As Elyon and the others made their way back to the training grounds, the midday sun cast golden beams across the open field, glinting off blades of grass and illuminating.
Grakner was already waiting for them.
He stood motionless, arms crossed over his broad chest, his eyes tracking the students as they approached.
The group came to a halt, forming a loose semicircle around him. There was a tension in the air—subtle but palpable—as everyone took their positions, bracing for whatever instruction Grakner was about to deliver.
He regarded them silently for a moment before speaking.
"Since you're all here, that must mean you've awakened your Vital Essence," he said, his voice deep and steady, echoing slightly in the open air. "That's good. Because now, it's time to begin."
The students shifted slightly, glancing at one another. Elyon felt his pulse quicken with anticipation. This was what they had trained for. The awakening was only the beginning; now the real work would start.
"You must all understand one thing clearly," Grakner continued, his gaze sweeping over them. "Before you can cast any healing spell... you must first be injured."
A murmur ran through.
"But first," he said, raising a hand to silence them, "you must know how to cast it. To start, you must visualize the part of your body that is injured—see it clearly in your mind. Then, focus your Vital Essence—feel it coursing within you—and direct it toward the wound."
He paused, letting the instruction settle in.
"Most of you will only be able to cast novice-level spells," he added. "But as your control and strength grow, so too will the power of your healing."
Without further warning, Grakner raised his right hand and bit into the tip of his thumb with deliberate precision. A small wound opened, a few drops of blood welling up and dripping down his hand. He held it up for them to see.
Then, a swirl of green and red energy formed around the injury, flickering like fire yet soft as mist. The glow intensified for a moment, then vanished. When it did, the wound was gone, the skin smooth and whole again.
"Now you," he said simply.
There was a moment of hesitation. Then, one by one, the students followed. Elyon hesitated for a second before taking a breath and biting down gently on the side of his thumb. A sting of pain flared, sharp but manageable. Blood welled to the surface, warm and real.
He closed his eyes and began to focus.
He pictured the wound in his mind—the shape of it, the exact place where skin was broken. He reached inward, toward the strange new energy he had only recently begun to sense within himself. It shimmered faintly in his core, like light beneath water. Slowly, he pulled it forward, guiding it with his will toward the injured part of his hand.
He felt warmth gather around the wound. A faint tingle ran through his skin, and when he opened his eyes, he saw a glow—not as bright as Grakner's, but definitely there. A moment later, the wound was gone.
All around him, others were experiencing the same effect. Some healed instantly, others took a few minutes longer. A few struggled, muttering in frustration, but eventually succeeded. The training ground buzzed with energy, a low hum of Vital Essence flowing through the air like a barely visible mist.
Then, the Academy's bell rang—a deep, resonant toll that signaled the end of class.
Grakner nodded once. "That's it for today. We'll delve deeper next time."
With that, he turned and began walking away, his boots crunching on the gravel path.
The group slowly dispersed, the spell of the lesson lifting as students began to chat again, some discussing their progress, others rubbing their healing thumbs with expressions of quiet pride.
Elyon walked with the crowd but found his thoughts drifting. Despite the energy he had used, he felt oddly refreshed. Maybe it was the focus, or perhaps the connection to his inner essence had revitalized him somehow.
Before long, he found himself inside the Academy again. The interior was grand—arched ceilings, stained-glass windows casting colored light on the stone floors, and long, echoing corridors filled with the voices of students. It smelled faintly of old parchment, polished wood, and the unique scent of magic hanging in the air.
After a few turns down familiar hallways, he stepped into the Academy café. The room was wide and warm, filled with long wooden tables and smaller booths along the walls. A soft clatter of cutlery, hushed conversations, and occasional bursts of laughter created a lively background hum.
Elyon walked up to the serving counter and received a tray of food—a portion of well-cooked meat, a slab of bread still steaming slightly, and a bowl of some sort of pudding. The scent was rich and savory, and his stomach growled in approval.
"I need to find a seat," he muttered to himself, eyes scanning the room.
Most of the tables were full or nearly so. Clusters of students sat together, some chatting animatedly about the day's lessons, others just enjoying the meal in peace. At the far corner of the café, he spotted an empty booth—tucked away in a quiet nook with no one else around.
Perfect.
He made his way over, weaving between tables and carefully balancing his tray. Once seated, he let out a breath and took a bite of the meat. It was surprisingly tender, the spices well-balanced, with a smoky undertone that hinted at expert cooking. The bread was fluffy and fresh, and the pudding—some sort of fruit-based custard—had just the right amount of sweetness.
After that training session, even this oddly combined meal tasted incredible. His senses felt heightened, as though the awakening of his Vital Essence had made everything around him more vivid, more real.
All around him, the café remained alive with activity.
Elyon looked around quietly and murmured to himself, voice low enough that no one else could hear:
"Real chaotic sight, isn't it?"
His words faded into the air, unnoticed by the bustling crowd.
Certainly! Here's the improved and expanded version of the next part of your story, keeping all original content intact while enhancing the writing style, adding detail, and maintaining a consistent tone with the previous section:
Suddenly, a voice spoke from behind Elyon.
"Yeah, but good thing none of those noble bloods are here. Otherwise, some serious drama would be kicking off."
Elyon turned to see a boy standing behind him, balancing a tray of food with practiced ease. He had vibrant green hair that swept down around his shoulders, and pointed ears that clearly marked his Elven heritage. His eyes were bright and sharp, scanning the area casually before landing on Elyon.
"Uh... hello," Elyon said, caught slightly off guard.
The boy smiled. "Mind if I take a seat here?"
"Sure, go ahead."
The boy slid into the seat opposite Elyon, setting his tray down with a soft clatter. The aroma of spices and herbs wafted over from his food, different from Elyon's but no less enticing.
"I'm Luke, by the way," the boy said, extending a hand.
"I'm Elyon," he replied, shaking it.
"Nice to meet you," Luke said with an easy grin. "So, where are you from?"
"Vender Village," Elyon replied, "in the territory of Liria."
"Liria?" Luke's eyes lit up slightly. "I'm from there too, though I live more in the kingdom proper."
"Oh," Elyon said, intrigued. "You're from the main kingdom then. What's it like? What does your family do?"
Luke leaned back slightly, considering. "Nothing too serious politically. My father works as a tailor there. He makes all sorts of clothing for nobles—formal wear, ceremonial garb, that kind of thing. My mom helps out when she can, but mostly handles the books and the embroidery."
Elyon nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds a lot more refined than my family. My father's a hunter—tracks animals and monsters, sells the meat and hides in the village market. My mother keeps the home running. Simple life."
"I see," Luke said with a nod. "So you must have picked up some hunting skills along the way?"
"Yeah," Elyon said, smiling faintly. "Tracking, trapping, a bit of archery... I know my way around a forest, I guess."
"Well, my dad taught me a few things about tailoring. I know how to patch up a ripped sleeve and match fabric threads, at least."
Elyon was about to respond when a sudden shift in the atmosphere of the café drew both of their attention. A small group of students had entered—four in total, their presence causing a ripple of silence to spread through the room. They were dressed immaculately, with a bearing that spoke of noble blood and high status.
Leading them was a tall boy with striking blue hair that shimmered like the surface of a still lake under moonlight. His golden eyes glinted with quiet arrogance, and the way he walked—deliberate and unhurried—told everyone he didn't need to demand attention. It was given freely, and not always willingly.
As attention fixed on the group, Elyon and Luke turned to watch, curiosity piqued.
Then, it happened.
A younger boy—clearly distracted, talking animatedly with a friend and not watching where he was going—walked right into the lead noble boy. The tray in his hands slipped, clattering to the ground as food splattered across the stone floor. He stumbled back, landing hard on one knee.
The blue-haired noble didn't move. He looked down at the boy with cool, unblinking eyes, his expression unreadable—save for the faintest trace of disdain.
"Watch where you're going, peasant," he said, his voice calm and cutting. "You lowborn types really should stop meddling in noble affairs and stick to the trash where you belong."
Gasps rose from nearby tables. The fallen boy looked stunned. His friend, face flushed with anger, stepped forward.
"Who are you calling peasants?" he shot back.
The nobleboy didn't even blink. "Do I need to say it again? Or did you get the message? Move."
The boy on the floor stood slowly, brushing food off his clothes. His friend, however, looked ready to start a fight.
But before anything could escalate further, a new voice cut through the tension.
"Why are you the one stirring trouble, Riven Blackthorn?"
All eyes turned. A tall, confident boy with tousled dark hair stepped forward from another table. He bore himself with ease, a self-assured smile playing on his lips.
"Charles," Riven said through gritted teeth.
Charles raised an eyebrow, the grin never leaving his face. "Why is it always the poor causing trouble, hm? Or is it you, trying to win your father's recognition by picking fights with commoners?"
Riven's jaw clenched visibly. He didn't reply. Instead, with one last sharp look, he turned and walked away, his companions falling in line behind him. The café slowly resumed its usual rhythm, though the mood remained slightly tense.
Charles, too, turned and left without another word.
Elyon exhaled softly. "What... was that all about?" he asked, turning to Luke.
"Oh, you don't know?" Luke looked surprised.
"Know what?"
"A student from one of the noble houses has gone missing," Luke said in a hushed tone. "Pretty sure he was a noble—disappeared sometime yesterday. The school's been quietly investigating, but nothing's come of it yet."
Elyon's eyes widened. "What? Seriously?"
"Yeah," Luke nodded. "I heard about it from a friend in the dorms. No official announcement yet, but people are talking."
"And what about that guy—Riven, was it?"
"Yeah. Riven Blackthorn. He's from the Blackthorn family—major noble house. Known for their pride... and for looking down on people like us." Luke's tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of irritation.
Elyon glanced toward the door where Riven had exited. "He seemed... intense."
"He's dangerous, in a quiet kind of way," Luke said. "The type who would kill any one to achieve his goals figuratively or otherwise."
Before their conversation could continue, the bell rang, loud and unmistakable.
Luke stood up, grabbing his tray. "See you in History class," he said with a quick smile.
"Yeah. See you," Elyon replied.
The two of them parted ways, the café returning to its usual din as they slipped into the current of students heading toward their next classes. But Elyon couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had crept into his chest—not from the confrontation itself, but from the name that lingered in his mind.
Riven Blackthorn.
And the rumor of a missing noble student.
Something was stirring beneath the surface of the Academy's polished halls. And Elyon had the distinct sense that whatever it was, it wouldn't stay hidden for long.