The training hall was empty, silent except for the faint hum of mana-charged machines. Raviel stood in the center, sweat dripping down his temple, his chest rising and falling in sharp rhythm.
He tapped his Arctic, scrolling until he found a track buried in his playlists—a song with fast beats, pounding percussion, and sharp vocals that clawed at the edges of hope and fury. Something that felt like fighting back when you had nothing left.
The speakers crackled to life, filling the hall with sound that made the air itself pulse.
Raviel rolled his shoulders once, twice, then walked to the sparring dummy. It was sleek—metal core wrapped in mana-absorbent material, glowing faintly as its systems activated. He set it to D-rank.
The moment the dummy came alive, it lunged.
He didn't even last a second.
The first strike smashed into his ribs, sending him sprawling back. The second caught his jaw, making his teeth rattle. Raviel gasped, staggering to his feet, raising his fists in a crude guard—only to be knocked flat again.
"Pathetic…" he spat blood to the side, anger twisting his face.
The dummy reset to idle stance, awaiting his return.
Raviel pushed himself up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and whispered—
"Mindlock."
The world snapped.
Noise vanished. Pain dulled. The beat of the music became a metronome in his skull, syncing with his heartbeat. Every motion of the dummy slowed just enough for him to see—the shift of weight, the telegraphed strike, the margin for counters.
This time, when the dummy lunged, Raviel twisted sideways. A knee brushed past his ribs instead of crushing them. His fist shot forward—awkward, stiff—but it landed.
The next exchange was better. Then the next.
His movements began to stitch together, fragments of Krav Maga, the fluidity of Systema, the punishing strikes of Muay Thai. Sloppy at first, but every exchange honed them sharper. Every strike he took, he adapted. Every failure, he recalibrated.
The dummy pummeled him, again and again, but each time his body learned—his fists learned. Until the rhythm of the sparring wasn't one-sided anymore. Until Raviel's knuckles smashed into the dummy's head with enough force to stagger it back.
But it wasn't enough.
He wanted more.
He needed more.
As the dummy advanced again, Raviel clenched his fist, dragging on something he couldn't explain. A memory? A spark? A pull deep within his chest.
At first—nothing. Just empty air.
Then—a crackle.
Blue-white electricity danced across his knuckles, hissing against sweat. Raviel's eyes widened, but instead of stopping, he leaned in. He imagined pulling harder—dragging something unseen into his hand, condensing it into the strike.
The electricity warped. Black flames licked across his fist, devouring the light. The air bent around it, warped by sudden weight. Gravity. Lightning crackled inside the darkness, trapped and thrashing like a beast in a cage.
Raviel stared, breath caught in his throat. He didn't understand how. He didn't care.
It felt right.
With a roar, he slammed his fist forward.
The impact detonated like a thunderclap, black fire flaring outward as the dummy's chest caved inward with a shuddering crack. Sparks burst from its joints, the mana shielding shattering like glass. The machine staggered, frozen mid-motion, before collapsing in ruin.
Silence.
Raviel lowered his fist, watching the faint black flames die out, the last crackles of lightning crawling across his knuckles. His chest heaved, sweat and blood dripping onto the floor.
Slowly, a thin smile tugged at his lips.
"…Voidstrike," he whispered. The name fit.
It wasn't perfect—not yet. It felt unstable, raw, something that could tear him apart as easily as his enemy. But it was his.
For the first time since he'd arrived in this world, Raviel didn't just feel like prey scrambling to survive.
He felt like a predator.
The ruined dummy lay crumpled at his feet, sparking faintly. Raviel stood over it, chest heaving, his right hand trembling as faint static crawled across his skin.
But instead of satisfaction, he only felt… hunger.
"That can't be it," he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing at his hand. "Once isn't enough. Not even close."
He walked back to the control panel, jaw clenched, and raised the setting.
D+ rank.
The sparring dummy rebooted, its mana shielding stronger, movements sharper, faster. It loomed over him, stance fluid and dangerous.
Raviel cracked his neck once, then raised his fists.
The dummy struck first. A sweeping kick whistled toward his ribs—he barely twisted in time, the impact grazing instead of breaking. His counterpunch landed, but this time the dummy hardly budged. The difference in rank was immediate, punishing.
Raviel gritted his teeth.
"Voidstrike."
He pulled again—desperate, focused—but nothing answered. Just the echo of strain in his chest, the ache in his knuckles. He dodged another strike, tried again, and this time lightning snapped weakly across his skin before flickering out.
"Damn it!" He ducked, rolled, slammed his fist into the dummy's abdomen—solid, unimpressed.
Again, he reached for it. That something inside him. Sometimes he felt it, a tug in his core like gravity bending, a storm begging to be unleashed. Other times—nothing, as if he were clawing at shadows.
Minutes blurred. His body screamed. Bruises bloomed across his ribs, his jaw ached, his shoulders burned. But he refused to stop.
And then—finally—black fire flared.
Lightning and gravity fused in his fist again, violent and unstable. He struck, and the impact blasted the dummy back three steps, its shielding flaring red in warning.
Raviel stumbled, panting, nearly collapsing to his knees.
"…So it's not guaranteed," he whispered between ragged breaths. "I can't… control it. Not yet."
The dummy reset and charged again. Raviel tried to raise his guard—but this time, his body simply didn't respond fast enough. A punch slammed into his stomach, folding him over, sending him sprawling to the floor.
For a long moment he just lay there, coughing, spitting out a thread of blood.
Then he dragged his trembling hand across his Arctic, opening his status screen.
Raviel's vision swam, but the stats burned clear. He clenched his fists.
"…No. That doesn't make sense." His voice was hoarse, but cold. "I shouldn't even be able to stand against D+… let alone fight it head-on."
Every strike proved the same thing—his body was fighting far above what his rank said it should. Not cleanly, not perfectly—but enough. Enough to survive, to push, to even damage a D+ ranked dummy with his bare fists.
It gnawed at him.
"What the hell am I?" he whispered, staring at the faint traces of black fire still dancing across his knuckles.
He thought back to today, to Wilson's terrified face, to Chimera's cold message, to the butterfly on his hand. To every moment that led him here.
The world had already told him one thing: he didn't belong.
And yet here he was, standing toe-to-toe with something his stats swore he shouldn't even touch.
Raviel wiped the blood from his mouth, eyes narrowing as the sparring dummy advanced again.
"Fine," he growled, forcing himself upright despite the pain. "If the stats don't explain it… then I'll find the truth myself."
He clenched his fists. The lightning flickered again. A hint of black flame curled in his palm.
"Voidstrike."