Kaela dedicated the next two weeks to the single, impossible task of Total Suppression. Hagar's lesson was a constant, searing pressure: live on the edge of spiritual suffocation. She practiced in her small, drafty closet at the Rookery, where the biting cold helped focus her mind away from the desperate hunger of the Sin-Eater. She would sit cross-legged for hours, focusing on the deep, internal pulse of her Ember Aura. The goal was not to grow the fire, but to extinguish all its light and heat, allowing the energy to exist only as a dense, inert mass deep within her core.
The training was agonizing. Every natural instinct—every breath, every sudden movement, every flicker of temper—was a demand for her Aura to flow. To suppress it felt like holding her breath underwater. Whenever her focus slipped, the familiar, terrifying hum of Rust-Eater would sound from its sheath, and she would feel the faint, sickening pull on her spiritual reserves, a reminder of the parasite waiting to feed.
The standard Guild classes became an unintentional test chamber. While her peers proudly practiced flaring their Flame Auras for simple striking drills, Kaela worked to hide hers entirely. She learned to move with minimal exertion, relying solely on the structural integrity Dame Elara had hammered into her. Her movements were clean, precise, and utterly devoid of spiritual flash. The instructors noted her improved form but worried over her persistent "lack of enthusiasm" in manifesting Aura.
One morning, the tension of the Guild hall exploded. Silas Corvus, his arrogance having been amplified tenfold by his false commendation, grew tired of waiting for the official Academy dueling tournaments. He demanded a sparring match with an upper-year Adept—a powerful warrior named Jerek, nicknamed "The Anvil" for his brutal, frontal assault style.
The match was held in the central yard, and a large crowd gathered to watch the Prodigy of the Weald prove his worth. Jerek, a square-jawed, muscular man, was an honest fighter. He manifested a stable, deep-red Flame Aura that coated his two-handed greatsword. Silas met him with a blinding flash of his own crimson energy, launching into an aggressive series of strikes.
For the first thirty seconds, Silas dominated, his speed and flare overwhelming the Adept. The crowd roared its approval. But Jerek was called The Anvil for a reason. He endured Silas's flashy assault, waiting for the noble's energy expenditure to peak. When it did, Jerek counterattacked. He brought his greatsword down in a crushing blow, his Aura magnifying the weapon's weight.
Silas, running high on adrenaline and wasted spiritual energy, tried to meet the force head-on. The two Auras clashed. Jerek's stable, conserved Flame Aura shattered Silas's flashy, over-extended energy. The Anvil's greatsword hammered against Silas's rapier. The force sent a jarring shockwave through Silas's weapon, and the rapier snapped cleanly near the hilt. Silas stumbled back, his arm numb and useless, humiliated and defeated.
Kaela watched the entire sequence from the edge of the yard, the cold, clinical analysis of Hagar's teaching running through her mind. Silas had spent twelve points of energy on a five-point problem and had paid the price.
Later that afternoon, the still-furious Silas found Kaela near the armory. His face was a mask of furious resentment, and his aura, though diminished by the fight, pulsed erratically. He blamed the rapier, the judge, and the sun—anything but his own flawed technique.
"It's because of you, rat," Silas growled, leaning close. "You distracted me with your pathetic, little victory. You're the rot in this Academy, poisoning everything with your Ember trickery."
Kaela met his gaze, her expression perfectly blank. "Your technique was flawed. Your expenditure was reckless. You lost because you showed your ambition, Corvus, not because I exist."
"Reckless?" Silas's control finally snapped. He shoved Kaela hard against the wall. The action was purely physical, but his latent Flame Aura flared in sheer, uncontrolled rage. "I'll show you reckless!"
Kaela felt the wave of heat from his uncontrolled spiritual energy wash over her. It was a delicious scent to the Sin-Eater. Before Silas could even raise a fist, Kaela felt the distinct, desperate tug at her own core. The black Void-Iron wanted the offering of Silas's wild, volatile Flame. Rust-Eater screamed silently in its sheath.
In that critical instant, Kaela didn't fight back with a move or a word. She executed the Total Suppression. She slammed her will down on her own Ember, turning her spiritual core into a sudden, deep vacuum. The demand from the Sin-Eater, unable to pull her own energy, instantly reversed its pull and sucked at the nearest available source: Silas's uncontrolled, exposed Flame Aura.
The effect was instantaneous. Silas screamed, not in pain, but in sheer bewilderment. His flared Aura, which had been a raging crimson around his hands, winked out as if his spiritual pilot light had been snuffed. He felt a sudden, profound exhaustion, as though he had fought another full match. He stumbled backward, staring at his hands in horror.
Kaela stood completely still, her chest aching from the effort of maintaining the spiritual void. She hadn't drawn her sword. She hadn't moved a muscle. She had simply held her breath and let the starving, parasitic nature of Rust-Eater drink the excessive energy right out of the air.
Silas stared at her, his face pale, his rage replaced by dawning fear. He hadn't seen the blade. He hadn't seen her move. He had just felt his power vanish when he touched her.
"What... what are you?" Silas whispered, backing away slowly, his confidence shattered entirely.
"I am the price of your recklessness," Kaela replied, her voice low and utterly cold. She adjusted the sheath of the Sin-Eater, the silence of the black Void-Iron now absolute. The fear in Silas's eyes was worth more than a thousand grandstanding victories.
She had successfully utilized the terrifying, accidental function of the Sin-Eater. She now knew how to weaponize its hunger. She had mastered the Black Core. The line between mastering the blade and being devoured by it had just grown impossibly thin.