The masked instructor moved like a shadow with purpose, his runed arm trailing sparks of restrained magic. No speech. No theatrics. He simply turned and walked toward the east gate of the First-Year Wing—and Division 1 followed.
Vael walked in silence.
The others fell into a loose formation. Joss cracking his neck, Kainen dragging his steps with heavy confidence. Ryne moved like a ghost beside Vael—measured and quiet. The buzz of earlier lectures faded into the stone behind them. What waited ahead demanded focus.
They passed through narrow halls laced with inscribed iron. Then through an arch of obsidian fangs—jagged stone carved with sigils so old, their meaning had worn to legend. Beyond it, the light changed. Dimmed. Hardened.
The Combat Grounds.
A wide, circular arena lay ahead. Enclosed by high walls of blackened stone, it looked less like a training area and more like a coliseum built for execution. Rows of tall rune-pillars circled the grounds, pulsing faintly beneath the overcast sky. A shimmer of warding magic ran across the open space, stretching overhead like a dome of cracked glass.
Weapon racks lined the inner perimeter—swords, staves, spears, and brutal tools of war Vael didn't recognize. Some bore seals that hissed when touched by passing wind.
Distant echoes drifted in—metal striking flesh, grunts of effort, the muted roar of another Track in session. Somewhere beyond those walls, others fought to prove themselves.
But here, all was still.
The masked instructor finally spoke.
"I am Instructor Kael Draven. Division 1 will answer to me. I do not repeat myself. I do not tolerate weakness. Your training begins now."
"Choose your places."
No further instruction. No warmup. Just the weight of silence, thick with expectation.
Vael stepped forward alone. The stone beneath his boots was scarred from hundreds of battles. He scanned the grounds.
Three exits.
Two shadowed corners.
Runes in sets of seven.
The glyphs were layered—not just for containment, but to watch. He could feel the scrying pressure behind them, probing softly at the edges of his presence.
"You see more than they want you to," said the Voice, low and amused.
"I see enough," Vael murmured under breath, eyes tracking a faint sigil half-hidden under the far weapon rack. "What is this place really?"
"A cage they built to test their monsters."
Vael's jaw clenched. His breath fogged faintly in the warded air.
The masked instructor raised a gloved hand. A box unfolded mid-air—wood and bone, rimmed in glowing symbols.
"A draw," he said simply. "Names and ranks. Random pairings. You will fight. You will bleed. Some of you may not walk out."
The tiles spun like falling teeth. One by one, students were called. Pairs stepped forward, nerves fraying beneath thin bravado.
Vael remained still. His name was yet unspoken.
He watched dispassionately as the first match began—blade against blade, sweat and blood staining the arena. The crowd watched from the perimeter, quiet but hungry.
Vael's eyes weren't on the fighters.
He studied the angles of the ring, the blind spots in the rune patterns, the minor inconsistencies in the ward shimmer above. Shadowed alcoves in the stone seating. Every potential opening. Every line of escape or ambush.
The Voice murmured, pleased.
"Still the hunter, even in plain sight."
The next pair fought harder. A shield shattered. A scream followed.
Then, at last—
"Vael Eldorin. Rank: 50"
He looked up.
"Opponent: Alden Rhyne. Rank: 14."
Low mutters spread. Alden was fast. Arrogant. Known for flashy finishes and showmanship. His smirk cut across the arena like a blade unsheathed.
Vael gave no reaction.
"You're late in the order," the Voice whispered, "but they saved him for you. Let them watch."
He nodded once, stepping forward—but slowly, deliberately.
He didn't enter the ring just yet.
Instead, he sat in the nearby shadow of a pillar and let his breathing slow.
The fight before his would last a few more minutes. Long enough.
"You waste time watching children swing sticks," the Voice said, low and edged. "Close your eyes. Return to the real fight. Train where it matters."
He closed his eyes.
And remembered.
The god's voice had boomed like thunder through marrow. The weight of divine force pressing him flat against the earth, vision swimming, bones straining not to shatter. But even then—openings. Even then—flaws.
He watched the memory again. Slower this time. The arc of a massive blade. The delay between strikes. The telltale hum of divine breath before the god charged.
He hadn't just survived that fight. He'd learned it.
Now, in the silence of the waiting ring, he broke it down further. The god's timing. The shape of power before it surged. Even the tempo of its rage.
He felt his own breathing match that rhythm.
One. Inhale.
Two. Hold.
Three. Step. Strike. Twist.
The Voice was silent.
Vael opened his eyes.
And walked to the center of the ring.
A hush fell as Vael stepped into the ring.
Alden Rhyne was already there, rolling his shoulders, twirling a curved blade with theatrical ease. His uniform had been modified—sleeves cut, boots reinforced. He moved like a man expecting applause.
"I was hoping for someone better," Alden called out, his voice loud enough to carry across the arena. "Fiftieth rank? Guess I'll make this quick."
Around the edges of the ring, whispers rose like wind through dry grass.
"Dead last."
"He barely made the cut."
"Rhyne's gonna break him."
Vael said nothing.
The masked instructor gave a small gesture. A flare of magic rippled through the ground, sealing the warded dome.
The fight began.
Alden moved first—quick, cutting across the ring in a flash of motion. Blade raised, feet gliding. Every step rehearsed. Clean. Showy.
Vael didn't move.
"Do not use it."
The Voice cut through his mind like iron dragged across stone.
"Your power. Forget it. You'll fight with only your fists. Your feet. Like before. Before the gods."
Vael's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because your body is still catching up to what's inside it." The Voice was calm, absolute.
"Master that first. If you rely on the power too soon, you'll never grow past it.
"You'll hit a wall."
"And gods aren't the only things waiting beyond it."
Alden's blade came down.
Vael moved.
Not with flash, not with energy—but instinct. A tilt of the head, a pivot of the foot, a lean that let the blade scrape empty air.
No divinity. No enhancements. Just muscle, grit, and memory.
"Alright," Vael thought, exhaling slow. "Let's see how far I can go without it."
And he stepped in.
Vael barely twisted out of the blade's path—its edge grazing his shoulder, slicing through cloth, drawing a shallow line of red.
His body moved slower than he remembered. No surge. No heightened awareness. No inner force guiding his limbs. Just weight. Strain. Breath.
He ducked a second strike, but the third clipped his ribs. Pain bloomed, sharp and grounding.
Alden laughed. "You're quick—but not quick enough."
Vael clenched his fists and struck. A clean hit to Alden's jaw. But the other boy barely flinched—just smiled wider, wiping a bit of sweat from his lip.
"You hit like a winded trainee."
Vael struck again. A body blow this time. A kick to the thigh. They landed—but did little.
Alden responded with another flurry, blade dancing, boots pounding. Vael evaded what he could, but not all. A punch to the side. A knee to the chest. His vision blurred for a second, ears ringing.
Still, he stayed on his feet.
Until the final strike came—a sweeping kick that took his legs out from under him, followed by the flat of the blade slamming down against his chest with brutal finality.
He hit the ground, breath knocked out of him.
The arena went quiet.
Then came the whispers again.
"Of course he lost."
"Rhyne barely tried."
"He's not meant to be here."
Vael stared up at the warded sky, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm.
"Now," the Voice said, quiet but firm, "that was your first fight."
Vael's fingers dug into the cracked stone. "Then what about the Goblin Lord? The god—"
"No," the Voice interrupted. "Those were flares of power. Survival, not skill. This was your first battle—with nothing but what your body could offer."
The weight of that truth settled over him like a second loss.
"From this point forward," the Voice continued, "you fight with your body. No power. No surge. No shortcuts. You will break. You will rebuild. You will earn each strike. Only then will you be ready."
Vael closed his eyes. Not in shame. But in understanding.
It would be a long road.
And he had just taken the first step.
From the sidelines, Joss folded his arms, brows drawn tight.
"That wasn't the Vael we saw fight the Goblin Lord," he muttered.
Kainen exhaled through his nose, arms resting on his knees. "No. He was holding back. Way back."
Ryne stood silent, eyes narrowed at the ring where Vael still lay breathing against stone. "He wasn't just holding back. He fought like he forgot everything else. Like he chose to lose."
Joss turned to her. "You think it's some kind of training?"
Ryne didn't answer immediately. Then, with a small nod: "Yes. And it's his path. We don't ask."
None of them approached Vael. None offered pity or questions. They understood—he had his reasons. And whatever those reasons were, they would honor the silence around them.
More names were drawn.
More fights began.
Blades clashed. Spells sparked. Roars and cheers returned to the arena as other students stepped into the ring. But the echoes felt distant—like noise filtered through fog.
Vael sat alone at the far edge of the Combat Grounds, his back against a cold pillar. The sting of his wounds faded beneath the ache in his muscles. He watched the matches unfold with detached calm—not envy, not regret. Just understanding.
Every movement in the ring. Every mistake. Every overreach. He studied them, not as a peer, but as a student of war stripped to the roots.
The Voice had gone silent.
And in that silence, Vael found something strange.
Peace.
He flexed his hand, bruised but steady. This body—it wasn't strong enough yet. Not for what lay ahead. Not for gods. Not for the truth that waited beyond the stars.
But it would be.
He closed his eyes again, not to retreat—but to remember every step, every blow, every weakness.
He would build himself again. Not as a vessel for power.
But as a warrior who no longer needed it.
And somewhere, high above the warded sky, two unseen figures watched a boy lose with purpose.