The training grounds had emptied, leaving behind only three figures who stood in the lingering silence of the arena. Dust still floated in the air, carrying the echoes of the battles fought. Joren stood with arms folded, his expression sharp and burning with self-assurance. Lyra remained calm, shoulders squared, though her eyes shimmered faintly as if some unseen weight pressed on her. And Zander, still catching his breath, tried not to look as ragged as he felt.
Across from them, Veylan stood tall, his frame like a monument carved out of war itself. Though he had suppressed his strength to the level of a Martial Master during the trials, the aura around him still carried the weight of a predator—danger coiled in every line of his body.
He let his gaze linger on the three of them, and when he spoke, his voice rolled low, steady, and heavy with intent.
"You've survived the first cut. Three out of eight. That means the rest of the world will now look at you as something more than students. You carry expectation—expectation heavy enough to bury you if you let it."
None of them replied. The silence pressed until it was almost unbearable.
Veylan's eyes settled first on Joren. "You fight with aggression and confidence. Fire is your tool, but also your mask. You rely too much on overwhelming force, too little on patience. Against weaker foes, it works. Against the Lygari, it will get you gutted. Restrain your ego, or it will strangle you before your enemy does."
Joren's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, though the flame dancing faintly along his palm betrayed his irritation.
Next, Veylan turned to Lyra. "Your telekinesis is raw but elegant. You don't force power—you guide it. That subtlety is rare. But you hesitate to wound. Against beasts or against men who seek to tear you apart, hesitation is death. You must learn to turn compassion into precision, or it will betray you."
Lyra dipped her head, her lips pressed tight. The faintest shimmer of color touched her cheeks, though whether from effort or his words, Zander couldn't tell.
Finally, Veylan's gaze locked onto Zander. "You."
Zander swallowed, straightening under the weight of it.
"You lack power. That is plain. But in the middle of a fight where most would crumble, you adapted. That last strike of yours—the twist, the vibration—it was crude, but it carried a truth worth pursuing. Don't abandon it. Dive deeper into it. Refine it until it becomes your edge, because right now, that is all you have."
The words cut, but Zander's chest swelled despite himself. Someone like Veylan had noticed.
Veylan clasped his hands behind his back, stepping closer. His tone hardened. "Remember this. The Lygari are not like us. Their bodies are weapons. Even without techniques, even without refinement, they can multiply their force threefold. Most of them can reach that level instinctively, where you bleed and break just to reach one measure. They are born predators. Humanity? We were born prey."
The words slammed into the three like a hammer.
Veylan's eyes sharpened. "Do not misunderstand me—I do not expect you to win. That is not the burden I give you. I expect you to fight well enough that the world cannot look at humanity as fodder anymore. History has already humiliated us once. You will give it no chance to repeat."
Silence reigned again. For a heartbeat, even Joren's arrogance dimmed beneath the weight of those words.
At last, Veylan stepped back. "The resonance vials are yours, but do not rush. Use them only when you stand against a wall you cannot break, when your body and mind have been tempered to the limit. Only then will the vial's resonance amplify your path instead of shattering it."
He let the words settle, then dismissed them with a nod. "Go. Train. Sharpen your edge. You will need it."
The three left the arena together, though not as companions. The hallway stretched long, lit by cold strips of artificial light. Zander walked a step behind the others, his mind still replaying Veylan's warning, his chest still aching from the fight.
He quickened his pace, sidling up beside Lyra. His heart stumbled in his chest, but he forced a grin, even though his face still had a bruise darkening near his jaw.
"Hey, uh—" His voice cracked, and he coughed to cover it. "You were… y'know, amazing back there. Like, scary amazing. But in a good way. Not like, scary scary, more like—"
Lyra glanced at him, lips curling faintly despite herself. "Thank you, Zander."
The simplicity of her words struck him harder than any of Veylan's blows. He nearly tripped over his own feet.
Before he could bumble out anything else, Joren's voice cut in like a blade.
"Pathetic." He didn't even bother looking back, his tone dripping disdain. "Trying to charm your teammate when you can barely stand after your fight. Maybe focus on not embarrassing yourself before you start handing out compliments."
Heat rushed to Zander's ears. His first instinct was to retort, but Lyra's hand flickered faintly with telekinetic energy, halting the angry words on his tongue. She gave him a tiny shake of her head—don't.
Zander exhaled sharply through his nose, clamping his mouth shut. Joren smirked, satisfied, and walked ahead without another word.
Later, when the others had gone their own way, Zander climbed the familiar worn steps to a quiet training hall tucked away in one of the compound's older wings. The smell of sweat, dust, and old wood greeted him, along with the steady presence of his teacher.
Slade sat cross-legged near the center, his broad frame deceptively still, eyes closed in meditation. His hair was streaked with gray, his features weathered like stone carved by years of storms. When Zander entered, Slade's eyes opened, sharp and clear.
"You fought Veylan today," he said, not as a question.
Zander nodded. "Barely made it through."
Slade studied him, then spoke with calm certainty. "You stand on the edge of something."
Zander blinked. "Edge of what?"
"Breakthrough." Slade rose slowly, his movements deliberate, controlled. "Most who reach Martial Master do so because their bodies, through years of conditioning, touch the threshold. Then, with a minor spark of enlightenment, they cross. That is the common way." He circled Zander like a wolf, his presence both comforting and oppressive. "But you, Zander—you do not have the best physique. Your body has not been tempered to the same standard as others. And yet…"
Slade's eyes narrowed, as if measuring something invisible.
"I estimate your force sits at eleven thousand newtons. That is past the threshold. Few reach that without enlightenment. Which means one thing—you are close."
For a moment, his expression flickered, though Zander didn't catch it. Usually, no one passes the nine-thousand threshold before stepping into Martial Master. Eleven thousand… this is unheard of. Perhaps the first time in human history. Should I report this?
The thought passed as quickly as it came, and Slade's voice regained its calm steadiness.
"Seek it. Find the truth hidden in that corkscrew force you felt. Catch the echo of it. Ride the current instead of swimming against it. When you do… you will not be knocking on the door of Martial Master. You will walk through it."
Zander bowed deeply, sweat dripping from his brow. "Yes, Sensei."
Slade's gaze lingered on him, then he turned back toward his meditation. Zander remained standing for a moment longer, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.
As he left the hall, his knuckles brushed against the rough wood of the doorway. He paused, then drew a sharp breath and struck the air with his fist, feeling for that spiral. The air shivered faintly, just enough to sting his bones.
Not yet. But close.
Very close.