The cold morning air wrapped around Nemo like a quiet reassurance, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the cramped room he and Holt had shared with the two others. The air inside had been thick, almost sticky, and the scent of sweat clung to the walls like a second skin. Still, they had risen earlier than necessary, knowing full well that in a place like this, discipline might be observed long before it was demanded.
Nemo allowed Holt to head to the showers first, waiting in silence. The camp beyond their quarters remained mostly still, the horizon just beginning to flush with the faintest orange.
Their destination was the tower—the tallest structure in camp and the only one with working toilets and showers. It also served as the central meeting point, a pillar both literal and symbolic. After cleaning up, Nemo was about to leave when someone else entered the washroom.
He turned—and froze.
A boy had stepped inside. Small, gaunt, and very young. He couldn't have been more than ten, with dark brown hair hanging over a pair of unsettlingly deep blue eyes. But it wasn't his age or size that made Nemo's breath catch.
The boy was covered in blood.
Head to toe. Streaked across his limbs, dried in patches on his neck, and smeared along the sides of his face and torso. His bare feet left faint red prints on the concrete.
He didn't seem disturbed. If anything, he looked mildly surprised to see Nemo.
"Not many people are up this early," the boy said in a calm, almost bored tone.
Nemo stared. His instincts screamed to do something—ask, act, or intervene. But the boy didn't appear injured. He was calm. Too calm. The nonchalance with which he spoke unsettled Nemo more than the blood itself.
"What… happened to you?" Nemo asked, voice quiet but tight.
The boy looked down as if just now noticing his state.
"Oh. Right." He glanced at his arm, crusted with dried red. "I guess I'm kind of a mess. Well, that's what showers are for, right?"
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped into a stall and pulled the curtain closed.
Nemo stood there a second longer before shaking his head and leaving. He didn't want to be late.
By the time he reached the clearing, Holt and Giada were already there, conversing in hushed tones. When Nemo joined them, Giada acknowledged him with a nod.
Holt smirked. "Looks like punctuality only matters to us ground-level folks."
"That is incorrect," said a voice from behind them.
Solomon emerged from the treeline, tall and straight-backed. His green eyes were like still ponds—deep and unreadable.
"Punctuality matters to all," he continued. "Even to little, unimportant people like you."
All three stiffened instinctively.
"Your first lesson is physical fitness," Solomon said, hands clasped behind his back. "Before you can strengthen your body with essence, it must be trained the traditional way."
He began to pace.
"Stamina is your greatest asset. Explosive strength is meaningless if you fall before you can use it. Too many have died clutching power they never had the chance to wield. You won't be among them—if you learn correctly."
He gestured toward the distant cliffs.
"Before breakfast: run and swim. That is all."
Giada and Holt exchanged a look. Nemo remained still, processing the command. Solomon's gaze slid to him.
"You too. No food until breakfast."
Nemo's stomach twisted. He hesitated, then spoke plainly. "Sir, I think I'll collapse. I woke up starving."
Solomon studied him a moment. "Then collapse."
The answer held no malice, just cold clarity.
"This will also help you begin to gain control over your fault. Maybe even understand it better. Try not to drown—plants underwater don't hold their structure. Makes rescue… inconvenient."
Solomon turned and walked. They followed, and he showed them the path. The route was brutal. The swim would begin from a 20-meter cliff drop, not from a soft beach. Waves churned below, the ocean dark and vast. After leaping into the sea, they would swim to several anchored buoys, then make their way to a beach. Dry clothes would be there. From there, they'd run to the mess hall.
When Nemo finally reached the dining hall, his entire body ached. His stomach burned with hunger. He piled food on his plate like a starved man. Holt and Giada, too, had their plates filled for the first time.
Solomon joined them at the table, speaking as if they hadn't just thrown themselves off a cliff.
"You'll take basic courses first. Move quickly. If you're diligent, you'll finish them before the academy begins its next cycle. After that, you'll move on to Wilderness Survival I through V, Beginner Herbology, and Advanced Herbology. These are not optional."
He spoke with a calm that made the list sound deceptively simple. None of them truly grasped what completing those courses would demand.
At 7:50 sharp, Solomon dismissed them. "Study hard."
They looked at each other and chose the nearest class. Basic Martial Arts, taught by Arbil.
He was waiting when they arrived and motioned silently for them to take seats. Many others were already present. The air was serious. After waiting for a while longer and a few more people had shown up, he began.
"Martial arts," Arbil began, "are not about beating enemies to death. That's what they became, but not what they were meant to be."
He moved into a low stance, knees bent, arms fluid. His voice remained steady.
"Originally, martial arts were a means to move efficiently. To protect the body from strain and injury. They were survival tools, not weapons. Today, modern martial arts have returned to that philosophy. We no longer chase combat alone—we pursue understanding."
He stepped into a turn, shoulders rolling. "Certain movements guide essence. Make it flow and circulate better. That's why the awakened train this way. It isn't about what you can do to someone else—it's about how well you understand yourself."
His motions became increasingly complex. Students watched, silent.
"Every person's essence is different. That means every martial art is different. A perfect style aligns with your root, your will, and your body. It makes your essence resonate. And yes—sometimes that also makes it deadly."
He ended in a crouch, then leapt gracefully, landing with precision. Arms rose above his head. A hum filled the air. White-pink light burst upward from his palms. The ground trembled.
"Mine's not perfect," he said. "Not yet. But it's close."
Then he faced them again.
"This is the challenge. Modern martial arts aren't universal. Only the broader structures can be taught. The rest? That's yours to find. My own style comes from my clan, which is an energy-based clan. We share a framework because our essence comes from the same pool. But the execution? That's personal."
He walked among them.
"Stand."
They did. He demonstrated a simple posture.
"This is a neutral stance. Not every style begins here—but none reject it. It calms your essence, makes it steady. Move on from this. If your flow becomes erratic or slow, return to this and try again."
Nemo tried to follow, but every motion made his essence flicker. Uneven. Wrong. After several attempts, he lowered his arm in frustration.
Arbil noticed.
"Nemo, you're in luck; come here."
He fetched a small booklet from a nearby desk.
"The Netreyan Clan of Atlantis uses metal as their foundation. This is their beginner's form. A gesture of goodwill to the newly awakened, not their advanced martial arts."
Addressing the rest of the class, he raised his voice. "We have others: ocean, light, thunder, salt, sun, mimicry, and instinct. You'll find them listed here. If you have something fitting, you can come to me and collect one for yourself."
He handed the booklet to Nemo, who flipped through it. Each page showed a pose, with notes beneath.
"This stance embodies strength and stillness. Metal does not bend. Its art is one of resilience, not flexibility."
Nemo mimicked the posture. Legs braced, arms held firm at a sharp angle. He felt his essence shift—just a little. A steady acceleration.
He tried the next move. The transition disrupted his flow, but it returned once he held the new form. After five, he was panting and sore.
He walked up to Arbil to return the booklet.
"Keep it," Arbil said, brushing him off. "It's yours now. These are only the beginning. The deeper levels, those aren't written down."
Nemo gave a small bow. Then, quietly, he returned to observe the others.
He watched their stances, their struggles, and their progress.