The night after Silas's furious speech, the room had gone strangely quiet. None of them laughed, none of them cracked another joke. The fire in Silas's words still burned in their chests, but their bodies screamed for rest. Toren had stretched out on his bed without even removing his boots, Joren groaned as he turned on his side, and Alex lay staring at the ceiling, fists clenched, replaying Silas's blood-boiling vow in his head.
No one spoke another word. They all simply drifted into sleep, hearts pounding with silent determination.
Morning Resolve
The next day arrived too quickly. The bell clanged across the academy courtyard, rousing the students for another day of classes.
Alex pushed himself out of bed, every muscle stiff. Toren muttered curses as he rubbed his aching shoulders, while Joren staggered to the washbasin, splashing cold water onto his face. Silas, still nursing the bruises from the night before, moved slowly but stubbornly. He refused to ask for help, even though his limp was obvious.
They didn't speak about the beating. They didn't speak about revenge. But as they dressed and prepared for the day, there was something different in the air. A shared silence that wasn't heavy—it was sharp, focused.
"Come on," Alex said quietly, breaking the hush. "We'll be late."
In the Classroom
Their morning classes were as relentless as ever. History of Ruins, followed by Tactical Theory, then Weapon Forms. Normally, Alex would groan at sitting through hours of lectures, but today his mind was razor-sharp. He scribbled notes faster than before, trying to catch every word.
Professor Lorian noticed it too. He paused mid-lecture, eyes scanning the room before landing on Alex and his group.
"You four," he said suddenly. "What's the strategic flaw in sending scouts ahead without a healer in the party?"
The room turned toward them. Normally, Alex would hesitate before answering, but not this time. His voice was firm.
"It leaves the party vulnerable if the scouts encounter traps or magical backlash. A healer may not be at the front, but there has to be coordination in distance. Otherwise, the loss is permanent."
Professor Lorian gave a curt nod, then shifted his gaze to Joren. "And you? What's the countermeasure if a squad lacks a healer?"
"Adapt the formation," Joren said, almost spitting the words. "Double up on shields and force support through defensive positioning."
The professor arched a brow, then looked at Toren and Silas. Toren growled something about "making sure your fighters don't charge in like idiots," earning scattered laughs. Silas, still pale, gave a calm, meticulous answer about anticipating magical hazards before they happened.
By the end of the lecture, whispers had spread. Alex's group had never been invisible, but today, their intensity was impossible to ignore.
Afternoon in the Clubs
When the last bell rang, most students shuffled off to relax or take their time heading toward their clubs. But Alex and his friends? They went straight there without pause.
At the combat training grounds, the clang of steel and the bark of instructors filled the air. Alex tightened the straps on his training armor, Joren and Toren doing the same beside him. They didn't waste words—they just dove in.
"Faster!" barked the instructor as Alex swung. Sweat poured down his face as he pushed harder, blocking, parrying, thrusting with precision. His arms trembled with strain, but he refused to ease up.
Joren practiced against a heavier opponent, taking hit after hit but forcing himself to hold his shield steady. Each blow rattled his bones, but he gritted his teeth and endured.
Toren went wild, sparring against two opponents at once, his sheer aggression driving them back. Every time he got knocked down, he spat blood, laughed, and surged forward again.
They weren't training like students anymore. They were training like men preparing for war.
Silas's Own Fire
Silas couldn't join them physically. His ribs ached too badly, and the bruises on his face were still fresh. But he wasn't going to sit idle either.
He limped his way into the strategy chamber of his club, where maps of past dungeons were spread across vast tables. He lowered himself into a chair, hands trembling slightly, and began scribbling in his notebook.
Every simulation they had run in the past weeks—every failure, every mistake—he began rewriting them, refining strategies, sketching formations. His hand cramped, his ink smudged, but he didn't stop.
"Silas, you should rest," a classmate said, frowning at his bruises.
Silas didn't even look up. "I'll rest when we're untouchable."
Hours passed. He barely noticed when the lamps were lit around him. In his mind, he wasn't injured, wasn't weak—he was laying the groundwork to make sure no one could ever humiliate them again.
Evening Reunion
By the time night fell, the four of them met back in their shared room. Alex slumped into his chair, body shaking from exhaustion. Toren collapsed onto his bed, groaning about how his arms felt like lead. Joren unbuckled his shield arm, revealing bruises that made him hiss when he touched them.
Silas returned last, his notebook tucked under his arm, his eyes gleaming despite his pale face.
"You trained?" Alex asked.
Silas smirked faintly. "Not with my fists. But I trained enough to make it count." He tapped the notebook. "You'll see soon."
The room went quiet again, but not in despair. This silence was different. It was the silence of brothers who had fought, bled, and endured together.
Alex looked at each of them—Toren grumbling as he kicked off his boots, Joren cleaning his shield with single-minded care, Silas already flipping through his notes again despite his injuries.
They were all wrecked. But none of them complained.
"Tomorrow," Alex murmured, voice low but steady. "We go harder."
"Damn right," Toren muttered.
"Until they choke on their pride," Joren added.
Silas just smiled without a word, his pen scratching against the page.
Fire That Wouldn't Burn Out
That night, as they finally lay down to sleep, Alex's muscles screamed, and his mind buzzed. He thought about the Varlen boys—about their arrogance, their cruelty. He thought about Silas's battered face and furious words. He thought about the long road ahead, exams, dungeons, the endless grind.
But beneath it all, one thing was clear: they weren't the same boys who had walked into the academy months ago.
They were being burned down and rebuilt in fire.
And when the time came, they would rise from it stronger than anyone expected.