The training hall was silent except for the steady hum of the lights above. Eight cadets stood in line, shoulders tight, eyes locked forward. The air smelled faintly of oil and steel, but underneath that was something sharper—anticipation, fear, and the simmering weight of what they all knew this day meant.
At the center of the hall stood a man unlike any of them. His arms were folded across his chest, his presence commanding in a way that was not born of mere physical strength but from the certainty of someone who had walked through fire and returned with scars. His hair was streaked with silver, his jaw marked with a faint scar, his eyes sharp enough to make even the boldest flinch.
When he spoke, his voice carried with the weight of unshakable truth.
"I am Instructor Veylan. Some of you know the stories. Some of you don't. What matters is that I have walked battlefields where beasts the size of houses roared, and I am still standing." He let his gaze sweep across the eight, stopping just long enough on each to make their throats tighten. "I will test you today. You will face me one by one. I will lower myself to the level of a Martial Master—make no mistake, that is still a storm you are not ready for. You will go all out. Hold nothing back. Fail to do so, and you waste my time."
His voice deepened. "Only three will walk away with the Resonance Vial. The rest will return to training."
The reminder hit Zander like a blow to the gut. The Resonance Vial. He needed it. Without it, he couldn't hope to push beyond the invisible wall he kept crashing into. Without it, he wouldn't stand a chance when the Lygari arrived.
Veylan's hand gestured casually. "Step forward, Joren."
The fire-eyed cadet smirked as though he had been waiting for this moment. He strode into the open space, confidence radiating off him. Heat shimmered around his body, his fists glowing as flames licked to life.
Zander swallowed. He knew Joren's strength. He had always been a step ahead—stronger body, sharper mind, and that cursed fire affinity that made him burn brighter than most.
Without a word, Joren lunged, the ground cracking under his feet. His fist came blazing forward, trailing fire.
Veylan raised a single hand and caught it. The flame hissed against his skin, but he didn't flinch. With a twist of his wrist, he used Joren's momentum and hurled him across the floor. Joren rolled, teeth bared, flames surging hotter.
"Not bad," Veylan said calmly.
Joren roared, charging again. A flurry of fiery strikes rained down, turning the space into an inferno. Sparks danced in the air, the floor scorched black. The other cadets instinctively stepped back from the heat.
But Veylan walked through the storm as if it were nothing. His arm moved once—a precise strike to Joren's gut—and the boy collapsed to his knees, coughing smoke, his fire sputtering out.
"Raw power is not enough," Veylan said flatly, looking down at him. "Learn control."
Joren clenched his fists but said nothing as he staggered back to the line, rage burning in his eyes.
The silence stretched until Veylan's gaze slid to the next cadet. "Draven."
Draven exhaled once, stepping forward. His stance was low, his movements steady. He looked like stone carved into a boy's body.
Veylan moved first, a lightning-quick jab to the chest. The impact echoed. But instead of collapsing, Draven's body trembled, the force rippling through him.
Then he released it back in a single punch. The air cracked as Veylan was forced a step backward, his brow lifting slightly.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Draven pressed on, absorbing each blow, then redirecting it, his body like a spring coiling and uncoiling. For a moment, it looked like he might even push Veylan into a corner.
But the instructor shifted tactics, feinting blows and pulling back. Draven absorbed nothing, his rhythm breaking. He hesitated for one beat too long. That was all it took.
Veylan slipped past his guard, his palm slamming down on Draven's shoulder with surgical precision. The boy hit the floor, gasping, his arm useless at his side.
"You rely too much on your enemy's generosity," Veylan said. "A clever opponent will give you nothing."
Draven dragged himself up, pride stinging worse than pain, and limped back to the line.
Then came Selene.
She walked with grace, each step deliberate. The moment she crossed into the fighting space, the air shifted. Zander blinked. His chest tightened. His thoughts blurred. There was something intoxicating about her presence.
"Pheromones," he realized, forcing himself to breathe.
Even Veylan hesitated for half a second. His eyes softened, his hand twitching. Selene's lips curved into a faint smile.
"You don't need to fight me," she said softly. "Just… rest."
For the briefest moment, the impossible seemed to happen: Veylan's body slackened, his guard lowering. The cadets held their breath.
Then the haze shattered. Veylan's eyes hardened, his aura flaring. In an instant, he moved. Selene's eyes widened just before his hand chopped the side of her neck, and she crumpled into unconsciousness.
He caught her, lowering her gently to the ground. "A dangerous gift," he said, his voice stern but not unkind. "But power that bends others without true skill will betray you."
He signaled for her to be carried aside, then turned. "Next. Callan."
Zander's stomach tightened as his friend stepped forward. Callan rubbed his palms together nervously, then clenched his fists. The floor beneath his feet began to hum, screws and bolts rattling loose.
"Alright, Cal," Zander muttered under his breath. "Show him."
Callan thrust out a hand. A wave of magnetic force sent screws and fragments darting through the air like a storm of shrapnel. Veylan batted them aside, unimpressed, but Callan didn't let up. He bent pipes from the wall, twisting them into spears, flinging them forward.
For a moment, the sheer unpredictability forced Veylan to take a step back.
But it didn't last.
Veylan blurred forward. Callan tried to repel him with a magnetic pulse, but the instructor slipped past it, his kick catching Callan square in the chest. He skidded across the floor, coughing.
Still, he pushed himself up, defiance in his eyes.
Veylan gave a small nod. "You think creatively. But creativity without endurance won't win a real fight."
Callan staggered back, sweat dripping, shooting Zander a wry smile. "Guess it's your turn, huh?"
Zander swallowed hard as Veylan's gaze locked on him. "Step forward."
The room seemed to shrink. Every beat of his heart echoed in his ears. He stepped into the center, fists tightening, every ounce of training, every sleepless night burning in his veins.
"Show me," Veylan said, settling into stance.
Zander exhaled and launched forward. His fist shot out in a crisp strike, his body flowing into a follow-up kick. Veylan blocked both effortlessly.
He's too fast.
Zander spun, chaining his techniques, his Heavenbreaker Fist crashing against Veylan's guard. The impact rattled the ground but didn't move him an inch.
Then came the counters. Sharp jabs grazed his ribs. An elbow snapped across his jaw. Pain flared, but Zander gritted his teeth.
I can't keep up…
Then he felt it.
A tremor beneath his feet—the faintest shift of weight as Veylan pressed into the ground. The vibration whispered to him. It told him where the strike was going before it came.
Zander's eyes widened.
The next punch shot toward his head, but he ducked a fraction early, the fist passing just above him.
Gasps echoed from the cadets.
Veylan's brow furrowed. "You sensed that?"
Zander didn't answer. He moved, reading the tiny quakes, the ripples of motion that passed through the floor. Each vibration gave him a sliver of warning. Enough to survive.
He twisted into a hook, his fist crashing forward. Veylan blocked, eyes sharp now, studying him.
Then the instructor accelerated. His movements blurred, his foot slamming into the ground. The vibrations surged toward Zander like a wave.
He felt it—too late.
The blow roared toward his chest. Zander twisted desperately, his body screaming in protest—