The corridor echoed with the heavy clash of iron boots. Captain Ryn's jaw was tight, his eyes burning beneath the shadow of his helmet. He reached the prison cell and stopped.
The door wasn't just locked—it was chained, reinforced with steel, meant to hold even the strongest of men. With a roar, Ryn slammed his shoulder into it. The steel splintered, the iron twisted, and the lock shattered with a metallic scream.
Inside, Gareth lay down on the cold stone floor, blindfolded, thin, and worn. His breaths came shallow, ragged, each one a whisper of life. Rage flared in Ryn's chest—not at Gareth, but at whoever had let him suffer like this.
"Kneel, curse them all…" Ryn muttered, his voice low and sharp, eyes narrowing.
Gently, carefully, he lifted Gareth onto his back. Every step out of the cell was careful, practiced; the captain's strength was immense, but his touch was soft. Gareth's head rested against Ryn's shoulder, his body almost weightless, a fragile thing that needed protection more than rescue.
The fortress seemed quieter now, as if the walls themselves acknowledged the fury in Ryn's heart. Guards barely dared to approach; even the flicker of torches seemed to shy away.
By the time they reached the carriage, Gareth stirred. His fingers twitched, trying to push at the blindfold. He blinked slowly, confusion clouding his vision.
"Ryn?" he croaked, voice cracked and small.
Ryn grunted. "Don't try to move. You're safe now." His hands were steady, unwavering, carrying him as if he weighed nothing at all.
The journey home was silent except for Gareth's uneven breathing and the soft rustle of Ryn's cloak. When they reached the house, the warmth of hearth and light spilled onto them, and Gareth's eyes widened as he caught sight of Ryn's wife, waiting anxiously.
Ryn lowered him to the floor gently, more careful than anyone would have expected from the man who could topple armies. "You'll rest now," he said, voice softer than ever. "I've got you."
Two weeks passed in a blur of sleep, warmth, and quiet care. Gareth awoke slowly, the blindfold long removed, the harsh edges of the prison a fading nightmare. His body was thinner than before, ribs pressing lightly against worn clothes, but his strength was returning, bit by bit.
The house was calm, the hearth warm, Ryn's wife tending quietly to meals and linens. No questions, no expectations—just patience. Gareth stretched slowly, feeling the stiffness in his muscles, the lingering ache of confinement.
By the end of the second week, the air outside called to him. Ryn's careful instructions had been clear: walk. Reacquaint yourself with the world. Face what comes.
Gareth stepped out, first into the garden, then down the narrow path leading into the streets of the nearby town. The sun felt sharper on his pale skin, the wind a stranger brushing against his face. But it wasn't the discomfort of sunlight or air that caught him—it was the people.
Whispers followed him like shadows. "That's… him," some muttered, eyes darting away. Others hurried past, faces averted. Gareth realized, with a quiet pang, that the news of his imprisonment—and whatever rumors had grown from it—had spread faster than he had imagined.
Yet not all were hostile. A few nodded politely as he passed, some offered cautious smiles, and here and there a child waved, curiosity more than fear in their eyes. And some, as indifferent as the wind, simply ignored him.
Gareth kept walking, careful not to let the stares pierce too deeply. Each step was a reclamation of himself, a reminder that though his body was thin, his spirit had not been broken.
By the time he returned home, the sun had dipped low, painting the streets in amber and shadow. He had walked far, yet felt the distance of the world's judgment pressing in on him. Still, a flicker of something stronger remained—something that would grow.
He would face this. He had survived worse.
And somewhere beneath it all, a quiet defiance burned: no reputation, no whisper, no fear could ever define him again.
A month had passed since Gareth's slow recovery. His body was still thin, but the strength in his limbs had returned enough for him to walk with purpose.
The morning air bit lightly at his skin as he approached the gates of the academy, each step carrying a weight of anticipation and unease.
The town had treated him coldly; whispers still followed him like shadows. But now, he was returning to the place that mattered most.
The academy's stone walls rose before him, familiar yet distant. As soon as he stepped onto the grounds, the reaction was immediate: students not in his class parted, avoided his gaze, crossing to the other side of corridors, muttering under their breath.
But then came Class 101. The moment Gareth entered the classroom, a wave of warmth and relief hit him. His classmates surged forward, arms wrapping around him in a protective, almost desperate embrace.
Lyra was there, pressed against him slightly longer than the rest. Her usual bright expression was gone, replaced by a softness edged with something heavier—sadness, worry, relief.
Her eyes met his, and in them, Gareth saw the reflection of everything he had endured: the prison, the weakness, the rumors. She looked almost… depressed.
"Gareth," she whispered, her voice sarcastic, "we thought we'd lost our punching bag."
He could only squeeze his eyes back in anger, but overwhelmed by the intensity of their collective welcome. Around him, the rest of Class 101 held tight, murmuring words of reassurance, laughter, and quiet teasing—all the normalcy that had been missing from his life for so long.
For the first time in weeks, Gareth felt… anchored. Not in the streets, not in the whispers, not in the fear—but here, among the people who had not abandoned him.
Joren who was walking by saw gareth and his eyes beamed with joy and he teleported some of the students outside with a snap of his fingers before catching Gareth by the shoulders.
Joren's black hair fell slightly over his brow, goggles pushed up. His usual smirk was there, but softer this time. For the first time in weeks, Gareth saw genuine warmth in his mentor's eyes.
"Honestly…" Joren said, voice low but steady, "I'm sorry I was hard on you that day. I thought—well, you know. I'm just glad you're back."
Gareth's lips twitched into a small, tired smile. Relief and something lighter—acceptance—stirred in him.
From the corner of the room, a student spoke up, hesitant but smiling. "He… he's been sad a little while you were gone. But now? He looks… normal again."
Joren chuckled, ruffling Gareth's hair slightly, careful not to hurt him. "Bro… normal's overrated. But you? Yeah, you're back, and that's enough for me."
Gareth's shoulders relaxed for the first time in weeks. The weight of fear, rumors, and misunderstanding lifted slightly. Around them, Class 101 shifted quietly, sensing the rare moment of calm between teacher and student.
"You… really didn't have to worry," Gareth murmured. "I'm… okay now."
Joren smirked again, but it was gentle this time. "Good. Because I've got plenty more lessons for you. Fun ones. Deadly ones. But… you'll survive. I'm curious like that."
As Gareth stepped fully into the classroom, Darius's eyes went immediately to him. His friend looked thinner than he remembered, still fragile from the ordeal. Every step Gareth took made Darius's chest tighten—not with fear of him, but with concern.
"Gareth…" Darius said softly, keeping his voice low so only he could hear. His hands clenched slightly at his sides. "You… you look like hell. Are you… okay man?".
When Gareth finally caught Darius's gaze, a faint, tired smile crossed his lips. Darius allowed himself a small nod, signaling silently: "I've got your back. Always."
Kael Draven stared at Gareth for a long moment, muttering under his breath, "Since when did this jerk get famous?" His eyes lingered on him a bit too long, betraying curiosity he didn't want to admit.
Then, louder, as if trying to mask it: "Gareth… what took you so long?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them. His face flushed; he cursed under his breath, "Damn it, mouth…"
With a quick shake of his head, Kael got to his feet, waved awkwardly at Gareth, and ducked out the classroom door, leaving a faint echo of his embarrassment behind.
The classroom was unusually quiet. Gareth slouched in his chair, boredom etched into every line of his face. Another lecture… another dull demonstration of magical theory, he thought, letting his gaze drift lazily to the ceiling. Couldn't they make this any more tedious?
From the corner, the female teacher fidgeted with her notes, distracted. Her voice wavered slightly, murmuring the words aloud without thinking:
"Eradicate…"
A chill rippled through the air, so cold and unnatural that every student froze mid-breath. The lights flickered; shadows seemed to stretch, darkening unnaturally.
From the emblem she held, a black, writhing mass of power erupted. It twisted into shape, forming a figure that hovered above the classroom floor. Its face was a void, hollow yet alive, resembling death itself — skeletal, infinite, and impossibly large.
Screams died in the students' throats. Their courage fled as the entity's gaze seemed to pierce straight into their bones, filling them with an ancient, nameless terror.
Gareth felt his heart pound. Even he couldn't shake the raw, primal fear that radiated from it.
And then....
A sudden snap of air, a distortion of space. Joren appeared from thin air beside the entity, black hair tousled, goggles tilted back, hands shoved casually into his coat pockets.
"Bro…" his voice drawled lazily, "this ain't your playground."
Before anyone could blink, he moved. Faster than thought, faster than sight, his hand shot forward and gripped the creature's face. With impossible strength, he slammed it into the stone wall. The echo of impact rattled the windows, dust and splinters falling like rain.
The entity's scream was a sound not meant for mortal ears — a shriek of eternity, pain, and rage all fused into one. Yet Joren didn't falter. With a casual flick of his wrist, he teleported the thing into the sky above the academy, where it writhed helplessly, suspended like a storm-cloud.
Without ceremony, Joren extended his hand, and a concentrated beam of Veil energy shot out, tearing through the entity and scattering it across the nearby field. Silence fell instantly, broken only by the ragged breathing of the students.
Joren landed lightly in the center of the classroom, hands still in his pockets, smirked faintly, and tilted his head at the trembling teacher.
"Next time… pay attention," he said, voice calm, almost bored. "Names aren't just words. Some of them bite back."
The female teacher swallowed hard, shaking slightly. The emblem in her hands had gone cold. "I… I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Yeah, yeah," Joren said, glancing at Gareth and the rest of Class 101. "Everyone alive? Good. Lesson learned? Probably not… but at least you'll remember the name Eradicate now."
Gareth blinked, staring at the empty space where the horror had been. His pulse was racing, his hands trembling, but one thing was clear: Joren wasn't just powerful—he was untouchable, unstoppable, and terrifyingly precise.
And somehow, that made him… safe
The classroom sat in stunned silence for a long moment, the echoes of Joren's casual destruction still ringing in their ears. Slowly, whispers began to spread like wind through the ruins of what had once been normality.
"Did… did you see that?" a quiet voice trembled. It was one of the newer students, cheeks pale, eyes wide. "He… he just—like, obliterated it…"
Talia Nyx, still gripping her knives, exhaled shakily. "I've fought monsters before. I've seen corruption, but… nothing like that." Her gaze flicked toward Gareth, who was staring blankly at the empty space where the entity had been.
Lyra leaned back against her desk, silent, thoughtful. Her blade still hummed faintly with residual Veil energy. "It's not just power," she murmured. "It's control. Absolute control. He doesn't just fight… he decides."
Draven's eyes narrowed, analyzing the classroom walls, the empty air where the shadow had hung, the way the debris was scattered. "That's not just skill. That's… mastery of Veil in a way textbooks don't teach. The Veil… it bends to him. Like the world itself is obeying."
A younger boy, barely fifteen, whispered to his neighbor, voice shaking, "So… the emblem… saying its name… it could've killed all of us?"
"Yes," another student muttered, trembling. "And it would have, if Joren hadn't shown up. I didn't even know something like that existed…" Their words hung in the air, a quiet acknowledgment of the academy's hidden dangers.
Gareth remained still, rubbing his temples, feeling the weight of the display. So that's the Veil's real power. Not just roots or blades, but bending reality… manipulating life and death itself. The realization made his fingers clench. He couldn't just train normally—he had to learn, adapt, survive.
Some of the older students began murmuring about Joren's history. Names like Veil Masters, Forbidden Trials, and Eradicate's cult drifted from lip to lip. Whispers of battles fought in distant lands, of students lost and recovered, of hidden emblems and veiled organizations—these weren't stories for children; these were warnings.
Lyra finally spoke, quiet but firm: "We can't just survive today. If these things exist… if he exists… we need to know why. We need to be ready."
Gareth's eyes flicked toward her, a silent understanding passing between them. He wasn't alone. Not entirely. Class 101 had seen him through everything before—now, they'd see this too.
Draven sighed, shaking his head, though the tension in his posture remained. "The academy teaches control, theory, combat… but today we learned the truth. The Veil doesn't just bend—it decides. And those who wield it… they decide who lives and who dies."
A murmur of agreement swept the room. The students weren't afraid of each other—they were afraid of what lay outside the textbooks, outside the structured lessons. A fear that was sharp, real, and cold—but one that would teach them more than any classroom ever could.
Gareth finally exhaled, lifting his gaze. The horizon outside the academy's windows seemed suddenly larger, darker, filled with possibilities and threats. And somewhere beneath it all, a spark of determination flickered.
The murmurs of the classroom faded behind them as Gareth stepped into the crisp afternoon air. The streets of the academy grounds were quiet now, the chaos of the morning reduced to whispers and awe lingering in the corridors.
Kael walked beside him, silent at first. His usual stoic expression was softened slightly, eyes scanning the empty path ahead. "Not bad… handling yourself back there," he muttered, voice low. "Most would've lost it."
Gareth glanced at him, feeling the weight of exhaustion mixed with a strange relief. "I had help," he said simply. No pride, no boasting—just truth.
Kael snorted, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah… well, don't get used to it. You still have a lot to catch up on."
The two moved side by side, their steps quiet against the cobblestones, the distance to Captain Ryn's home stretching ahead like a promise of rest and recovery. The warmth of the afternoon sun brushed over them, and for the first time in weeks, Gareth felt something almost normal: companionship.
Kael glanced at him once more. "Don't think this means you're out of trouble, Valven. But… at least you're walking."
Gareth let out a small laugh, tired but genuine. "Yeah… walking."
And together, they continued down the street, the academy fading behind them, the path ahead uncertain—but for now, shared.