The remainder of the day was filled with training.
All eleven trainees pushed themselves relentlessly, testing the very boundaries of their Authorities. They fought not to find a winner, but to examine their convictions—to ensure those convictions were not half-baked ideals that would crumble under the weight of time.
And so, the day dwindled away.
It was past 8 p.m. when Itekan finally crawled into bed. His body ached far beyond what he had believed physically possible. He pulled off his shirt and flung it aside—
He had no idea where it actually landed.
Honestly, it felt wrong to hurt this badly. Moments like this made him miss Togira deeply. Togira would have been able to absorb his fatigue without complaint.
Just as he was about to fall asleep, a knock sounded at his door.
Grumbling, he forced himself upright and shuffled over, opening it on pure reflex.
The moment he did, all the exhaustion he'd felt evaporated like melting ice.
Of course it did.
Standing in the doorway was Konacho Ojoche, her expression troubled—tense.
Only then did Itekan remember that he was bare-chested.
Konacho's face flushed instantly, and the sudden heat in the air dragged his thoughts somewhere neither of them would have preferred.
"What are you doing!? Put on a f— shirt, you noob!" she snapped, desperately trying to maintain her usual air of superiority.
"Ah—give me a second!" Itekan yelped. "It's your fault for coming this late!"
"Why would you open the door half-naked!?" she shot back.
…Fair.
But he was far too tired to argue.
"Just give me a moment," he said, changing the subject as he grabbed a pair of pants. "I'll meet you guys outside."
He already knew why she was here.
Headmaster Kime must have told them about his promise. Not that it mattered—he'd planned to meet them tomorrow anyway.
"Don't be late, you dobe!" Konacho barked, cheeks burning as she slammed the door behind her.
Itekan stood there for a moment, wondering why he was truly suffering like this.
Despite his apathy, he arrived at the field exactly five minutes later.
Standing before him in the darkness were Konacho Ojoche, Jokovik Martennel, Great Man, and Illiopo Sengares.
Itekan slowed to a stop. Even under the cover of night, his naturally sharp eyesight caught the frustration etched into their faces—disappointment, irritation… even resentment.
It wasn't unfounded.
If he were in their place, he would have been annoyed too.
But he had underestimated just how deep that frustration ran.
"So it's you?" Illiopo said sharply. "You're the one who's supposed to teach us?"
The words landed like a blow.
Silence stretched between them.
Illiopo stepped forward, fists clenched, his breathing uneven.
"We've been given the same time as everyone else. The same conditions. The same explanations." His voice rose with each word. "And yet—nothing. Not even a hint."
Jokovik opened his mouth to respond, but Illiopo cut him off.
"Don't tell me to be patient," he snapped. "Don't tell me to keep trying. I have been trying."
Itekan met his gaze calmly.
"Effort alone isn't always enough."
That only made it worse.
"Then what is!?" Illiopo shouted. "Talent? Birthright? Some hidden enlightenment only a few of you stumble into?"
Great Man shifted, his massive frame tensing.
"Watch your tone."
Illiopo laughed bitterly.
"Why? Because I'm frustrated? Because I'm tired of being told to 'look inward' when there's nothing there?"
"There is," Jokovik said quietly. "But it doesn't come from forcing it."
Illiopo stared at him like he'd been betrayed.
"You're all so calm," he said. "Like this doesn't bother you. Like failing doesn't matter."
"It does," Itekan replied. "That's why rushing it won't help."
For a moment, it looked like Illiopo might listen.
Then his shoulders sagged.
"…No," he said softly. "I don't get it. And I don't think I ever will."
He turned away.
"Do whatever you want," he muttered. "I'm done chasing something that refuses to acknowledge me."
And with that, he left.
The sound of his footsteps faded into the night.
No one spoke.
The silence he left behind weighed heavier than his anger.
Konacho was the first to break it.
"…Even if we get nothing," she said quietly, "we still have to try."
The others turned to her.
"If we stop now," she continued, fists tightening, "then it really was all pointless."
Something loosened in Itekan's chest.
"…Thank you," he said.
He stepped forward, steadying himself.
"Alright," he said. "If you're staying, then listen."
They did.
"To me, power is adaptation," Itekan began. "My dad used to say—when you chase perfection, today's best must become tomorrow's mediocrity."
The three remaining trainees listened closely, searching for anything they might have missed—anything that could help awaken their Runes.
"To be honest," Itekan continued, "I don't know that much more than you do. But I think every time we use our Authority—our runes—we're declaring our worldview. We're affirming our ideology. Saying, this is right."
"We build those ideologies from everything we've seen, experienced, or been told our entire lives. That's why there's no single correct definition. Calling one wrong would mean denying someone's lived experience."
"There's no clear answer," he finished. "You don't have to reach the same meaning as anyone else. You just have to define it."
Konacho Ojoche listened in silence.
Looking back on her life, she realized she never should have come this far.
Of the fifteen trainees, she was the most ordinary.
She had the least potential for greatness. Even Candice surpassed her.
She'd been born without talent. And her tomboyish nature made it difficult to form lasting friendships.
As a child, she loved heroes. Loved fighting. Loved adventure.
But no matter how hard she tried, she could never keep up with the prodigies around her.
That was the truth.
She was normal.
In the grand scheme of things, almost useless.
She would have given up long ago—if she had, perhaps it wouldn't hurt this much now. Forgetting would have killed her dreams.
But she hadn't given up then.
And she absolutely wouldn't give up now.
She would fight—without graceful techniques or flashy abilities. With only her blades, her courage, and her unwavering aggression.
If the standard was one hundred, she would reach three hundred.
If the requirement was thirty saves, she would make ninety.
She wasn't a genius. She wasn't gifted.
She was just a human who didn't know when to quit.
To her, power was Endless Effort.
力（ちから）
Itekan smiled as he watched them weave through the hand seals.
Konacho wasn't the only one who had found something.
Jokovik Martennel and Great Man had also found their answers.
What is power to you?
He was glad he had fulfilled his role.
Even if not everyone had awakened—most had.
And now he finally understood why Headmaster Kime hadn't bothered teaching everyone individually.
Authority beckoned responsibility.
And not everyone was willing to accept that burden.
It was a stretch—but a true one.
Their responsibility was simple, yet immense: loyalty to their own worldviews.
They could never doubt themselves.
Because the moment they did, they would invalidate their very existence—and render their Authorities meaningless.
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Spiritual Energy (SE)
Spiritual Sea (SS)
Spiritual Signature (SST)