Three Months Later…
Three months had passed since Azrael's arrival at Blackspire Academy.
It was still a relatively short span of time, yet within those ninety days, the academy had reshaped the new batch of students entirely. What began as uncertainty, anticipation, and quiet fear had hardened into resolve and ambition.
Every single newcomer had broken through to the Adept Stage.
Some had managed to achieve the breakthrough earlier than others, their progress steady and well-guided. Others had struggled until the very end, pushing their bodies and minds to their limits before finally stepping across the threshold. Yet none had failed.
That alone spoke volumes.
Blackspire Academy accepted only those with purple-grade elemental affinities or higher, and such talent did not disappoint. The higher the grade, the faster one cultivated. The higher the grade, the greater the strength they could wield once their power matured. Even among those who shared the same element, the difference between grades was absolute—an unbridgeable gulf that separated the ordinary from the exceptional.
Azrael belonged firmly among the latter.
Inside a secluded training chamber, silence reigned.
The room was wide and circular, its stone walls etched with faint runes meant to stabilize elemental fluctuations. At the center sat a lone figure, cross-legged upon the cold floor, his breathing slow and controlled.
That lone figure was precisely Azrael.
Hovering before him was a translucent orb, the size of two fists joined together, its surface shimmering with shifting hues of gray and black. Threads of light pulsed gently within it, as though something alive stirred beneath the surface.
The translucent orb is called a memory crystal.
Unlike books or scrolls, memory crystals did not simply convey information—they immersed the user within it. Thoughts, emotions, sensations, and experiences were transmitted directly into the mind, allowing knowledge to be absorbed in its purest form. They were priceless tools, often used to preserve lost techniques, record ancient wisdom, or pass down arts that could not be explained with words alone.
Azrael slowly reached out with his consciousness.
At first, there was resistance.
The crystal's presence pressed against his mind like a cold wall, foreign and heavy. Azrael steadied himself, adjusting his mental focus, letting his breathing guide his thoughts. He had done this many times before—connecting, withdrawing, trying again.
Minutes passed.
Then, suddenly, the resistance eased.
The world around him dissolved.
Azrael's consciousness slipped free from his physical body and plunged into darkness.
When sensation returned, he stood within a vast, shadow-filled space. There was no ground beneath his feet, no sky above—only an endless sea of shifting darkness, alive with subtle movement.
Then he saw it.
A figure.
Humanoid in shape, yet indistinct, its form blurred and unstable. It moved through the shadows with eerie fluidity, stepping from one patch of darkness to another as though space itself bent to its will.
Each time the figure merged with a shadow, its presence vanished entirely.
No sound.
No aura.
No trace.
Then, just as suddenly, it emerged elsewhere—unpredictable, silent, lethal.
Azrael's heart pounded.
The name of this skills is called Shadow Walk, unlike other movement skills, this was not a technique designed for speed or brute force. It was a method of erasure, of becoming unseen, unfelt, and unknowable. Against such movement, even the sharpest senses would falter.
Azrael watched.
Again.
And again.
The figure repeated the motion endlessly, its steps precise, its rhythm flawless. Gradually, Azrael began to notice the pattern—the way darkness elemental essence circulated, how it synchronized with the user's breathing, how intent shaped movement more than muscle ever could.
Without realizing it, Azrael began to mimic the technique.
Darkness stirred within him.
He guided it carefully through his meridians, following the rhythm etched into his mind. The shadows beneath his feet quivered. His form blurred for a brief instant—
—and then snapped back into clarity.
Azrael exhaled sharply.
Again.
This time, his outline faded for a heartbeat longer before reappearing several steps away. His movement was awkward, his control unstable, but—
It worked.
A slow smile crept onto his face.
Minor success.
The memory crystal's light dimmed as Azrael's consciousness withdrew, returning to his body. His eyes snapped open, a faint gleam of satisfaction flickering within them.
He knew better than to grow complacent.
Comprehension was only the beginning. True mastery required repetition, failure, and real combat. Without actual experience, Shadow Walk would remain fragile—a tool that shattered under pressure.
Rising to his feet, Azrael returned the memory crystal to its stand and left the training room.
Rather than heading straight back to his quarters, he adjusted his path and headed towards the arena.
He had avoided sparring since arriving at the academy. Unlike most students, Azrael lacked an instructor for his darkness element. The Light and Darkness Halls were largely dormant, their knowledge fragmented and their teachers scarce.
As a result, Azrael had been forced to rely on memory crystals and self-comprehension—a process far slower and far more demanding than direct instruction.
It kept him busy and and exhausted.
Still, there was balance.
For his wind element, Azrael had an instructor—and in just three months, he had already learned three techniques. The contrast between the guided clarity of wind cultivation and the solitary struggle of darkness was stark.
The arena came into view.
The moment Azrael stepped inside, the air trembled.
*BANG!*
A thunderous impact echoed across the arena.
Azrael turned just in time to see a body crash against the transparent barrier surrounding the stage. Sparks of lightning crackled wildly across the boy's form as he slid downward, barely conscious.
A decisive blow.
Azrael's gaze shifted to the one standing at the center of the stage.
A familiar figure.
Tall. Confident. A faint grin on his face as lightning danced lazily around his limbs.
"Of course," Azrael muttered.
Ryker.
As if sensing his stare, Ryker turned his head. Their eyes met. Ryker's grin widened as he lifted a hand and waved casually.
"Winner—Ryker!" the elder overseeing the match announced.
The barrier dissolved, and murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Ryker hopped down from the stage and strode toward Azrael, his steps light, his energy barely diminished.
"Let me guess," Ryker said, clapping Azrael on the shoulder. "You're either coming from the library or the technique pavilion, which is it?"
Azrael sighed. "Technique pavilion."
Ryker clicked his tongue. "You know battle experience is just as important as skills, right?"
"I know," Azrael replied calmly. "Once I fully comprehend that technique and break into the Arcane Stage, I'll take missions to gain experience."