Rowan Mercer let the silver guardian fade, its broad shape dissolving into drifting light as the pressure in the clearing finally eased.
So this world really does have things worth learning, he thought.
This was only the first institute he'd visited, and he'd already encountered a discipline that directly strengthened the soul itself. If this place could offer something like that, then the other groups Marcus had mentioned wouldn't disappoint either. The trip was already paying for itself.
Marcus Hale stared at the space where the guardian had stood, then at Rowan, his expression somewhere between disbelief and frustration.
"What even was that?" Marcus said. "A… panda? You're not exactly subtle. And I thought you said you grew up around the capital."
Rowan chuckled. "People from the capital are allowed to like things from elsewhere."
Marcus shook his head. His earlier soul projection had been completely neutralized, every strike intercepted by that absurdly solid guardian. No matter how he attacked, it simply stood there, immovable, absorbing everything like a wall with a heartbeat.
"All right," Marcus said at last. "That thing of yours isn't breaking, and I can't touch you while it's out. Call it a draw."
"Agreed," Rowan said easily. "I can't press an attack while maintaining it either. No point dragging this out."
Marcus nodded, then went still as his awareness fully returned to his body. He opened his eyes and walked back toward Rowan, rolling his shoulders.
"I didn't expect overseas techniques to counter my projection so cleanly," he admitted. "Guess I was getting ahead of myself."
A sudden presence dropped into the clearing.
"Now you understand what it means to have limits."
Marcus jumped so hard he nearly left the ground.
Behind him stood a middle-aged man with a thick beard and a calm, heavy presence that pressed down on the air around him. His gaze flicked from Marcus to Rowan, sharp and assessing.
"Strutting around after learning one advanced technique," the man said dryly. "No wonder your training's been sloppy."
"Supervisor!" Marcus laughed nervously. "I was just—"
The man flicked Marcus on the head. Hard.
Marcus hit the ground with a groan.
"You've barely stabilized that projection," the man continued. "If he hadn't chosen defense over offense, you'd be in real trouble right now."
Rowan stepped forward and inclined his head politely. "Rowan Mercer. Pleasure to meet you."
The man studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Lewis Grant. I oversee his training."
The speed with which Grant had arrived hadn't escaped Rowan's notice. Compared to Marcus, the difference was stark. This wasn't just seniority. It was experience.
"I appreciate the restraint," Grant said. "Your guardian technique is defensive by nature. You weren't trying to win. Just to measure."
"That's right," Rowan replied. "It's designed to protect against mental intrusion. It doesn't excel at offense."
That was technically true. The fact that he could alter it if he wanted wasn't something he felt the need to share.
Grant's eyes lingered on Rowan for a moment longer, then softened slightly. "Vivian Bellamy's brother, correct? I didn't realize you were… like us."
"Most of my family doesn't know," Rowan said calmly. "I'd appreciate it staying that way."
Grant nodded. "Perfectly understandable. This world isn't safe for bystanders."
Marcus groaned from the ground. "Supervisor, we were just sparring. No damage done. You were heading to give a lecture anyway, right?"
Grant snorted. "Watch yourself. One more stunt like this and you'll be copying training manuals until midnight."
He turned back to Rowan, exchanged a final nod, and left as quietly as he'd arrived.
Marcus sat up and rubbed his head. "Worth it," he muttered.
Rowan smiled faintly.
After a moment, Marcus looked at him with renewed interest. "You know, with your level of control, you should consider attending the Grand Convergence next week."
"The Grand Convergence?" Rowan repeated.
He'd seen the term mentioned in passing while browsing the forum earlier, but hadn't looked into it.
"This one's different," Marcus said, suddenly animated. "A real prize on the line. Julian Bellamy's old rival put up something extraordinary for the winner."
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "And that would be?"
"A technique that lets you construct complex sigils instantly," Marcus said, eyes bright. "No setup. No preparation. Things that normally take hours can be done in moments. And not just once. Over and over."
That caught Rowan's attention.
"So it's not just a trick," he said. "It's a fundamental shortcut."
"Exactly," Marcus said. "Even people who don't specialize in that field would kill to study it."
Rowan thought back to Marcus's earlier dismissive attitude toward such practices, and noted the contrast. Whatever this prize was, it clearly sat in a different league.
"In that case," Rowan said, "I'll go."
Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't get your hopes up. I'm attending on behalf of this place, and even I'm not expecting to win. It's more about seeing what the younger generation across the country can do."
"That suits me fine," Rowan replied.
Understanding the landscape mattered more than trophies.
"How do I register?" Rowan asked.
"No rush," Marcus said. "Anyone under thirty qualifies. We'll head there together and sign up on-site."
Rowan nodded. "Then I'm in."
Marcus grinned. "Good. Beats going alone."