James stood under the blistering sun, sweat clinging to his skin, shoulders tight from a second round of stances that felt more like punishment than training. Instructor Khorin paced behind the line of students, silent as ever, his boots crunching softly against the gravel of the outdoor court. The dull training rods hung at every student's side, weighed more by expectation than mass. When he barked the next command, they moved again.
Thrust. Step. Guard. Reset.
James's body moved on instinct, no thought involved, just rhythm and repetition. Each motion slid easier than the last. The ache in his arms was real, but distant, as if his muscles burned with warmth, not fatigue. He adjusted his grip on the rod slightly, tested the movement again, and felt the motion flow through his body like something remembered, not learned.
The Solar Core System pulsed once—subtle, quiet. No screen this time, just that heat in his chest and a faint tugging sensation across his spine, like something was aligning behind his skin. He didn't react, not outwardly. But he felt it. Stronger. Clearer.
Someone fell out of stance to his left, huffing. Khorin didn't yell. He just paused by the student, jotted something down on his slate, and moved on. No scolding. No second chances.
James didn't falter.
Another cycle of drills passed. Then another. By the time the sun tilted westward, half the class was slumped against the outer wall, groaning. James remained on his feet, chest rising and falling steadily, rod still clutched in both hands.
"You keep going like that," someone muttered, "they'll send you back to the elite track."
James turned, only to find the silver-haired boy from before staring at him with something that wasn't quite annoyance.
"I'm Kael," the boy said, rolling his shoulder. "You're not normal. You were supposed to blow up and vanish. But here you are."
"Sorry to disappoint."
Kael snorted. "Not disappointed. Just curious."
James gave a faint nod, but didn't say more. The sun dipped further. Evening bells chimed from the main spire.
The next day's schedule arrived via slate. It read simply: "Group Combat Practical."
James stared at it for a moment, then slid it into his coat.
Combat class was held in one of the secondary domes, its interior lined with shielding glyphs and containment barriers. The ring was circular, wide enough for four-on-four skirmishes, with levitating screens floating above to track vitals and motion signatures.
James stood in line with three others—two upper-year D-Class boys who barely acknowledged him, and Kael, who smirked like he enjoyed the smell of violence in the air.
Opposite them stood another four—general track students as well, but built like they belonged in the Knight Division, even if they didn't have the rankings to show it. One of them, stocky and broad-chested, cracked his knuckles loud enough to echo.
"Try not to cry, Dormant," he called to James.
The system stirred. Not a screen, just sensation. A tightening. A weight settling into his arms and back. Kael didn't say anything, but shifted slightly into a forward stance. The signal tone chimed once. Then the instructor's voice echoed through the chamber.
"Begin."
James didn't charge. He watched. Waited.
The first clash came from Kael—clean, efficient, a feint followed by a backstep and sweep. It caught one of the larger boys off guard. The others converged fast. Too fast for it to be random. They'd planned it—go after James.
One came in low. James stepped back. The rod swung. He blocked.
But the impact jolted up his arm harder than expected, and his grip slipped.
The second attacker lunged—
And something in James snapped into place.
Heat surged from his spine. Not fire, not Aether, but force. Like the world beneath his feet decided to push back on his behalf. His hand tightened. Rod steadied. He spun with the motion instead of resisting it.
The blow glanced past him. He brought the rod down in an arc and cracked it against the boy's ribs.
Not hard enough to break. But hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
The other boy hesitated just a second too long.
James stepped in and drove his shoulder into him, not elegant, but efficient. The hit knocked the attacker back two steps. His breath caught in his own chest, not from exhaustion—but realization.
The warmth had returned.
And with it—
[Solar Core Sync – 9%]
Combat Pressure Detected. Adrenal Response Channeled.
Temporary Boost Activated: Strength +2 / Reaction Speed +1 (3 Minutes)
No time to read it all. He was moving again, faster than before. Kael took down his second target with a brutal spinning kick. The other two backed off. The match was called.
"Match over," the instructor said, tone unreadable.
James lowered his rod.
He was breathing hard, but not because he was tired.
He felt alive.
As the others filed out, Kael lingered beside him.
"You've got something," he said, almost conversational. "Whatever it is, it's waking up."
James looked at him. "You're not surprised."
"I've seen weird things before. My brother awakened late. Came out of a coma with lightning in his blood." He paused. "But you… you smell like something old."
James didn't know what to say to that.
Kael just patted his shoulder once and walked off.
James turned toward the wall, leaned against it, and let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
Somewhere deep below, the dragon egg pulsed once.
The crack on its surface widened.