Max's internal alarm woke him at 5:45 AM.
His eyes snapped open to darkness. For a disorienting moment, he expected to see a tent ceiling, smell smoke and blood, hear the distant roar of demons. Instead: clean sheets, soft pillow, the faint glow of enchanted lights outside his window.
He exhaled slowly. Right. The academy. Timeline two. Day two.
Max rolled out of bed and dressed quickly—training clothes, basic gear. His muscles felt good. Young. Unbroken. The aches and pains of six years of war were gone, replaced by the minor soreness of yesterday's exam.
He pulled up his System while lacing his boots.
---
[STATUS]
NAME: Maximilion Keath
RANK: F+
LEVEL: 4/10 (78%)
TALENTS:
- Plunder (F-Rank)
- Mana Amplification (F-Rank)
- Ironbark (E-Rank)
SKILLS:
- Basic Swordsmanship (Lv. 3)
- Mana Control (Lv. 4)
- Darkvision (Lv. 1)
- Enhanced Reflexes (Lv. 1)
- Nature's Resilience (Lv. 3)
[ACTIVE MISSION: Perfect Form]
Progress: 0/100 strikes
---
Max dismissed the display and headed out.
The corridors of the Alpha Wing were empty at this hour. His footsteps echoed on polished stone as he made his way toward the training grounds. Through tall windows, he could see the sky beginning to lighten—deep purple fading to gray.
He reached the grounds at 5:58 AM.
A dozen students were already there, stretching or checking equipment. Max recognized most of them from yesterday—Seria adjusting her bow string, Draven doing elaborate sword forms that looked more impressive than practical, a few others clustered in nervous groups.
No sign of Beck yet.
"Early."
Max turned. Yuna stood a few feet away, arms crossed, her golden eyes studying him. Her fox ears twitched once.
"Habit," Max said.
"Mm." She didn't look away. "You know what's funny? Most first-years sleep through their alarm on day one. Too nervous the night before, too exhausted from the exam. But you look like you've been doing this for years."
Max kept his expression neutral. "I take training seriously."
"That's not what I said." Yuna tilted her head. "I said you look like you've done this before. There's a difference."
Before Max could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the air.
Professor Vael stood at the center of the grounds, his prosthetic arm gleaming in the pre-dawn light. His expression was hard.
"FORM UP!"
The students scrambled into loose rows. Max positioned himself in the middle—not front where he'd draw attention, not back where he'd look lazy.
Vael's gaze swept across them, counting. His jaw tightened.
"Twenty-four. We're missing one."
Nobody said anything.
"Anyone want to guess who?"
Silence.
"Aristar!" Vael's voice cracked like a whip. "Beck Aristar, get your ass out here!"
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a figure emerged from the Alpha Wing entrance, jogging slowly. Beck, hair disheveled, uniform rumpled, waving apologetically.
"Sorry, sir! Overslept. Won't happen again."
"Ten laps," Vael said flatly. "Now. Then join the rest."
Beck's smile faltered. "Ten? But I just got here—"
"Fifteen laps. Keep talking and I'll make it twenty."
Beck's mouth snapped shut. He jogged toward the track that circled the grounds, still looking more confused than concerned.
Vael turned back to the others. "Physical conditioning is mandatory. Every morning, six to seven. If you're late, you run extra. If you miss it, you're removed from Alpha Class. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" The response was immediate, unified.
"Good." Vael began walking along the rows, inspecting them like a general reviewing troops. "Most of you have been coddled your entire lives. You have talent, so people told you that was enough. They lied."
He stopped in front of Draven. "You. What's your talent?"
"Blade Echo, sir. I can create phantom copies of my weapon."
"Useful. How long can you maintain seven copies?"
"About five minutes, sir."
"And after?"
Draven hesitated. "I'm... tired, sir."
"Useless," Vael said. "In a real fight, five minutes means nothing. You burn through your mana showing off and then you're dead weight." He moved on before Draven could respond.
He stopped in front of a human girl with short black hair. "You. Talent?"
"Lightfoot, sir. Enhanced speed and agility."
"How fast?"
"I can maintain combat speed for about twenty minutes."
"Better." Vael actually nodded. "Stamina matters. Speed without endurance is just a fancy way to tire yourself out."
He continued down the line, asking questions, offering curt assessments. When he reached Max, he stopped.
"Keath. You performed well yesterday. Mana Amplification, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Straightforward. Efficient. How's your control?"
"Improving, sir."
"It needs to." Vael's eyes narrowed slightly. "Amplification is a multiplier. If your foundation is sloppy, all you're doing is amplifying sloppiness. Clean technique first. Power second."
"Understood, sir."
Vael moved on. He reached Seria near the end. "Windwhisper. Archer?"
"Yes, sir."
"Physical training is still mandatory. I've seen too many ranged specialists die because they couldn't run when their position was compromised."
"I can run, sir."
"We'll see."
Vael returned to the front, his prosthetic arm whirring softly as he crossed his arms. "This morning, we're doing basics. Running, strength exercises, combat drills. No mana. No talents. Just your bodies."
A few students looked confused.
"Problem?" Vael asked.
"Sir," Draven raised his hand. "Isn't this... basic? We're Alpha Class. Shouldn't we be learning advanced techniques?"
Vael's expression didn't change. "You think you're too good for basics?"
"I just mean—"
"Drop and give me fifty push-ups. Now."
Draven's face flushed, but he dropped to the ground.
Vael addressed the rest. "Let me make this clear. Talent is a crutch. Mana runs out. In a real fight—a prolonged fight against an enemy that won't give you time to recover—your body is all you have. If you can't move, can't strike, can't survive without magic, then you're just a civilian with a fancy power."
Max felt a pang in his chest. He'd learned this lesson the hard way. Watched talented students die because they relied entirely on their abilities and forgot their bodies could fail them.
"We start with a five-mile run," Vael continued. "Full circuit of the grounds. After that, strength training. Then combat drills. Move."
The students took off. Max settled into an easy pace—not front of the pack, but solid middle. He controlled his breathing, let his legs find their rhythm.
Seria pulled ahead almost immediately, her elven grace translating to effortless speed. A few others tried to keep up with her and quickly regretted it.
Yuna ran beside Max for the first mile, her steps light and controlled. She glanced at him occasionally but didn't speak.
By mile three, the pack had spread out. Seria was far ahead. A cluster of five or six maintained second position. Max was in the third group, comfortable.
Beck caught up somewhere around mile four.
He'd finished his fifteen laps and joined the main run, and despite the extra distance, he didn't look particularly winded. Blessing's passive benefits, probably. His body just worked better.
"Hey," Beck said, jogging alongside Max. "Brutal, right?"
"Standard," Max replied.
"You think this is standard? Dude, we're Alpha Class. I thought we'd be learning cool techniques, not doing basic training."
"Vael's not wrong. Foundation matters."
"Yeah, but—" Beck glanced ahead at Seria's distant figure. "Some of us don't really need the foundation part."
Max's jaw tightened. "Everyone needs foundation."
"Sure, sure." Beck wasn't listening. He was already distracted, looking around at the grounds, at the sunrise, at anything except the training.
They finished the run. Seria had lapped some of the slower students. Beck finished in the top quarter despite starting late. Max came in middle-of-pack, exactly where he'd aimed.
Vael was waiting at the finish, stopwatch in hand. "Acceptable. Water break. Two minutes."
Max grabbed a canteen from the supply station and drank carefully—enough to hydrate, not enough to cramp. Around him, students were gasping, bent over, some already looking exhausted.
"Strength training next," Vael announced. "Push-ups, pull-ups, core work. Thirty minutes. Begin."
The next half-hour was brutal. Vael walked among them, correcting form, counting reps aloud for anyone who slacked. Max pushed through it, his muscles burning but holding. His body remembered this—remembered far worse.
Beck did everything with annoying ease. His push-ups were perfect. His pull-ups looked effortless. He wasn't even breathing hard.
The students noticed. Max saw the glances, the resentment building. Draven in particular kept looking at Beck with barely concealed anger.
Finally, Vael called time.
"Combat drills. Everyone grab a practice sword."
The students moved to the weapons rack—blunted training blades designed for sparring. Max selected one with a good balance, tested its weight.
"Pair up," Vael ordered. "Basic forms. I want to see your technique without mana enhancement. Show me what you actually know."
Students scrambled to find partners. Max turned—
"Want to spar?"
Yuna stood there, practice sword in hand, that sharp smile on her face.
"Sure," Max said.
They moved to an open section of the grounds. Around them, other pairs were beginning their drills—some testing each other carefully, others already going hard.
Yuna settled into a ready stance. Her posture was good—weight balanced, blade angled defensively. "I should warn you. I'm better than I look."
"I believe you."
They began.
Yuna moved first, a testing strike toward Max's left side. He parried smoothly, deflecting rather than blocking head-on. She transitioned immediately into a low sweep. He stepped back, avoiding it by inches.
"Fast," Yuna said.
Max didn't respond. He countered with a straight thrust. She slipped sideways, her blade coming up for his wrist. He pulled back just in time.
They traded blows for a minute, neither landing anything solid. Yuna was skilled—her technique was clean, efficient, no wasted movement. But Max had six years of real combat burned into his muscle memory.
He saw the opening when she over-committed to a high strike. Max swept her blade aside and stepped in, his practice sword stopping an inch from her throat.
Yuna froze. Her eyes widened slightly.
"Point," Max said, pulling back.
"That was..." Yuna lowered her blade. "You read that perfectly."
"You telegraphed it. Left shoulder dipped before you struck."
"Most people don't notice that." She was studying him again, that analytical look. "Who trained you?"
"Myself, mostly. Lots of practice."
"Right." She didn't sound convinced.
"KEATH! SWIFTPAW!"
They turned. Vael was watching them, his expression unreadable. "Decent form. Keep drilling. I want to see a hundred exchanges by end of session."
"Yes, sir!"
They continued. Yuna pushed harder this time, testing him with quicker combinations. Max matched her pace, staying defensive, letting her set the rhythm.
He was aware of Vael watching occasionally. Aware of other students glancing over. He was walking a thin line—good enough to belong in Alpha, not so good that he raised too many questions.
Nearby, Beck was sparring with Draven.
It wasn't going well for Draven.
Beck fought with his usual lazy competence, blocking Draven's strikes almost casually, countering with minimal effort. He was smiling the whole time, like this was a game.
Draven's face was red with frustration. His strikes got sloppier, more aggressive. Beck just kept dodging, blocking, looking utterly unbothered.
Finally, Draven overextended on a wild swing. Beck swept his legs out from under him. Draven hit the ground hard.
"Good match," Beck said, offering his hand.
Draven ignored it. He stood up on his own, jaw clenched, and walked away without a word.
Beck shrugged and looked around for another partner.
Vael's whistle cut through the air. "Time! Water break. Then we're doing formation drills."
Max lowered his sword, breathing controlled. His System pinged.
[Perfect Form Mission Progress: 47/100 strikes]
He'd landed forty-seven successful hits during drilling. Halfway there already.
"You're good," Yuna said, wiping sweat from her forehead. "Better than you should be for a first-year."
Max grabbed water. "Thanks."
"That wasn't a compliment. It was an observation." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "My talent is Insight. I can read people—their intentions, their experience, their truth. And you, Max? You don't move like someone who just learned to fight. You move like someone who's been fighting for years."
Max met her gaze. "People train at different rates."
"Not this different." Yuna's eyes narrowed. "You're hiding something. I don't know what. But I'm going to figure it out."
Before Max could respond, Vael called them back.
The rest of the session was formation drills—learning to fight as a unit, coordinate movements, watch each other's backs. Basic tactical stuff that most of these students had never considered.
Max fell into it naturally. He'd done this hundreds of times.
Yuna stuck close, still watching him.
Finally, at seven o'clock, Vael called an end to training.
"Breakfast in the Alpha dining hall. First combat theory class at eight. Be on time. Dismissed."
The students scattered, most of them heading straight for the showers. Max hung back, rolling his shoulders, checking his System.
[Perfect Form Mission Progress: 73/100 strikes]
Twenty-seven more to go. He'd finish it during this afternoon's combat practice.
"Max!"
He turned. Beck was jogging over, somehow still looking fresh despite the training session.
"That was brutal," Beck said. "Vael's intense, huh?"
"He's preparing us for real combat."
"Yeah, but it's just academy training. Not like we're going to war." Beck grinned. "Anyway, want to grab breakfast together? I heard the Alpha hall has actual bacon."
Max looked at his friend. At the boy who would let millions die because he couldn't be bothered to try.
"Sure," Max said. "Let me grab a shower first."
"Cool. Meet you there in twenty?"
"Yeah."
Beck jogged off toward the dorms, whistling.
Max stood there for a moment, watching him go.
Then he headed for the showers, his mind already on the next class.
Combat Theory and Practice with Professor Vael.
Where he'd have to prove himself all over again.
Where Beck would excel without trying.
And where, if Max remembered correctly from Timeline One, they'd begin learning about the difference between talented fighters and true warriors.
The difference that had cost so many lives.
---
The Alpha dining hall was smaller than the main cafeteria but infinitely nicer.
Actual tables with tablecloths. Real dishes instead of trays. And the food—Max grabbed eggs, bacon, fruit, bread—was several tiers above the standard academy fare.
Beck was already seated near the windows, plate piled high. He waved Max over.
"Dude, this is amazing. They have fresh orange juice. Fresh!"
Max sat down across from him. "Enjoy it while it lasts. We're paying for it with those morning sessions."
"Totally worth it." Beck bit into a piece of bacon. "So, what class do you have first after this? I've got Combat Theory with Vael."
"Same."
"Nice! We can sit together."
Max ate methodically, refueling. Around them, other Alpha students were filtering in. Seria sat alone near the far wall, reading a book while she ate. Draven held court at a large table, already surrounded by students who seemed drawn to his wealth and confidence. Yuna sat with two other demihuman students, her ears swiveling occasionally toward Max and Beck's table.
"She keeps looking at you," Beck observed.
"Who?"
"Fox girl. Yuna. She's been watching you since we sat down." Beck grinned. "I think she likes you."
Max resisted the urge to sigh. "She's suspicious of me."
"Why?"
"Because I'm better than I should be."
Beck laughed. "Dude, you made Alpha Class. You're supposed to be good."
"Not like this."
"You're overthinking it." Beck took another bite. "People are just competitive here. She probably wants to figure out how to beat you in a spar."
Maybe. Or maybe Yuna's Insight was showing her something nobody else could see—that Max didn't belong in this timeline, that his skill came from years he hadn't lived yet.
Max finished eating and checked the time. 7:45. Fifteen minutes until class.
"We should head over," he said.
"Already? Come on, we've got time."
"I don't want to be late."
Beck rolled his eyes but stood up. "Fine, fine. Let's go learn some theory."
They left the dining hall and headed toward the main training complex. Other students were moving in the same direction—a steady stream of Alpha uniforms converging on the large combat hall.
Inside, the space was massive. High ceilings, enchanted lighting, and a full sparring arena marked with glowing boundary lines. Weapon racks lined the walls. Observation platforms jutted from the sides where instructors could watch from above.
Professor Vael stood in the center, arms crossed, waiting.
The students filed in and took seats on the tiered benches surrounding the arena. Max positioned himself in the middle rows—good view, not too conspicuous. Beck flopped down beside him.
At exactly eight o'clock, Vael spoke.
"What is mana?"
The question hung in the air. A few students shifted uncomfortably. Finally, a human boy raised his hand.
"It's... the energy we use for magic, sir?"
"Wrong." Vael's voice was flat. "Next."
Seria spoke without raising her hand. "It's the fundamental force that powers our talents."
"Closer. Still wrong."
Draven tried. "It's life energy that we channel through our bodies."
"Wrong."
The students exchanged confused glances. Vael waited, letting the silence stretch.
Finally, he spoke again.
"Mana is will made manifest. Your body is the vessel. Your talent is the lens through which your will takes shape. Your training determines how much will you can impose on reality."
He began pacing the arena floor, his prosthetic arm clicking softly.
"You were born with a mana pool—a reserve of raw potential. Some of you have large pools. Some have small ones. This is genetics, luck, racial traits. It can grow with training, but your baseline is set."
Max listened intently. He'd heard this before, but Vael's explanation was clearer than most.
"But the size of your pool means nothing without two other things. First: control. Second: talent."
Vael stopped pacing and turned to face them.
"Control is how efficiently you use your mana. A small pool with perfect control beats a large pool with sloppy technique. You waste less. You strike cleaner. You last longer."
He raised his prosthetic arm.
"I lost this arm because I ran out of mana. I was fighting a Demon General in the Blighted Wastes. My pool was large—A-Rank large. But I was inefficient. Sloppy. I burned through my reserves in the first hour of combat."
The room was dead silent.
"By hour two, I had nothing left. The General didn't. It took my arm. I was lucky that's all it took."
Vael lowered his arm.
"Control is trainable. Every single one of you can improve it. It takes discipline, repetition, mindfulness. But it is the difference between surviving and dying."
Max thought about his Mana Control skill. Level 4. Better than most first-years, but still far from mastered. He needed to push it higher.
"The second component is talent," Vael continued. "When you awaken your talent—usually between ages ten and sixteen—you gain a unique way to express your mana. It's personal. Specific to you. And it cannot be changed."
Usually, Max thought. Unless you have Plunder.
"Your talent is not your power. It's the shape your power takes. A strong talent with weak control is nothing. A modest talent with perfect control is devastating."
Vael gestured to the students.
"Let's demonstrate. I need volunteers. Show me your talents."
Hands went up immediately. Vael pointed at Seria.
"Windwhisper. Show us."
Seria stood, moving gracefully down to the arena floor. She drew her bow—not the training bow from morning drills, but a finely crafted weapon that hummed with barely contained power.
"Whispershot," she said simply.
She nocked an arrow. Max watched her mana flare—a controlled surge that flowed into the arrow. She released.
The projectile flew in complete silence. No whistle of air. No sound of impact. It struck a target dummy fifty feet away, punching through cleanly.
Before the first arrow stopped moving, Seria had nocked and fired nine more.
Ten arrows. Ten targets. Ten perfect hits. All in under three seconds. All completely silent.
The arena erupted in murmurs.
Vael nodded. "Efficient. Clean. Her mana usage was minimal because her control is excellent. Windwhisper's pool is moderate, but she makes every drop count."
Seria returned to her seat, expression composed.
"Next. Crossblade."
Draven practically jumped from his seat. He descended to the arena floor, drawing his expensive sword with a flourish.
"Blade Echo," he announced.
His mana surged—and Max immediately saw the problem. It was a flood, not a flow. Draven was pouring power into his technique like he was trying to drown it.
Seven phantom blades materialized around him, glowing copies of his sword, floating in mid-air.
The effect was impressive. The students whispered in awe.
Draven grinned. He directed the phantom blades at the training dummies, and they shot forward, striking in perfect synchronization. The dummies were shredded.
Draven turned back to Vael, clearly expecting praise.
"How long can you maintain that?" Vael asked.
"About five minutes, sir."
"And then?"
"I need to rest. Maybe ten minutes to recover."
"Useless."
Draven's grin vanished. "Sir?"
"You burned enough mana in that demonstration to fight for half an hour if you had proper control. Instead, you created a light show that lasts five minutes and leaves you worthless for ten more." Vael's expression was harsh. "In a real battle, you'd be dead after your first engagement. Spectacle isn't skill."
Draven's face went red. He climbed back to his seat in silence.
Vael scanned the students. "Someone with better control. Swiftpaw."
Yuna descended smoothly. Unlike Draven, she didn't make a show of it. She simply stood in the center of the arena.
"Insight," she said. "I see patterns. Weaknesses. Truth."
"Demonstrate."
Yuna turned to face Draven in the stands. "You're angry. Embarrassed. Your stance shifted when Professor Vael criticized you—weight on your back foot, shoulders tight. If we fought right now, you'd over-commit to your first strike trying to prove yourself. I'd sidestep left and counter to your exposed right side."
Draven's eyes widened.
"That's where I'd strike," Yuna continued calmly. She turned to Seria. "You're satisfied with your performance but already analyzing how to improve. You noticed I'm watching you, and you're assessing whether I'm a threat. You've decided I am, but you respect it."
Seria's expression didn't change, but her eyes narrowed slightly.
Yuna looked at Beck. "You're bored. You don't think this class is teaching you anything new. You're wondering if you can leave early without getting in trouble."
Beck blinked. Then smiled sheepishly. "Okay, that's scary accurate."
Finally, Yuna's gaze landed on Max.
"And you... you're focused. Completely focused. But not on this lesson. You're thinking about something else. Something far away. Something that scares you."
Max kept his face neutral. He felt the weight of her stare, felt her talent working on him like a scalpel.
"You move like someone who's seen combat. Real combat. Not academy sparring. And you're hiding it."
The arena went silent.
Vael studied Max for a long moment. Then he looked back at Yuna.
"Excellent control. Your mana usage during that demonstration was negligible. Insight is a perception talent—it reads rather than acts. But reading correctly is its own power." He gestured for her to return to her seat. "Well done."
Yuna climbed back up, her golden eyes still on Max.
"One more," Vael said. "Aristar."
The room buzzed with anticipation. Everyone wanted to see what the prophesied hero could do.
Beck descended with his usual lazy grace, hands in pockets until he reached the arena floor. Then he drew his sword—standard academy issue, nothing fancy.
"Blessing," he said.
"Show us."
Beck's mana surged—
And Max felt his teeth clench.
It wasn't a surge. It was an ocean. A tidal wave of raw power that flooded through Beck's body without resistance. His mana pool was enormous, easily triple anyone else's in the room.
And his control was perfect.
Not practiced. Not disciplined. Just naturally, effortlessly perfect.
Beck pointed his sword at a training dummy. "Blade Echo."
Seven phantom blades materialized instantly—the same technique Draven had used. But where Draven's had flickered and drained him, Beck's were solid. Stable. They hovered with no visible effort.
Then Beck added three more. Ten total.
He directed them at the dummies with a casual gesture. They moved faster than Draven's, hit harder, and dissolved only when Beck willed them to.
"Mana cost?" Vael asked, his voice tight.
"Barely anything, sir. I could maintain this for an hour, maybe more."
"And that's not even your real technique."
"No, sir. Blessing doesn't give me a specific ability. It just makes everything easier. Better. Whatever I try to do, I can do it better than someone without Blessing."
The students stared. Some looked awed. Others looked envious. A few—like Draven—looked furious.
Vael's expression was unreadable. "Return to your seat."
Beck jogged back up, looking mildly pleased with himself.
Vael turned to address the class.
"What you just saw is talent inequality at its purest. Aristar's Blessing is S-Rank minimum, possibly higher. It elevates every aspect of his abilities—pool size, control, learning speed, physical conditioning."
He let that sink in.
"Some of you are thinking: that's not fair. You're right. It's not. Life isn't fair. Talent isn't distributed equally."
Vael's gaze swept across them.
"But here's what matters: Blessing doesn't make Aristar invincible. It makes him advantaged. There's a difference."
Beck looked slightly offended.
"Control can be trained. Tactics can be learned. Experience can be earned. A weaker talent with superior training can defeat a stronger talent that relies entirely on raw power." Vael's prosthetic arm whirred. "I've seen it. I've done it. And I've died to it."
He paused.
"The question isn't whether you're talented. The question is whether you're disciplined. Whether you'll push past your limits when your talent isn't enough. Whether you'll train when it's hard, fight when it's scary, and survive when it's impossible."
Max felt those words settle into his chest.
"Now," Vael said. "Pair up. We're drilling basic combinations. No talents. No mana. Just technique. Move."
The students descended to the arena floor. Max grabbed a practice sword from the rack and turned to find—
"Want to go again?" Yuna asked.
Max nodded. "Sure."
They squared off in an open section of the arena. Around them, other students were beginning their drills—some competent, others awkward.
Yuna attacked first. Her strikes were faster than this morning, more aggressive. Max parried, deflected, and countered, falling into the rhythm.
Fifty exchanges. Sixty. His System tracked each successful strike.
[Perfect Form Mission Progress: 89/100]
Close now.
Yuna pressed harder. She was testing him, trying to break through his defense. Max gave ground strategically, let her think she was winning, then pivoted and touched his blade to her ribs.
"Point," he said.
"You're letting me attack," Yuna observed. "Why?"
"You're learning more from offense. I'm learning more from defense."
"That's not an answer."
They reset. Continued drilling.
Ninety-five strikes. Ninety-eight.
Max landed his one-hundredth successful hit just as Vael called time.
[MISSION COMPLETE: Perfect Form]
[+500 EXP]
[LEVEL UP! Level 4 → Level 5]
[Skill Acquired: Precision Strike (Lv. 1)]
Power flooded through Max. His mana pool expanded. His muscles sang with renewed energy. And somewhere in his mind, he felt the new skill settle in—a perfect understanding of where and how to strike for maximum effect.
"Class dismissed," Vael announced. "Lunch break. Mana Control class at one o'clock with Magister Windborne. Don't be late."
Students filed out, chattering about the demonstrations. Max hung back, rolling his shoulders, letting the level-up settle.
"Max."
He turned. Vael stood a few feet away, arms crossed.
"Sir?"
"You're holding back."
Max's blood went cold. "Sir?"
"Your technique is good. Very good. Too good for someone your age." Vael's eyes narrowed. "Where did you train before coming here?"
"Home mostly. Self-taught."
"Self-taught." Vael didn't sound convinced. "And you just happened to develop textbook-perfect form through trial and error?"
"I practiced a lot, sir."
"Mm." Vael studied him for a long moment. "Keep practicing. But stop holding back during drills. I want to see what you're actually capable of."
"Yes, sir."
Vael walked away, his prosthetic clicking against the stone floor.
Max exhaled slowly.
That was close.
Too close.
He needed to be more careful. Vael was experienced enough to recognize skill when he saw it. If Max kept standing out, people would start asking questions he couldn't answer.
But if he held back too much, he'd waste this chance.
It was a balance. And Max wasn't sure how long he could maintain it.
He left the combat hall and headed toward the central campus, where Mana Control class would be held.
And where, if he remembered correctly from Timeline One, he'd meet Magister Elara Windborne.
The Fourth Wonder.
The woman who would die alone holding the eastern gate while the world burned.
Max picked up his pace.
Six years to prepare.
And not a single day to waste.