Whispers still circulated throughout the academy:
— "That Menma, he held his ground against Zarek, but… he's just an Orion, what a surprise."
— "Yeah, but his amplification power, it's supposed to be weak, right? Amplifying daggers isn't impressive."
— "That's what we thought. No one knows he can amplify himself."
— "What?! That's impossible! Amplifying your own body must be super dangerous or way too hard to control."
No one dared to speak openly about it. Amplifying objects was the norm, what everyone knew. But amplifying your own body… that was beyond understanding, almost taboo, or a theory thought impossible.
Yet Menma had dared. He had tried. He felt this was the key.
He remembered the day he had seen a Nova student crush enemies with wild lightning while he could only amplify an old dagger. He swore then never to stay in the shadows, to find another path, a way to unleash his true strength.
When he trained, he wasn't just trying to make a dagger hit harder. He wanted to become faster, stronger, tougher—not by raw magic, but by directly amplifying his muscles, reflexes, endurance.
But while rumors ignited the halls, Menma paid them no mind. It wasn't false modesty. He simply didn't have the luxury to be satisfied. His feat against Zarek was just a fragment. A spark. If he wanted to go further, he had to understand. Master. And there was only one place he felt free to fall a thousand times: the training ground, empty at this hour.
The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the scraping of stone beneath his scraped knees. Twilight light filtered through tall windows, casting dancing shadows on the floor marked by his past battles.
He tried again. And again.
The training ground floor bore the marks of his failures: fist strikes, knee blows, falls. Menma was exhausted but relentless. Jaw clenched, muscles aching, body drenched in sweat.
Every attempt at internal amplification failed. The Flux refused to stabilize within him. He slowly understood why: the human body wasn't an object. It reacted, resisted, had its own defenses. Amplifying a blade was simple: it was a passive vessel. But he was alive. He thought. He doubted.
The burning pain in his muscles nearly took his breath away, every fiber screaming to give up. Yet, deep within the turmoil, a stubborn flame burned: the flame of will.
And that doubt—that was the real wall.
He collapsed once more, gasping.
— "You think it'll just fall into your lap all at once?" said Ayame in a calm voice.
Menma lifted his head. She was there, sitting nearby, legs crossed. The soft evening light caressed her features, softening her usually cold gaze.
— "You amplify your body. That means every muscle, every organ, every fiber… has to learn how to receive the Flux. It's harder than anything you've done before. But…"
She stood up. Slowly. Eyes fixed on him, a mix of admiration and concern shining through.
— "It's also a thousand times more powerful."
Menma trembled as he straightened up.
— "And nobody thought it was worth it?"
Ayame shrugged.
— "The Amplification Archetype is seen as weak. So people don't bother exploring it. They amplify objects because that's what they're taught. Not themselves. Too risky. Too uncertain."
She looked at him more seriously, weighing each word.
— "You might be the first idiot brave enough to try. And stubborn enough to succeed."
Menma clenched his teeth. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. He visualized the muscles of his right arm, like a precise diagram: Flux to shoulder, biceps, forearm, then hand.
He focused. He pushed. The energy began to flow.
Pain.
He held on.
A flicker. A tremor. A moment.
He clenched his fist — his arm suddenly heavy, charged with energy.
He opened his eyes. Pale light ran along his veins, crackling, unstable… but there.
Ayame smiled. Not mocking this time. Genuine.
— "There. That's it."
Menma, panting, slowly lowered his arm. His heart pounded wildly.
— "That… was real?"
— "It's just the beginning," she replied. "And believe me, when you manage to do that all over your body… no one will ever tell you your Archetype is weak again."
A silence. Heavy but comforting. Menma was still kneeling, exhausted, but strangely serene.
Ayame briefly looked away, as if afraid someone might catch her showing a little admiration. Then she looked back at him with unusual sincerity.
Then she stretched a bit and, instead of turning away as usual, took a step toward him, casual:
— "Well… since you survived your suicidal training, you've earned a reward."
He looked at her, a bit surprised.
— "A reward?"
She raised an eyebrow.
— "I'm going to eat somewhere nearby. You need fuel. And I don't want to eat alone. So you're coming."
Menma blinked.
— "That's an invitation?"
Ayame looked away, arms crossed.
— "It's… purely strategic. I'm preventing you from fainting."
A slight smile curved Menma's lips.
— "Understood, strategist."
He stood up, still a bit wobbly, but upright. Ayame was already waiting a few steps ahead, hands in pockets.
— "Hurry up, Menma. Or I'm going without you."
Outside, the night stretched, dotted with golden lantern lights. The mingled scent of warm bread and spices floated in the air. For the first time in a long while, Menma felt a lightness settle, as if this simple moment opened a new door.
And without thinking much, he followed.
That night, they talked about nothing and everything. Favorite dishes, weird academy folks, moody teachers, and daily gossip. For the first time, they laughed together.
And between bursts of voices and shared silences, something new was weaving. Something precious.