The dojo was a controlled chaos. Dormant Awakened were scattered across the entire hall—some shrinking back in fear, others screaming like rabid fans watching a bloody spectacle.
At the center of the ring, three figures drew all the attention.
A massive man—wide as a bear—was desperately trying to separate the two youths in front of him. Instructor Rock roared orders, attempting to stop the situation from spiraling further out of control.
On the right, a blond young man stood in a combat stance, shoulders firm, expression stoic. His eyes didn't blink, locked onto his opponent.
On the other side, the opponent—a black-haired youth—displayed something far more terrifying.
His right arm.
The skin was darkened, almost like scorched leather. Coarse hair spread across his wrist and forearm. His muscles, taut like steel cables, pulsed with raw power.
Claws extended from his fingertips, long and sharp like razors.
The smell of blood—even if imaginary—seemed to radiate from him.
The killing intent was so intense that Eylan's neck muscles tensed reflexively the moment he stepped into the dojo.
Rock's shout thundered through the room:
"STOP! I said FALL BACK!"
The two ignored him. Bhetel advanced; Willian kept his guard tight, waiting.
Rock tried to break up the fight, but neither of them listened. Eylan watched the scene, stunned.
How had things gotten this far?
He approached one of the Dormant Awakened who was shouting excitedly, practically foaming with adrenaline.
"Hey," Eylan asked, tapping his shoulder. "What's going on here?"
The guy answered immediately, laughing:
"The instructor told us to start training! Bhetel stepped up, so they put Willian in to teach him a less—"
A roar cut him off mid-sentence.
Bhetel lunged like a wild beast. Rock reacted on instinct, throwing himself in front of Willian and using his own body as a shield.
"Willian, GET DOWN NOW! Or you'll be responsible for this!" he bellowed.
Willian cursed under his breath, snorted, and leapt out of the ring—but his expression was oddly irritated.
With the blond out of the way, Rock focused on Bhetel, who tried to tear at his skin with his claws. Only shallow scratches. For an Awakened of Rock's level, it was nothing.
Bhetel shifted his stance. His right hand rose, aiming straight for the back of Rock's neck—a killing blow.
But Rock moved.
The speed was so absurd it became a blur. In an instant, he seized Bhetel's warped wrist, lifted him into the air, and locked the arm in place.
The teenager thrashed like a trapped animal. Rock sighed—tired, but steady—and struck the back of his neck with pinpoint precision. Bhetel went limp instantly.
The monstrous arm began to recede, losing color and volume until it returned to normal.
No fur. No bulging muscle. No claws.
Carefully placing the boy on the mat, Rock raised his voice:
"Everyone straighten up. Class will continue as normal. And Willian… come here for a moment."
Now that the chaos was over, Rock looked visibly more relaxed.
Eylan sharpened his senses, trying to listen in.
When Willian approached, Rock began:
"The goal of this class is to teach you how to fight. Your purpose was to face your opponent—not humiliate him. Do you understand?"
Willian frowned, genuinely confused.
"Humiliate who? What are you talki—"
"No excuses. In any case, you're technically the winner, so return to the center of the ring." He said this while hoisting the unconscious Bhetel over his shoulder.
The blond stood there for a moment, indignant, then sighed in defeat and returned to the center.
It seemed like things had settled.
With the commotion over, Eylan approached Rock.
"Excuse me… are there still open spots in the course?"
Rock grinned and gave a thumbs-up.
"Always. But first, let's measure your strength. Come with me."
They walked over to the machine. Students rotated through the ring, training as the atmosphere slowly returned to normal—more or less.
On Rock's shoulder, Bhetel stirred. The instructor gently set him down.
Rock waited patiently for Bhetel to explain himself.
Eylan leaned in slightly.
"Are you… okay? Can I help?"
The answer, however, was anything but pleasant.
"I don't need your help… or your pity." Bhetel stared at him coldly.
Eylan felt irritation flare up on instinct. What kind of response was that to someone trying to be kind? But remembering what he knew about the boy's past, he chose to stay quiet.
"That's enough," Rock said firmly. "There's no reason to act like that."
Bhetel snapped:
"That guy talks about my family, and I'm the one in the wrong?! You should punish him, not me!"
The anger gave way to something heavier.
Melancholy. Raw pain.
Eylan looked away, uncomfortable. Whatever this was, it was too heavy.
According to Bhetel, the moment Willian stepped into the ring, he started joking about his family—and about how he had ruined his own life. That was the final straw for Bhetel, who had already been suffering because of the rumors.
Watching from the middle of the chaos, Eylan noticed something odd: earlier, Willian had genuinely looked confused by the scolding—almost as if he didn't know what Bhetel was talking about.
Still, Eylan didn't fully trust that conclusion. After all, he knew exactly what kind of bastard Willian Lupus was.
Thankfully, it wasn't his problem.
Rock ended the conversation and turned to Eylan.
"Eylan, throw the strongest punch you can."
Anxiety gripped him. He had never trained before—at most, he'd watched videos on how to punch. Honestly… he wasn't confident at all.
The machine displayed a number corresponding to the Dormant Awakened's physical strength.
In theory, a machine like that wasn't hard to build. But considering that many Awakened had combat-oriented Aspects that enhanced their strength in various ways, it was actually a marvel of engineering and durability.
Technique and training also affected the final result.
Most people were scoring between ten and fourteen. That was considered good—something only athletic individuals could achieve. However, many Awakened—obviously those with enhancement Aspects—could reach fifteen or even sixteen.
Eylan took a deep breath, stepped forward, and prepared himself.
Then an idea struck him.
He closed his eyes.
He tried to recreate the moment from his fight with Willian—that strange, almost unnatural sensation of power emerging from nowhere. Like an inner tide, silent at first, but inexorable, pulling his soul toward the depths.
An endless ocean unfolded before him.
The Sea of the Soul was calm, vast, and solemn, reflecting only the cold light of the silvery star suspended at its center. There was no wind. No waves. Just an ancient, crushing solitude hanging over the still waters.
Then, with a single thought, everything changed.
The surface began to move.
The tide, once low, slowly rose—and with it, something inside Eylan responded. It wasn't brute strength or immediate fury.
It was pressure.
Depth.
Weight.
The waves grew, crashing into one another, and the sky darkened. Lightning tore through the darkness—silent, yet heavy with intent. Still, it wasn't like before.
In the fight against Willian, it had felt like an entire storm was about to be born.
Now, it was different.
It was a restrained flood. The uneasy interval between high tide and low tide—a power present, but disciplined, forcibly contained.
Then, the Sea of the Soul split.
A fissure opened in the waters, deep as an abyss. Not large enough to swallow a ship like before… but more than enough to drag a small boat under without a trace.
Lightning descended from the blackened sky, reflecting off the turbulent waters.
Eylan felt that power flow through him—not as a direct physical impact, but as a deep, spiritual vibration. Every thought, every intention pulsed in sync with the rising tide.
And with it came anger.
Not explosive.
Not uncontrollable.
But dense. Ancient. Rising from the depths of his heart like an underground current. His mind began to empty, thoughts swept away one by one, until only hatred remained.
Then something gleamed.
A spark of clarity—fragile, but stubborn.
'My name…
What is my name?'
The question echoed, tearing through the void.
A voice—distant, yet unmistakable—called out to him, pulling him back before he could be completely lost.
'Tyrant…
You are the Tyrant of the Unreachable Sea…'
Eylan blinked.
The world snapped back into place. His thoughts, once slow and scattered, aligned instantly—fast and sharp like blades. The tide was still rising, threatening to overflow…
But now, he was in control.
Carefully, he took a deep breath and regulated the flow, absorbing that strength without letting it break past his limits.
The tide stabilized.
After nearly a full minute, he opened his eyes.
He was ready.
Normally, someone with his build wouldn't score more than ten or eleven. He knew that.
But now, a quiet certainty settled in his mind.
Twenty-two…
Maybe more.
He stepped forward.
His fist cut through the air with restrained violence and slammed into the metal plate.
Bang!
The impact echoed throughout the dojo.
The machine trembled, vibrating for a moment before settling down. Eylan let out a low groan as sharp pain shot through his fingers—his angle had been off, too much force in the wrong place.
Still.
It was worth it.
Rock's eyes widened briefly in surprise. Then a slow smile spread across his face.
"Twenty," he said, satisfied. "Not bad. Now… let's see how you do in a real fight. We'll evaluate your overall combat level."
Eylan clenched his fists.
The real test was only beginning.
Rock guided him toward the ring, where other students were already fighting.
The rules were simple: force your opponent's back to touch the ground or throw them out of the ring. Use any skills or techniques you deemed appropriate.
At the center, two youths were fighting.
Eylan narrowed his eyes.
Standing there was Willian.
Who looked… unnaturally handsome.
He faced a short-haired young man with tanned skin and a Mediterranean complexion that radiated vigor and endurance. The boy advanced quickly, feet barely touching the ground, movements fluid like a river weaving through rocks. Every step was precise, every strike full of intent.
Willian responded instantly.
A bluish aura condensed around his right arm, wrapping it like an invisible blade. He assumed a strangely familiar stance—not that of a normal brawler, but of someone wielding a sword only he could see.
And then it began.
Willian's arm moved with elegance and surgical precision, tracing smooth arcs through the air. Every attack was deflected at the last possible second, repelled by minimal—almost lazy—motions.
Perfect motions.
It was like watching a veteran swordsman toy with an impatient opponent.
Overwhelming strength.
Refined technique.
The tanned youth seemed to dance just to survive, twisting his body, retreating, lunging forward again in desperate attempts to break through that invisible defense. His attacks came in rapid sequences—punches slicing the air, kicks searching for openings.
But nothing got through.
Nothing touched Willian.
The tempo of the fight increased. The two became blurs to the spectators, footsteps echoing across the dojo floor, the air vibrating with every deflected impact. The audience could barely follow.
Then it happened.
A single, tiny mistake.
The young man shifted his weight a fraction of a second too early, his hip rotating more than necessary. It was imperceptible—
But fatal.
Willian saw it.
Without hesitation, he advanced.
His arm, wrapped in blue aura, struck in a short, direct motion, smashing into his opponent's abdomen with brutal precision. The impact rang sharply through the dojo. The youth lost his breath, eyes wide, and was hurled backward before crashing heavily onto the ring.
Silence.
Willian remained where he was, posture relaxed, expression unchanged. There was no triumph. No anger. No satisfaction.
Only indifference.
Not a single drop of sweat marred his skin.
A chill ran down Eylan's spine.
That wasn't just talent.
It was something far more dangerous.
"…What was his score?"
Eylan was shaken. Since when was that guy this strong?
Rock replied calmly:
"He scored nineteen."
Eylan swallowed.
'One point…
Even with my internally boosted strength… he's still on my level.'
As if sensing his gaze, Willian looked straight at him.
For a single second, the entire dojo seemed to fall silent.
Then everything returned to normal.
Rock placed a hand on Eylan's shoulder.
"Go on. Get up there. We'll wrap things up for today. Most of the Dormant Awakened have already finished their matches."
A knot formed in Eylan's throat.
'Am I really… going to fight him?'
The ring awaited him, silent, almost solemn.
And every eye was on him.
The tide within Eylan's soul rose subtly—not with power.
But with tension.
He took a deep breath.
And took his first step.