The academy didn't stop for him.
By the time Orin stepped out of the evaluation grounds, classes were already shifting. Bells chimed somewhere high in the towers. Students traded gossip in the walkways as if nobody had almost been pulped in the sand pit ten minutes ago.
Wake fell into step at his left. Starke slid in on his right like a shadow that talked too much.
"So," Starke said, "on a scale of one to 'I almost threw up,' how you feeling?"
Orin rolled his shoulders. Everything hurt, but not like before. Not like the Vrexus. The healers' work and his own recovery were keeping most of the pain to a dull throb.
"I'm… standing," he said.
"Impressive," Wake replied. "That storm-finch kid hits like falling brick."
Kahn-Ra padded alongside them, tail flicking lazily. Brick falls once, his voice brushed through Orin's mind. You kept standing after three.
Orin huffed a breath that almost became a laugh. "That's… one way to put it."
"Talking to the cat again?" Starke asked.
"Always," Orin said.
Starke eyed Kahn-Ra. "Just so you know, if you're judging my footwork, don't. I was born wrong."
Kahn-Ra didn't bother to look at him. He moves like a startled bird, he told Orin instead. Messy. Loud. Somehow still alive.
Orin's lips twitched.
They crossed from the sand of the evaluation yard onto smooth stone, following a curving hallway cut into Hachi's inner ring. The shift always threw Orin for a second—the forest outside felt wild and rough, but inside the academy everything was deliberate, built with intention.
Crystal lanterns hung from the ceiling, suspended on braided metal vines. Each held a thumb-sized Radiant core that brightened or dimmed as groups passed under them, reacting to proximity. The light was warm and almost alive, casting faint halos that pulsed as student traffic surged.
Orin glanced up. "Those still weird to you?"
Wake looked. "The lights?"
"Yeah."
"Every day," Wake said. "They're keyed to body heat and mana wake. If too many people run under them at once, they flare brighter so the hall doesn't go dim."
Starke leaned in. "And if a certain someone decides to test how much they can channel through them—"
"Starke," Wake warned.
"—they pop like overripe fruit," Starke finished cheerfully. "Allegedly."
Orin stared. "That… happen a lot?"
"Less than before they reinforced them," Wake said. "More than the staff likes."
Kahn-Ra's thought slid through smoothly. Humans build fragile suns and hang them indoors. Brave. Foolish. Somehow charming.
Orin didn't answer aloud. His mouth was too busy trying not to grin.
They turned onto one of the higher bridges that overlooked the main training grounds. From up here, Hachi's inner heart unrolled below them—sectioned fields, stone circles, reinforced pits and platforms, each holding a different kind of struggle.
On the far left, Blood Hunters ran drills in a wide, dust-heavy arena. From above, Orin could pick out the way they moved—layered, uneven, each body carrying a hint of some other creature.
"Look," Wake said, nodding over the rail. "Hunter yard."
Orin leaned on the stone barrier.
A broad-shouldered boy slammed into a training dummy with a shoulder-first charge that cracked the post and shook loose dirt. His skin, even from this distance, carried a muted pattern of ridge-like marks. When he stepped back, his stance remained low, knees bent, weight forward.
"Boar-blood?" Orin guessed.
Wake nodded. "Hollowjaw Boar-Blood Hunter. Good at breaking things. Terrible at stopping."
The boy proved the point immediately by overcommitting on the next rush and eating dust when his own momentum dragged him past the target.
Starke snorted. "Respectfully."
Closer to their side, a slimmer girl with long braids moved around a cluster of dummies, blades flashing. Brief streaks of iridescent sheen rolled across her arms and shoulders—almost like insect shell, catching the light before fading.
"Webwing Mantis-Fly Blood Hunter," Wake said quietly when Orin tilted his head. "Light armor shift. Bone density jump. Those flickers mean she's doing quick, partial trait pulls."
Orin watched her pivot, cut, retreat, her body adjusting mid-strike.
You should be watching closely, Kahn-Ra told him. They have to train for what your body will eventually do by instinct.
Orin's jaw tightened. "I am watching," he murmured.
Starke elbowed him. "Speaking of things you are very obviously staring at…"
He pointed across the grounds.
On the opposite side of the central lawn, another yard stretched—a circular field etched with geometric patterns that glowed faintly underfoot. The Blessed yards.
Even at a distance, they felt different. Less dust, more light. Less sheer force, more… distortion.
A tall boy stood at the near edge of the circle, palms raised. With each controlled exhale, sheets of translucent energy rippled outward from his hands like barely visible glass. Rocks tossed at the barrier hit an invisible wall midair and slowed to a halt, hovering for a second before dropping.
"Force blessing," Wake said. "Think shaped pressure. He'll end up on shield squads if he doesn't blow his arms out first."
Orin's gaze shifted.
A girl in a long coat paced through a field of metal discs scattered across the ground. With a flick of her fingers, one disc shot upward, caught in an invisible pull. Another drifted sideways, then snapped to her palm as if grabbed by a magnet he couldn't see. The more she moved, the more the discs rearranged themselves, orbiting and re-orbiting like patient, obedient stars.
"Magnetism," Starke said. His tone dipped for a moment—thinking of Lisa, maybe. "Hard to get that one. Rarer than fire."
The girl hurled three discs in a row, then yanked all of them back at once. They changed direction mid-flight and landed in a clean stack at her feet.
Orin's chest tightened.
Lisa's whip. The way it had curled and bent in impossible lines.
He dragged his attention away, eyes drifting to the far end of the yard.
And stopped.
Closer to the center, a dark-haired girl stood barefoot on the sigil-marked stone. She moved like the circle itself was hers—steps precise, hands open, fingers loose. Two boys sparred with her at once, both bigger; neither lasted more than a handful of exchanges.
It wasn't her speed that held his attention, though she shifted quickly. It was how her opponents moved whenever she touched them.
One boy lunged, confident. She slid sideways, brushed his forearm with only two fingers.
His body dropped as if the floor yanked him down. Knees buckled. He hit the ground so hard Orin felt the impact from the bridge.
"Did she just—?" Starke began.
Before he finished, the second boy circled behind her. She didn't turn. She just swept her palm up, three fingers extended, and touched the air in front of her chest.
The boy's step faltered. He sank mid-stride, like his boots had filled with lead. His shoulders hunched as if an invisible weight slammed onto his spine. He tried to raise his arm. It wobbled and fell uselessly.
Wake let out a low whistle. "Gravity blessing. That's rare."
"Blessed?" Orin asked.
"Oh yeah," Starke said. "Only humans get that kind of weirdness. Usually."
Orin kept watching.
The girl flowed closer to the first boy, who was still struggling on the ground like his bones suddenly weighed double. She pressed her thumb lightly against his collarbone. Whatever she'd done before, she released it. His limbs lightened visibly; he sucked in air and rolled away, wide-eyed.
She gave a short bow to both opponents and stepped back, expression calm, as if she hadn't just dropped two people with a handful of touches.
That one is interesting, Kahn-Ra said. She bends the world instead of her body.
Orin swallowed. "Think we'll ever spar with people like that?"
Wake shrugged. "Depends which advanced tracks Lox sends us to. Some missions mix Blessed and Blood Hunters. High survival, high risk, high headache."
Starke spread his arms, grinning. "So basically our future."
They moved on.
Inside one of the side halls, the academy's tech showed itself in quieter ways. Narrow brass tubes ran along the ceiling, pulsing faintly with Radiant current. Message glyphs hovered above recessed alcoves—notes shifting from blue to red when a summons came through. A panel near one door glowed with rotating sigils; a student pressed her palm against it, and the sigils reshaped into a schedule grid with her name highlighted.
Orin slowed to watch.
"Inkglass interface," Wake said. "They're linked to the main Hall of Records. Schedules, warnings, mission postings. Try not to punch one. They're expensive."
"Why would I punch it?" Orin asked.
Starke replied, "Because this place will absolutely schedule you for sparring at sunrise after night drills and you're going to want to fight something."
Fair.
They descended a ramp into the gear wing. The air changed again—more leather, oil, faint tang of worked metal. Racks of uniforms and equipment lined the walls. A pair of quartermasters behind a tall desk traded gear for stamped tablets bearing student names and tracks.
Wake stepped forward first, sliding his tablet across. "Ashfall. Blood Hunter class, Phoenix-integrated."
The quartermaster squinted at him, then tossed over a set of reinforced wraps, a padded underlayer, and a dark vest with thread-thin channels stitched into the lining.
"Kinetic and heat-resistant seams," she said. "Try not to set yourself on fire inside it."
"No promises," Wake said.
Starke bounced next. "Starke. Shadow-track. Weapon specialization."
He received a fitted harness clearly designed for collapsible weapons, a light coat reinforced at the forearms, and a pair of fingerless gloves traced with faint dark sigils.
"Keeps your grip stable when phasing that thing in and out," the quartermaster said. "Do not test them by hanging off balconies."
Starke's face did something very guilty. "Of course not."
Then it was Orin's turn.
He slid his tablet forward. "Slain. Blood Hunter track."
The quartermaster studied him for a moment. Her gaze flicked to Kahn-Ra, lingered, then returned to Orin. If she felt anything, she didn't comment. She ducked under the counter, rummaged, then set down a folded set of dark gear.
"Flexible armor," she said. "Beast-thread weave with shard-steel ribs. Built for close quarters. Plenty of give for… unconventional movement."
Orin ran his fingers along the material. It was lighter than it looked, tough but with enough stretch that he could imagine twisting, dropping, pivoting without getting snagged.
Two matching holsters came next, designed to cross his back.
"For your cleavers," she said. "The smith who logged these said whoever forged those blades knew what they were doing."
Orin's chest pinched. "He did," he said quietly.
He took the gear to a side bench. Wake and Starke stripped outer layers, trading old clothes for new, joking about smelling more like leather than sweat. Orin swapped into the academy-issued kit, adjusting straps, pulling one of the holsters across his shoulder until the weight of his cleavers settled into place.
He flexed his hands in the new gloves. The grip caught easily.
Kahn-Ra watched from the floor. You move more cleanly in this, he said. Less drag. Less noise.
"Feels… real," Orin admitted.
"Because it is," Wake said, flopping onto the bench beside him. "You're official now. Evaluated. Logged. Assigned. If you fail now, at least it'll be on record."
Starke pointed. "He's joking. Mostly. But this is the part where we stop being 'kids who got in' and start being 'recruits who can't slack without getting yelled at from fifteen directions.'"
Orin sat back, letting the weight of the day settle over him.
The evaluation. Draeve. The way his body had surged when he almost lost control. The way he'd held the line anyway. The faint echo of radiance still tingled under his skin.
His hand drifted to the inside pocket where Sonny's letter rested, worn at the edges from rereading. The words were burned into him now.
You need real training. Real guidance. People who can help you control whatever burns in your blood.
He was here. In the place Sonny had wanted for him. In halls built for people who did impossible things for a living.
He wasn't sure he deserved it.
But he was here.
"Hey," Wake said, shoulder bumping his. "Stop brooding. You start brooding too hard and Starke will try to match you. It'll get competitive."
"I could win," Starke said.
"You absolutely could not," Wake replied.
Orin snorted.
They left the gear wing and headed toward the dorm towers. Outside, the Blessed yard was winding down. The force wielder sat on the edge of the circle, arms dangling, sweat dripping from his fingers as an instructor lectured over him. The magnetism girl calmly stacked her discs away with a lazy flick of her hand.
The gravity girl still trained.
She moved alone now, palms brushing the air, fingers curling in patterns Orin couldn't quite decipher. A single stone in front of her alternated between hovering, slamming into the ground, and rolling weightlessly in slow arcs if she only brushed it with one fingertip.
Two fingers dropped it faster. Three pinned it to the earth hard enough to crack the surface.
Her face didn't change. Just focus. Control.
Orin slowed.
Wake followed his gaze. "You really want to get hit by that?"
"Not particularly," Orin said. "Just… watching."
"Good," Starke said. "Because I like my bones uncrushed."
Kahn-Ra hummed. You will cross paths with her, he said. The world likes to put sharp edges in the same box.
Orin didn't answer.
Later, in their dorm room, the day finally quieted. The window looked out toward the training fields. Lanterns dimmed to a softer glow as evening edged in, their Radiant cores pulsing just enough to keep shadows from swallowing the walkways.
Wake collapsed on his bunk with a groan. "I'm going to sleep for three days."
"You have class at first bell," Starke reminded him. "History of Conflict."
Wake let out a muffled curse into his pillow.
Starke dropped onto his own bunk, then popped his head over the edge. "You all right, Orin?"
Orin sat on his bed by the window, Kahn-Ra curled at his feet. He looked down at his hands again—clean now, no blood, no tremor.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I'm here."
Starke considered that, then nodded once. "That's enough for today."
Wake raised a thumb from the pillow. "Seconded."
Kahn-Ra's tail flicked once. You survived, Orin Slain. You adapted. Tomorrow, you sharpen.
Orin leaned back against the wall, letting the quiet of the room settle around him. Outside, somewhere in those yards, people were bending gravity, reshaping metal, channeling fire, and carving their beast-blood into something that could keep others alive.
He'd joined them.
The ghosts of the Fangs felt closer here, somehow—not like accusations, but like witnesses.
"I'll figure it out," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "I'll learn to control it. All of it."
Kahn-Ra's reply brushed his mind, steady and sure. You will. And I will be there when you do.
For the first time since that forest, Orin let himself believe it.
He closed his eyes.
Hachi Academy thrummed quietly around him—lights dimming, wards humming, students settling.
New day.
New shadows.
And somewhere between the two, Orin Slain trying to find the shape of whoever he was going to become.