Back at the Silver Fang Inn, Elyra, Nobori, Tenka, and Brannok gather in Nobori's office, each one cradling a warm cup of tea. The dim light of the lanterns flickers against the wooden walls, casting long shadows as the warmth of the fire fills the space.
As they sip, the atmosphere buzzes with camaraderie. They swap stories of the past month, laughing over Shiku's reckless antics, Kasumi's unshakable composure, and Houki's quiet but cutting remarks. Each tale carried pride—pride that the trio had pushed themselves harder than expected.
Brannok chuckles, stroking his thick beard. "I still can't believe Shiku tried to break my axe barehanded. Stubborn brat nearly sprained his wrist."
Tenka throws his head back with a booming laugh. "That kid's got fire, literally and figuratively. Reminds me of myself at that age—minus the brains, of course."
Nobori smirks faintly, sipping his tea in silence, though his eyes betray a thoughtful gleam.
But Elyra's posture shifts. She sets her cup down with deliberate care, her golden-flecked eyes narrowing. The laughter slowly dies as the others notice the change in her expression.
"There was something… strange," she says finally, her voice low.
Nobori arches an eyebrow. "Strange? From those two? You'll have to be more specific." His tone is teasing, but a sliver of concern undercuts it.
Elyra leans forward. "Shiku's fire felt… unstable. As if a second rhythm pulsed inside it—wild, barely leashed. And Houki—" she hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "His void didn't feel singular. It was layered. Like something else was buried beneath it. Dormant… but restless."
The room stills.
Brannok's booming voice loses its mirth. "You're saying their cores aren't normal?"
Elyra nods slowly. "I'm saying… I don't know what they are."
Nobori rubs his chin. "Given how they described their awakening, it fits the odds that they're some sort of anomaly."
The silence that follows presses down heavier than stone. Even the crackle of the fireplace seems muted, smothered by the weight of her words.
Tenka, usually the first to brush off tension, leans forward, his smirk gone. "If what you're saying is true, Elyra… their futures won't just affect this trial. They could affect the entire kingdom."
"They're still kids," Nobori says, voice calm but iron-hard. "Whatever's inside doesn't change who they are. Until we know more, guessing helps no one." His gaze dares an argument.
Brannok grunts. "Guessing or not—you know if those cores fracture under pressure, we're not dealing with kids. We're dealing with weapons without handlers."
A log snaps in the fire. No one speaks.
Elyra folds her arms, gaze distant. "Weapons or not… they won't be able to hide it much longer."
Her words linger in the heavy air like an omen.
Tenka with a grave expression. "The better question—how many in SunCross were affected by that improper ceremony?"
The four trade looks. The answer points in the same direction: to understand Shiku and Houki's Èlan Cores, they'll have to go to Zeodia.
In Shiku's carriage heading south, the atmosphere is vibrant and full of energy. The seven companions inside are animatedly engaged in conversation, their voices rising in playful banter and laughter. Their exuberance is a little overwhelming, testing the patience of the carriage handler, who occasionally glances back with a hint of annoyance.
Shiku, of course, is at the center of it, leaning forward with wild gestures as he retells a story.
"And then Brannok said, 'You think your fists are stronger than my axe?!' So I—" Shiku smacks his knuckles together with a grin. "—tried to prove him wrong!"
The whole carriage bursts into laughter.
"You nearly broke your hand, idiot," Tsutan, the wiry lightning augmenter, chuckles, shaking his head.
"Worth it!" Shiku fires back proudly. "That axe was trembling."
"It wasn't the axe trembling, it was your wrist," Selphi, the sound mage, says dryly, earning another round of snickers.
The group is noisy, but beneath the laughter there's a charge in the air—a mixture of excitement and nerves that none of them voice directly.
Shiku leans back, staring out the small window of the carriage. For just a moment, as the trees blur past, he remembers Elyra's stern gaze during training, her words about discipline echoing faintly. His smile falters.
"…We'll show them," he mutters under his breath, clenching his fist against his knee. "We'll show everyone."
Before doubt settles, Daintaro—the broad-shouldered gravity augmenter—claps him on the back hard enough to rock the carriage. "What's with the serious look, hothead? Save it for the demons."
"Yeah, this is gonna be so much fun!" Rika and Roku say in perfect unison.
The laughter swells again, and Shiku lets it carry him away, the earlier flicker of doubt drowned beneath the noise.
As the group makes its way down a dirt path, their laughter and lively chatter fill the air. Suddenly, a gang of bandits emerges in front of the carriage, causing the horse to come to a sudden halt. The unexpected stop causes the carriage to lurch violently, wheels grinding against the dirt as bodies slam into one another. Shiku's head cracked against the wooden frame, Selphi's sharp cry is drowned by the horses' panicked whinnies. Dust and splinters fill the air as the world spins sideways.
A bandit drops from a branch into a seated crouch atop the shaft, drawing a knife. His grin is too wide; yellow teeth flash. A serpent tattoo coils down his cheek. He yanks the handler upright; the blade kisses skin, drawing a bright bead.
"This isn't just any cart," he croons. "It's a treasure chest on wheels. And today's our lucky day."
More bandits spill from the brush, laughing, weapons up. One grabs the door—only for it to blow outward, flattening him.
The team pours out. Vael stays seated, a silhouette in the carriage's shadow.
They dispatch the nearest bandits in a flurry of quick, clean exchanges—enough to show talent, not enough to end the threat.
The serpent-marked leader digs the knife in; the bead becomes a thread. "One step closer and I paint the road with his throat!"
The young warriors hesitate. Auras gutter from recent spells. Training-yard rules don't live here.
Shiku's hands twitch; fire licks his knuckles. "Coward. Hiding behind someone else's life…"
"Shiku." Daintaro's voice rolls from the carriage—calm, commanding. His golden eyes gleam from the shadow. "Don't lose your head. Think."
Daintaro murmurs, "I can crush them all," the ground under his boots already humming.
"Crush him and you crush the handler," Selphi snaps, gaze locked on the knife hand. "We need his wrist, not the world."
The serpent leader slides the blade along the handler's jaw. "Don't come any closer you privileged brats."
For a beat, everything holds.
Then Shiku steps.
Crimson eyes harden. Heat climbs his forearms. "You don't get to write this scene."
"Idiot—he'll slit him!" Daintaro hisses.
"Then be fast enough to back me up," Shiku says, never breaking stride.
The blade tightens—
A low hum ripples the air. Selphi exhales, and a thread of sound slides across the space. The knife hand glitches—tendons skip. The grip loosens.
A silvery pane irises open—Rika, Mirror mage, flashes a palm, the shield-sized glass catching the handler's shoulder. Roku's fingers hook the reflection; Space twitches—and the handler vanishes through and spills into the carriage behind them, gasping.
The serpent leader blinks in confusion—just long enough.
Shiku's fist detonates across his jaw—thunder without clouds. The knife hits dirt; the leader sails back, smoke curling from his collar.
Weapons leap from bandit hands as gravity bows to Daintaro; Tsutan's lightning dances, corralling stragglers and scattering the rest.
The serpent-marked man spits blood and a tooth, grinning anyway. "Not bad, brats. You'll wish you never touched us."
A shrill whistle. Underbrush swallows them.
Silence tastes of iron and ash.
They're breathing heavy, the stench of scorched earth and blood thick in the air.
The handler collapses to his knees, clutching his neck where the blade had been pressed. His wide eyes dart from Shiku to the others, trembling. "You… saved me…"
Shiku wipes the blood from his knuckles, his grin returning—though it's smaller now, tinged with something heavier. "That's what we're here for."
From the carriage, Vael finally steps out, stretching languidly as his muscles ache wishing he could've joined the battle himself.. His eyes sweep over the group—at their sweat, their ragged breathing, their flickering auras.
"You all survived your first taste of reality," he says simply. "But try not to make a habit of hesitating when lives are on the line. Demons won't give you that luxury."
His words cut deep, but the lesson is clear. This wasn't part of the trial. This was the world reminding them that not every fight comes with rules.
As the group enters the carriage, they can't contain their excitement. The energy in the air was electric as they celebrate their victory. Cheers erupt, filling the space with a sense of joy. Big smiles adorn their faces, and they exchange high-fives, each gesture amplifying their shared sense of triumph as they continue their journey together.
In Houki's carriage heading west, silence reigns.
The air is heavy, thick with unspoken tension. Unlike Shiku's boisterous crew, no laughter fills this space—only the quiet creak of wood, the steady rhythm of the wheels, and the occasional snort from the horses pulling them forward.
Houki sits arms crossed, eyes closed like he's meditating; the subtle coil of void mana says otherwise. "This silence is annoying. I almost miss Shiku's rambling."
Opposite him, Saiya—the scarred blood mage—draws a blade along a whetstone, rasp steady as a heartbeat. Yoribo, beast augmenter, lounges with a predator's half-lidded stare. Ashisine studies the planes of her crystalline gauntlets. Takeru keeps to the corner shadows, scarf high, silver eyes hawk-sharp. Chiho—mind mage—reads and smirks, laughter ghosting her lips at the anxieties running through the room.
It isn't a team of friends. It's a collection of weapons—each one sharp, dangerous, and mistrustful of the others.
Lucen, their pillar, sits by the back window, head tilted lazily against the wood as if asleep. But Houki notices the faintest stir of mana around him, like spider threads weaving through every corner of the carriage. Watching. Listening. Testing.
At last, Lucen's voice breaks the silence. Soft. Barely audible. Yet everyone hears.
"Trust is… unnecessary."
The others glance toward him, unsure if he is awake or dreaming.
Lucen continues, his words floating like whispers through the stillness. "Noise drowns instinct. Instinct wins wars. You will learn to listen to yourselves… or you will die."
No one answers. The silence deepens.
Houki opens his eyes, meeting Lucen's gaze. For just a moment, the two stare at one another—void against shadow, silence against silence. And though no words are spoken, Houki feels the weight of it. Lucen had chosen him for a reason.
As the carriage rolls into a small village at dusk, the group disembarks. Lanterns flicker to life along the dirt streets, casting a warm glow over stone houses and weary villagers. The smell of stew and firewood lingers in the air.
The villagers bow slightly at the sight of Lucen and his team, though their smiles are strained, their eyes watchful. Houki catches whispers—faint, hurried. Something about missing livestock. Strange sounds at night—a shadow in the woods.
Lucen and Takeru stroll past the demi-human without a glance, their indifference apparent. The rest of the group, taking their cue from them, follow suit, moving forward as if the demi-human was nothing more than a fleeting shadow. However, Houki lingers behind, unable to share in their disregard.
Houki frowns, his aura rippling. For him, the silence of this place is not peace—it is a warning.
And deep inside, the void stirs.
In Kasumi's carriage heading north, order prevails.
Her team sits in neat formation, the air calm but taut, like a bowstring drawn back. Aeryn sits at the front, posture straight, eyes fixed ahead with razor focus. Every word she speaks carries the weight of command.
"Every mission has three steps," Aeryn says evenly. "Assessment. Execution. Adaptation. Forget them, and you fail."
Reina nods eagerly, hanging on every word like scripture. Kaede scribbles notes in a worn leather journal. Hana and Okagoro quietly test their mana flow, sparks and stone humming faintly at their fingertips. Yamao fidgets but forces himself to keep pace, stealing glances at the others for reassurance.
Kasumi listens silently, but her chest tightens with a quiet pride. Compared to Shiku's noise and Houki's silence, here she feels… sharpened. Focused. Ready.
Aeryn finally glances at her, holding her gaze for a beat too long. "Kasumi. Tomorrow, I'll rely on you first."
Her throat dries. "…Yes, commander."
Kasumi straightens. A thin filament of green gathers between her fingers—steady, precise—then fades. Not reckless fire. Expectation.
She holds it like a flame cupped against the wind.
❧