The Gorge Unit lay at the deepest point beneath the Academy Mountain.
It was not merely a training ground—it was a cold cavern haunted by the echoes of screams left behind by those who had trained there before. The walls were not made of ordinary stone, but of anti-magic material, designed to absorb uncontrolled energy. Within it, Sultan felt as if his power were bound by invisible chains, tightening with every breath he took.
Eliana stood before him in the narrow chamber, where the air smelled of damp stone and decay. She had removed her cloak, and beneath the dim glow of the arcane lamps, she seemed sharper—more real.
> "Why do you call this place the Gorge Unit?" Sultan asked, rubbing his hands together, hands that had not known warmth since he set foot on this continent.
Eliana looked at him, a trace of bitter mockery flickering in her eyes.
> "Because here, you learn to swallow your pride—and your power—until it becomes a lump in your throat," she replied coldly.
"It will either choke you to death… or turn you into a warrior no one can break. There is no room for emotion here, Sultan. Emotion in demon combat is a written invitation to die."
The training began.
There were no swords. No duels.
This was a trial of control.
Eliana placed a single candle at the far end of the room, then set a small block of ice directly above its wick.
> "Light the candle," she said. "Without melting the ice."
Sultan tried.
He closed his eyes and summoned the heat of Baghdad—but the power burst from him like a miniature storm. The candle shattered, the ice melted, and the water evaporated in an instant.
> "Again," Eliana said flatly.
"You treat it like a slave, and it rejects you because you do not understand it. Fire is not a tool. Fire is your pulse."
The attempts stretched into hours.
Despite the freezing air, sweat soaked Sultan's clothes. Despair began to creep into his chest, coiling tighter with each failure. Finally, anger broke through.
"You don't understand!" he shouted. "This power isn't mine—I never asked for it! It was forced on me! How am I supposed to control a storm living inside my chest?"
Eliana stopped pacing.
She approached him until they stood face to face.
For the first time, Sultan noticed that her golden eyes were not cold. They were wounded—deeply so. The sorrow of someone who had lived too long as a stranger.
> "Do you think you're the only one who lost everything?" Eliana whispered, her voice trembling for the first time.
"I watched my family crushed beneath a demon's feet. All it left behind was the ash of my mother's cloak. I was brought here at six years old, and they taught me that a tear was a weakness to be cut away."
She placed her hand against Sultan's chest, directly over his heart.
The chill of her palm pierced through his clothes.
> "My Law is Unveiling Illusions," she said softly.
"I don't see your fire, Sultan. I see your fear. You're afraid of being strong because you believe strength will turn you into a monster—like the ones we fight. But the truth is simple."
"If you don't claim this power, you won't protect anyone. Not in Baghdad. Not here."
Silence filled the chamber.
Her words stood before Sultan like a mirror held up to his soul.
He realized then—she wasn't cruel because she despised him. She was cruel because she saw in him a hope she refused to acknowledge in herself.
Sultan inhaled deeply.
This time, he did not think of anger.
He thought of his mother's face.
Of the warmth of Baghdad's sun.
Of the girl standing before him, hiding her wounds behind a mask of ice.
Slowly, he extended his hand toward the candle.
There was no explosion.
Only a thin thread of gentle orange light emerged, brushing the wick with care. The flame ignited softly. The block of ice above it remained solid—cold, untouched.
Eliana stared at the small flame. Then at Sultan.
She did not smile—but something in her gaze shifted.
> "You're beginning to understand," she said, turning away to hide the effect it had on her.
"But don't celebrate yet. This is a candle—and the seal protecting us is cracking across continents. We have a long road ahead."
As they moved to leave, Eliana paused at the door without looking back.
> "By the way," she added quietly,
"white suits you. It makes you look like someone who's seen the truth too early."
Sultan followed her out.
For the first time, the cold did not feel like an enemy.
Perhaps the cold was what he needed—to see his fire clearly.
That night, as he lay on his hard wooden bed, Sultan dreamed of Baghdad's sky—threaded with silver strands like his hair.
And beside him stood a red-haired girl, holding his hand amid the ruins.