The academy halls buzzed louder than ever. News of the Molten Horror spread like wildfire, and though no official statement had been made, the story twisted with every retelling. Some swore Eryndor struck the final blow with lightning that split the night sky. Others said the monster simply collapsed under its own unstable core, and the group exaggerated their role.
Truth didn't matter. What mattered was the name carried on every tongue: Eryndor.
And envy always followed a name.
In one of the upper training chambers, a cluster of older students lounged like wolves. Their uniforms were marked with crimson stripes—sign of those who'd already ranked high in combat trials. Among them sat Veylan, tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes as sharp as a hawk's. He listened to the rumors with a slow smile curving his lips.
"So the first-years think they've birthed a hero," he said, his tone mocking. "One fight and the academy kneels."
"They're all fools," another spat. "A Horror isn't a challenge for us. The boy got lucky."
Veylan leaned forward, folding his hands. "Luck or not, he's become a symbol. That makes him dangerous."
The others fell silent. They knew what he meant. At the academy, strength was only half the battle. Influence—the weight of whispers, the loyalty of peers—was just as deadly.
"We'll watch him," Veylan decided. His grin widened. "And when the time comes, we'll remind the academy who really holds the top."
Meanwhile, Kael sat across from Eryndor in a quiet courtyard. The young man's arms were bandaged, burns still raw, yet his gaze was steady. Kael studied him without speaking, the silence thick.
Finally, he tossed a wooden practice blade at Eryndor's feet. "Stand."
Eryndor frowned but rose, picking it up. "What's this?"
"A test." Kael's voice was sharp, but his eyes narrowed with something more—something like suspicion. "You've awakened more than you realize in that fight. I want to see it."
Eryndor's grip tightened around the blade. His instincts told him this wasn't just about practice. Kael's strikes would be merciless. And yet, he felt a pulse beneath his skin—a faint hum, the residue of his partial awakening.
They circled.
Then Kael moved. Fast. His blade cut the air with surgical precision, forcing Eryndor to block, pivot, adapt. Sparks flickered across Eryndor's body as his footwork slipped instinctively into the Eightfold Flow. Each clash rattled his bones, but he held.
Kael pressed harder, chaining blows that blurred together. "Good. You're faster."
Eryndor lunged with a burst of lightning, closing distance in a heartbeat. Kael's brows lifted slightly—recognition of a new refinement. Eryndor wasn't just copying techniques anymore. He was beginning to shape them.
But in the end, Kael disarmed him with a twist and sent the wooden blade clattering to the stones.
"You're growing too fast," Kael said flatly, lowering his weapon. "That kill put a target on your back. You won't just face monsters anymore. Rivals will come for you—older, stronger, and far less forgiving."
Eryndor's jaw clenched. "Then I'll fight them too."
Kael studied him a moment longer, then allowed the faintest ghost of a smile. "Good. You'll need that arrogance."
But as Eryndor caught his breath, he didn't miss the flicker in Kael's eyes. Something else lurked there—concern, perhaps even unease. Kael knew what Eryndor didn't yet: that this was no longer just training.
It was politics. It was survival.
And in the shadows of the academy, names like Veylan were already sharpening their knives.