Leaving Professor Alaric's class, Silas made his way across the grand plaza. His schedule for the day was far from over. His next class took him from the quiet history department to the bustling Combat Arena. The air hummed with the energy of dozens of Resonants, a stark contrast to the lecture hall.
Their instructor was a man who looked like a walking fortress, made from stone and steel, his badge read Instructor Vorlag. A veteran of the brutal Syndicate pacification campaigns, bore a network of faded scars across his neck and jaw. His eyes, cold and sharp, swept across the assembled students, missing nothing.
"Forget the elegant histories you learned this morning," Vorlag began, his voice a low growl that carried effortlessly across the arena. "Here, there is only one truth. Your life depends on three things: your discipline, your Shard, and the Ether you channel through it."
He paced before them, his presence far more intimidating than any of the nobles in the room. "The Ether is the air you breathe, the fuel for the fire. Your Shard is the weapon in your hand. Your Thread is what that weapon does. An Artisan knows their weapon. They keep it clean, they know its weight, its balance. An Awakened," he sneered, "is a child swinging a sharpened rock, as likely to kill themselves as the enemy."
His gaze landed on a nervous-looking boy in the front row. "You. Tell me the two mistakes that will get you killed faster than a Syndicate blade to the throat."
The boy stammered, "L-losing control, sir?"
"That's one," Vorlag grunted. "We call it a Fracture. You push too much Ether through a Shard that isn't conditioned for it, and you don't just lose the fight. You might unmake yourself and everyone in this room. What's the second mistake?"
Silence.
"The Echo," Vorlag supplied, his voice dropping. "Every time you use your power, you leave a signature in the local Ether. A conceptual footprint. A quiet power leaves a faint echo. A big, flashy one," he said, his eyes flicking towards Lyra Thorne, "screams your location to anyone with the senses to hear it. In the Outlands, a loud Echo is a dinner bell. Remember that."
He clapped his hands, the sound like cracking rock. "Enough talk. We learn by doing. Thorne! Varrus! To the circle."
A murmur went through the students. Lyra Thorne, the fiery commoner with the untamed Combustion Thread, stepped forward with a confident smirk. From the other side, Kaelen Varrus, the stoic heir, moved with quiet grace. Fire against perception. It was a classic matchup.
"Sparring exercise," Vorlag barked. "Your objective is simple, land a disabling conceptual blow. No permanent injury. Begin!"
Lyra exploded into motion. She didn't just use her power; she unleashed it. A wave of shimmering heat blasted from her hands, the air itself seeming to warp. It was a powerful, overwhelming attack.
Silas watched, his face impassive, but his mind was a whirlwind of analysis. Amateur. "All aperture, no discipline. Her Ether consumption is atrocious. Her Echo must be screaming."
Kaelen didn't try to meet the attack head-on. His body shifted with an unnatural fluidity a split second before Lyra's attack fully formed. His Thread of Sensory Amplification wasn't just enhancing his sight, it was allowing him to perceive the subtle shift in Ether as Lyra gathered her power, predicting the trajectory of her blast. He sidestepped, the wave of heat scorching the wall behind him.
"Varrus reads the Echo!" Vorlag said, a hint of approval in his voice. "He's not watching her hands but watching her power! Thorne, your attack is a clumsy hammer blow! Refine it!"
Enraged by the taunt, Lyra redoubled her efforts. She sent lances of fire, explosive bursts of heat, filling the arena with a chaotic display. Kaelen was forced onto the defensive, a graceful dancer evading a storm of fire. He was skilled, Silas noted, but purely reactive. He had no answer to the sheer volume of her assault.
"He's efficient, but predictable," Silas thought. "He waits for the attack, then evades. He never forces the engagement." A fatal flaw against an opponent who doesn't tire.
Lyra, seeing an opening as Kaelen dodged a wide blast, lunged forward, her hand glowing with condensed heat. But Kaelen had been waiting for it. As she entered his range, he didn't attack. Instead, his eyes widened, his senses flaring.
A high-frequency, inaudible sound emanated from him, a byproduct of his power pushed to its limit. For Lyra, whose senses were focused entirely on her target, it was like a physical blow. The sudden sensory overload the amplified sound of her own heartbeat, the smell of ozone, the sight of every dust mote in the air was disorienting. She flinched, her concentration breaking for a fraction of a second.
It was all Kaelen needed. He ducked under her arm and tapped two fingers against the back of her neck. A conceptual "blow" that, in a real fight, could have been a blade.
"Enough!" Vorlag roared. "Varrus wins. Thorne, your power is a wildfire. Impressive, but it will burn you out. Control it, or it will kill you. Varrus, your defense is flawless, but a perfect shield that never strikes back is just a wall waiting to crumble. Next!"
Vorlag didn't give them time to chatter. He called two more students into the circle, a burly youth with the Thread of Mass against a small girl with Adhesion. The girl tried to immobilize her opponent, making the floor sticky and his boots heavy, but the boy simply grinned, increased his own mass tenfold, and took a single, earth-shaking step that shattered her control through sheer, overwhelming force.
Another match followed, two brawlers with simple Reinforcement Threads beating each other with fists that struck like steel until one made a mistake and was thrown from the ring. It was brutish and simple, and utterly lacking any proper skill.
After a few more brief, decisive bouts, Vorlag called a halt. He stood before the panting, bruised students, his expression one of deep dissatisfaction.
"You have power," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "The Versefall gave you that. But power without strategy is just a tantrum. You plan your moves. You waste Ether on flashy displays. You rely on the single, most obvious application of your Thread. In a real fight, out there," he gestured vaguely towards the world beyond the Academy's walls, "you would be dead before your first Echo faded. Think. Adapt. Or die. Dismissed."
The students began to disperse, some nursing their pride, others their bruises. Silas turned and walked away, his face impassive. The displays of power had been... inadequate. Like watching children compare the sharpness of their sticks. His mind had already shifted to his next, far more important objective. The combat lesson was over. Now, it was time to visit Professor Alaric's office and officially begin his hunt in the archives.
The real work was about to begin.