sensing something coming.
Gareth finished the last bite of the lukewarm stew, leaning back against the rough stone wall. Cold seeped into his bones, the chains biting as always. The cell was alive with its usual sounds—the drip of water, the scuttle of rats, the faint whisper of ventilation carrying the academy's distant life. Yet the warmth of Umbrael's presence lingered, brief but grounding.
Then… it began.
Furious steps echoed down the corridor outside, each strike on the stone floor shaking the cell, rattling the chains. Heavy, deliberate, full of purpose. Gareth's heart thumped, each step resonating through his chest like a warning drum.
The sounds drew closer, nearer, impossibly close. The air itself seemed to tighten, pressing against him with each approaching footfall. The shadow beyond the bars lengthened as the steps slowed and then stopped, a presence lingering—watching, waiting.
Gareth's stomach twisted, hunger forgotten for a moment, replaced with the raw edge of fear and anticipation.
And then… silence. Only the faint whisper of the ventilation remained.
Somewhere beyond, someone—or something—had come.