Gray felt every eye lock onto him as he stepped into the circle. The air seemed to grow heavier, pressing in on him, though he knew it was just the weight of his own nerves coiling tight in his gut. His opponent, a girl with a frame so thin it looked brittle and a mess of cropped brown hair, looked even more terrified than he felt. She trembled visibly, her hands balled into weak, ineffective fists at her sides.
The instructor raised a hand. "Remember: The basic manipulation of Vyre is permitted. The use of your innate Affinity is not. Begin."
The girl let out a shaky, audible breath and charged. It was a clumsy, headlong sprint, her guard nonexistent. Gray blinked, his mind stuttering for a moment, unsure if this was a feint or sheer desperation.
At the last possible second, he sidestepped with a simple, fluid motion, murmuring a quiet, "Sorry," under his breath. Then, almost reluctantly, smacked her on the back of the head with his wooden katana. The contact was feather-light, but it was enough. Her eyes rolled back, showing the whites, and she crumpled to the ground like a discarded puppet.
A wave of gasps and sharp whispers swept through the students. Gray's jaw tightened into a hard line. He hadn't wanted to humiliate her; it felt cruel. But he could tell in this place, mercy was a luxury that looked like weakness. He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect that felt hollow, and quietly walked out of the circle, the silence at his back louder than any cheer.
Students were paired and dispatched with swift finality. Some matches were savage, drawn-out brawls that left both participants bloodied and panting. Others were laughably short, over in a blink. The losers, their faces etched with exhaustion and simmering frustration, were forced to fight among themselves for a chance to re-enter the main bracket, their movements growing more strained and desperate with each effort.
As the numbers dwindled, more instructors arrived, their dark uniforms lining the edges of the courtyard like a jury of statues. They stood with arms crossed, their gazes sharp, evaluating, missing nothing. The tension built, a wire being drawn tighter and tighter as fewer and fewer students remained standing.
Gray's second fight came against a heavyset boy wielding a large, two-handed practice hammer. The boy's face was set in a grimace of determination. The match began with brutal force, the hammer crashing against the ground with enough concussive power to rattle Gray's bones and send clods of dirt flying. Gray gave ground, keeping his distance, his every sense focused on the rhythm of the boy's attacks. He could see the frustration building in his opponent's eyes with each missed swing. Then the moment came—the boy overextended, putting all his weight into a mighty overhead strike. The hammerhead embedded itself deep into the dirt, stuck for a half-second too long. It was all the opening Gray needed. He lunged forward, swept the boy's supporting leg out from under him with a precise kick, and as he fell, landed a sharp, controlled strike to the sternum. The boy fell hard, the air whooshing from his lungs in a pained cough, and did not rise.
Another, deeper murmur rose through the crowd. This was no fluke. Gray exhaled slowly, the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding shuddering out of him.
On and on the battles raged, the pool narrowing relentlessly until only four combatants remained: Gray, Lira, Aurelle, and the fierce Kaelith girl. And, of course, Kaelen, the white-haired boy, who stood apart from them all, watching the final selections with that same faint, unsettling smile, as if privy to a private joke.
The instructor, Korbin, clapped his hands once, the sound cracking through the courtyard. "Enough. The rest of you will continue among yourselves. These four will advance to the semi-finals." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the finalists. "This time, the use of your Affinities is permitted. Show us the full measure of what you've learned. Show us what you truly are."
A palpable stir, a mix of excitement and fear, ran through the crowd. Allowing Affinities changed everything. This was no longer a test of mere skill; it was a revelation of inherent power.
His opponent was already waiting. She was tall and moved with a predator's grace that made her thin frame seem deceptive. Her hair was a pale, almost silver blonde, pulled back in a severe, practical knot that sharpened the angles of her face. Her eyes, a pale, piercing blue, were fixed on him, and though they glinted with fierce focus, he could see the faint, telltale tremor in her balled fists. She looked as nervous as he felt, but she was doing a better job of hiding it behind a mask of cold intensity.
The instructor's voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd. "Remember: Vyre is permitted. Affinity is aswell. Begin."
The girl—a Kaelith, he recalled from the earlier bouts—did not waste time on a clumsy charge. She let out a controlled breath and lunged, her movement a fluid, efficient strike. Gray blinked, parrying the blow, but staggered under the surprising force behind it. She was fast, her footwork precise, and each of her strikes carried a strength that made his arms ache with the effort of blocking.
"I am Elara," she stated, her voice as cool and sharp as her gaze, not breaking the rhythm of her assault. "I would know the name of the one who i am fighting."
"Gray," he grunted, deflecting a jab aimed at his throat. He tried to close the distance, to get inside the reach of her longer limbs, but she pushed him back with a series of brutal, short-range kicks. Her style was relentless, aggressive, designed to overwhelm and intimidate. The crowd whispered, sensing a shift.
Gray's teeth clenched. He was holding back, and it was costing him. To use his affinity here, in front of everyone… was it worth the risk? The attention it would draw?
His hesitation created an opening he didn't see.
A sudden, unnatural chill prickled at his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. His next exhale misted in the warm air, a tiny cloud of vapor. Gray's eyes widened as Elara's movements, for a fraction of a second, seemed to slow. Her blade lowered a hair's breadth, her body tensing in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion. Something was wrong.
'What the—'
Then he saw it—her pale blue eyes were now glowing with a faint, internal light, like chips of arctic ice. Her left hand was extended slightly, fingers trembling minutely as traces of raw Vyre, visible as shimmering distortions in the air, thinned out from her palm and seeped into the ground at his feet.
He looked down. A thin, almost transparent layer of ice was crawling up his boots, locking his ankles to the packed earth. Panic, cold and sharp, stabbed through him. He tugged, but his feet were held fast, the ice hardening with terrifying speed.
'Shit! It makes sense, her affinity must be ice. Not good not good!
Elara's lips curled into a cold, triumphant smirk. She didn't need to announce her victory. She dashed forward, blade a silver arc aimed at his immobilized form. Gray had barely enough time to wrench his upper body and raise his left arm in a desperate block. The impact was brutal, sending a jolt of screaming pain through his wrist and forearm. He heard a sickening crunch, and his left arm fell to his side, numb and useless.
A unified gasp echoed through the courtyard. This was it. He was finished.
Elara pressed her advantage, her blade swinging in sharp, efficient arcs meant to finish the fight. Gray ducked and weaved, his world narrowing to the whistle of steel passing inches from his face. He couldn't keep this up. He was trapped, half-beaten, and seconds from defeat.
And then… a strange calm settled over him.
The panic receded, smothered by a sudden, profound steadiness. He narrowed his gaze on Elara, analyzing her approach, the confident set of her shoulders, the slight over-extension in her lunge. She thought she had already won.
As she committed to another strike, Gray let the tension fall from his shoulders. He raised his good right hand, palm open. He focused inward, reaching for the familiar, coiled darkness that lived deep within his core. It answered eagerly, a well of power that was both terrifying and comforting. It flared to life, hungry and immediate.
A sphere of pure, light-devouring black Vyre, no larger than his fist, erupted from his palm. It didn't roar or blaze; it shot forward in utter silence, a void that streaked through the air and slammed into Elara's face, not as a physical blow, but as an sensory attack.
She screamed, a raw sound of shock and terror, stumbling backward. Her vision had been utterly overwhelmed by the sudden, absolute void. She slashed wildly at the empty air around her, her perfect form shattered into clumsy, panicked swings.
"Fuck! My eyes! What the fuck was that!"
Gray didn't hesitate. He focused his own Vyre into his legs, the muscles bunching and shattering the thin ice around his boots with a crack. He surged forward, spinning around her blind side. He drove his fist hard into her liver. She gasped, the air rushing from her lungs, her body folding involuntarily. He followed through with a sharp, driving blow to her solar plexus, and then pivoted on his heel, putting the weight of his body behind a final, open-palmed strike to her shoulder.
A sickening, dry crack split the air, louder than any gasp from the crowd. Elara cried out, a sharp, pained sound, her eyes wide with shock and betrayal as she collapsed to her knees, clutching her mangled shoulder.
The courtyard went utterly, profoundly silent.
Gray stood over her, chest heaving, each breath a ragged burn in his throat. His right knuckles were split and aching, and his left hand throbbed with a deep, nauseating pain. The adrenaline began to recede, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his good hand to help her up.
"Don't touch me," she spat, her voice trembling with a fury that was sharper than any blade. She shoved herself to her feet using her good arm, her face a mask of pale pain and humiliation, and stormed off without a backward glance, clutching her injured shoulder.
The silence broke in a wave of frantic, hushed murmurs. They were looking at him differently now. No longer just the quiet, reluctant fighter, but as something else. Something dangerous.
And then came the sound of slow, deliberate clapping.
The white-haired boy stood among the crowd, his hands meeting with a measured, isolating rhythm. His smile was thin, a mere curl of the lips that didn't reach his cold eyes. "An excellent performance," he said, his voice carrying easily over the whispers. "Truly illuminating."
Gray's stomach churned. He should have felt a surge of pride, of vindication. He had won against a powerful opponent who had broken the rules first. But the white-haired boy's praise felt like a brand, marking him. It made his skin crawl.
The senior instructor, his expression unreadable, gestured sharply for the next pair.
"Aurelle. Lira. Step forward."
Gray turned, his body protesting with every movement, just in time to see them enter the circle. Lira moved with her usual calm grace, her twin blade catching the light, its edges gleaming like parallel silver flames. Across from her, Aurelle stood poised, his sword held with casual expertise, the point glinting like a shard of ice. The air between them crackled with unspoken rivalry.
The courtyard buzzed with a fresh, electric anticipation. The semi-finals were here.
Gray swallowed hard, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth from a bitten cheek. Whatever happened next, he knew it wouldn't be easy to watch. The real fights were just beginning.