The call came without ceremony.
One moment Ren was seated among the candidates at the ring's edge—breathing, waiting— the next, his name echoed across the arena.
He stepped forward, and the world narrowed to stone, heat, and the ring ahead.
The arena floor radiated heat beneath Ren's boots.
Scorched stone stretched beneath the barrier—old burns pressed flat by years of duels. When Ren stepped into the ring, the translucent field rose with a muted hum and sealed cleanly.
Five matches. Win three. Advance—the rules echoed back to him.
No weapons.
Mana and nature only.
Ren flexed his fingers once and focused.
His opponent bowed and lifted a hand.
Nothing flashy.
No glow. No visible flare. But the air around the man's forearms bent subtly, pressure pulling tight around joints and knuckles like something braced and ready.
Reinforced. Controlled.
Refinement over raw output.
Ren moved first.
He closed the distance fast—low stance, tight footwork. No pause. No display. Just speed. A straight body shot drove toward the man's ribs, meant to test balance rather than break it.
The wind user hesitated.
Waiting for something else.
The punch landed clean.
A late block scraped air instead of flesh, and Ren followed immediately—ducking under a rushed counter and driving his left into the opposite side. The impact knocked the wind user back several steps, breath hitching.
Confusion flickered across his face.
Ren stayed on him.
Another exchange—tight, close. The counters came faster now. Heavier. Ren felt it mid-motion: resistance in the air, weight where there shouldn't be any.
The wind had thickened.
A reinforced strike clipped Ren's shoulder. Not enough to stop him—but enough to warn him.
The air felt heavier.
Ren slipped inside one more gap and landed clean, forcing space between them.
The wind user didn't retreat.
He planted his feet and shoved both hands forward.
The motion was simple.
Deliberate.
Ren realized the threat a heartbeat too late.
The air collapsed inward—then exploded outward.
Ren braced.
It didn't matter.
The gust hit like a hammer to the chest. His boots screamed across stone before leaving it entirely. He slammed into the floor hard, breath ripped from him in a silent, brutal gasp.
The world spun.
Stone. Heat. Air refusing to cooperate.
Ren rolled instinctively and tried to rise.
His body didn't listen.
The official's hand came up.
"Match."
The barrier dimmed.
Ren stayed kneeling, palms on the stone, chest burning as air forced its way back into him.
He understood it now.
He could fight.
He could pressure.
He could even win exchanges.
But when it mattered—
When the fight demanded something more—
He didn't have the power to finish.
Ren stepped into the ring—and felt it.
His opponent was bigger than most students their age—broad shoulders, thick limbs, posture sunk low and unmoving. He didn't shift his weight when the barrier sealed. Didn't roll his shoulders. Didn't test the ground.
He stood like the stone had accepted him.
Ren felt a flicker of nerves.
Fighting something like this wasn't the same as fighting speed.
It didn't stop him.
The bell sounded.
Ren moved first.
He didn't wait to be tested. He took space immediately, confidence from the last duel still warm in his muscles. He charged in low and fast, snapping a kick into the opponent's leg—aimed to break balance, not bone.
The reaction speed was slower than the wind user's.
But when Ren's foot connected—
Nothing happened.
No recoil.
No shift.
No loss of footing.
It felt like kicking a wall.
Ren pulled back instantly and pressed again, adjusting angles. Ribs. Hip. Shoulder. Fast combinations meant to force a reaction through volume instead of power.
Strike.
Shift.
Strike again.
The man blocked clumsily, a half-step behind—but it didn't matter. Every impact vanished into him. His weight never moved. His stance never broke.
Ren's chest tightened.
Damage meant nothing if nothing gave way.
Then the man stopped trying to block.
He lifted one leg.
And stomped.
The arena answered with a deep shudder.
The stone beneath Ren's foot rippled just enough to steal his balance. For less than a breath, the ground stopped being trustworthy.
That was all it took.
The man surged forward.
Not fast.
Not elegant.
Unavoidable.
A shoulder slammed into Ren's chest—dense, reinforced, final. Not a strike meant to injure.
Dominance.
Ren flew backward and hit the stone hard enough to rattle his bones. Pain flared through his shoulder as his breath tore free in a broken gasp.
He tried to rise.
His arms shook.
The weight pressed him back down.
The official's hand came up.
"Match."
The pressure lifted instantly.
Ren stayed kneeling for a moment, chest burning, the lesson settling deeper than the pain.
Speed could win exchanges.
Precision could land hits.
But against something that controlled the ground beneath him—
Against something that didn't need to move—
He still didn't have a way to finish.
One more, he thought.
This one decides everything.
The ring felt dangerous the moment Ren stepped into it.
Not smaller.
Hotter.
Residual heat clung to the stone beneath his boots, faint scorch marks spiderwebbing across the floor from earlier matches. When the barrier rose, it didn't disperse the warmth—it sealed it in. The shallow hum carried heat with it, trapping the air until every breath already felt thin.
Across from him, the fire user rolled his shoulders once.
Relaxed.
Flames curled loosely around his fingers—not flaring, not focused. Idle. Like he didn't expect to need more.
Ren exhaled slowly.
If I lose, he thought, I don't advance.
No academy.
No next step.
Just the long walk back—with nothing to show for it.
The bell rang.
Fire moved first.
A fireball screamed straight toward Ren's face.
Ren slipped aside cleanly, heat brushing past his cheek as it smashed into the stone floor behind him instead of the barrier—cracking rock, scattering sparks.
Another followed.
One passed wide.
One fell short.
One scorched the floor where Ren had been a moment earlier.
Inconsistent.
Ren noticed it immediately.
He's not trying to hit me.
"Keep running," the fire user said lightly.
Ren didn't answer.
He moved forward.
Feet light.
Timing tight.
He slipped through the gaps between the fireballs, each dodge closing distance. Each step burned his lungs a little more as the heat thickened.
Was it arrogance?
Carelessness?
Ren didn't know—and didn't wait to find out.
He surged in.
The fire user blinked as Ren's fist drove into his guard and then past it—clean, sharp, heavier than expected.
The impact rocked him back half a step.
Annoyance flickered across his face.
He exhaled.
Fire rolled off his body in a sudden wave.
Ren jumped back instinctively, clearing five meters in a heartbeat, boots skidding as he reassessed.
The fire user straightened.
The smile was gone.
"Alright," he said evenly. "My turn."
The arena changed.
Fire didn't launch anymore.
It appeared.
Flames ignited around Ren—not to strike, but to guide. Each dodge forced another adjustment. Each retreat narrowed his space. Heat climbed steadily, smoke thickening with every breath.
Ren moved faster.
Then faster.
His lungs burned. Sweat streamed down his face, stinging his eyes, dripping from his chin and hair in steady sheets—splattering against the stone and hissing faintly as it evaporated.
The heat twisted.
Smoke crawled low and dense.
For a moment, through the smoke, the arena wasn't stone anymore.
Firelight flickered at the edges of Ren's vision. Smoke thickened into shapes that didn't belong—skittering, crawling, wrong.
Rats.
Burning.
Screeching.
Closing in.
Ren staggered as a fireball detonated nearby, coughing hard as smoke flooded his lungs. The taste hit—bitter, metallic—and the flames stretched into grotesque silhouettes.
Focus.
He shook his head hard, forcing the images apart.
The ring snapped back into place.
But his space was gone.
The fire user advanced slowly now.
Enjoying it.
Mana compressed between his hands, forming a massive fireball that radiated heat in crushing waves. The barrier hummed louder in protest.
"You should've stayed down," he said.
Ren tried to move.
He lunged forward—straight toward the fire user, toward the only opening that made sense—but his legs betrayed him.
His lungs seized.
The breath he tried to draw collapsed halfway in, triggering a violent cough that doubled him over. Heat and smoke flooded his chest, burning, choking.
He dropped to one knee, one hand braced against the stone, coughing hard enough that spots danced in his vision.
The fire didn't close in.
It waited.
Ren's legs trembled.
Every breath scraped. Smoke clung inside him like it refused to leave. His thoughts began to fracture under the heat.
I failed.
I don't belong here.
The fireball surged forward.
I said I'd come home alive.
Ren's world tilted—not physically, but inside.
A void opened beneath him, swallowing every effort he'd ever made. All the nights alone. All the training. All the belief that persistence would be enough.
This was always the end, a voice whispered.
You were never meant to make it.
Ren caught himself mid-fall.
No.
The word wasn't loud.
It wasn't brave.
It was refusal.
I won't accept this.
He forced his feet beneath him inside that darkness as the fire rushed closer. His muscles screamed. Mana surged blindly, slamming into paths that had never opened.
Pain tore through his chest and back as his lungs refused to draw air. His throat burned as he tried to shout—
—and failed.
Then it tore free anyway.
Not a word.
Not a technique.
A raw, broken sound—every fear, every promise, every ounce of strain forced into a single defiant release.
Something inside him cracked.
Purple lightning tore out through his hand in a violent stormburst.
It screamed across the arena and slammed head-on into the fireball.
Red and violet light collided.
The explosion swallowed the ring.
Barriers snapped into existence as instructors shouted, reinforcing containment. Shockwaves rattled stone. Other duels froze mid-motion as candidates staggered back.
Across the arena, one fight died mid-strike.
A student wreathed in multiple natures turned sharply as the lightning tore through the air.
For the first time since arriving—
His expression changed.
The fire user was thrown clear, unconscious, skidding across the stone—burned, but alive.
The crowd erupted.
Ren felt everything at once.
Pain—white-hot and absolute.
Sound—tearing through his skull.
Light—blinding.
And beneath it all—
Release.
Like something deep inside him had finally shifted.
Cracked.
Moved.
Then his body gave out.
Ren collapsed, unconscious, faint violet lightning still crackling across his skin as the arena fell into stunned silence.
Officials rushed in—some shouting orders, others already scanning readings with sharp, analytical focus.
Near the edge of the arena, where the crowd's attention stuttered and the light didn't reach cleanly, something shifted.
For a blink, a figure stood there—solid enough to block the light—half-formed, more silhouette than person, as if the smoke itself had learned a human outline.
Then it stepped back into shadow and vanished.
As if it had never been there at all.
High above, the academy headmaster stared down at the scorched stone and the boy at its center, unease tightening his chest.
He didn't know why.
Only that the feeling was old.
And that, against his better judgment—
He had missed it.