Meditation wasn't optional if you wanted a real evolution.
You could force energy. You could grind circulation until your muscles ached and your veins felt like wire. But when it came to changing your core's quality—turning it into something that could hold a higher kind of force—brute effort only got you halfway.
The rest was stillness.
I sat cross-legged on the rug, back straight, hands resting on my knees. At first, everything in my body complained.
My shoulders wanted to sag.
My thigh went numb.
My thoughts ran in loops—rankings, merits, Maya, Lucas, the dungeon exam, the hundred ways this place could kill me if I made one dumb mistake.
Then the noise thinned.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Longer exhale.
My heartbeat slowed, not because I was relaxed… but because my body finally accepted I wasn't moving.
Good.
That's enough.
Core evolution wasn't just "more magic."
It was the foundation hardening. The container changing. The difference between someone who had a big pool of water—and someone who could shape it into a blade without losing half of it to spillover.
Families treated it like a lineage milestone. Not for tradition's sake, but because "force controls" started gaining… quirks. Aspects. Weight. Density. Lightness. The kind of properties that decided whether you were a threat or just another loud student.
I didn't know what attribute my path would lean toward.
The novel didn't spell everything out.
It never did.
I let my eyes close.
And the room dissolved.
Not slowly.
Instantly—like I'd stepped off a ledge and fallen into an ocean of black.
I stood in a void that didn't feel like imagination. It felt like space itself had been emptied and I was the only thing left inside it. No up. No down. No sound.
Then—
Light appeared.
Not a single beam, but dozens of colossal streams overhead—like highways made of glass, each one carrying a river of crystal-blue energy. They twisted through the darkness, converging toward one point.
A circle.
Massive.
Silver.
It hovered there like a sealed star, pulsing—bright enough to wash the void in white—then swallowing its own glow back into itself.
The pulses sped up.
The shell trembled.
A thin crack appeared.
Then another.
Then a spiderweb of fractures spread until the entire surface looked like broken porcelain.
CRACK.
The silver shell shattered, fragments dissolving before they could fall.
Beneath it—
gold.
A new core, gleaming like sunlight caught in metal.
And as it revealed itself, the darkness filled with tiny blue points—thousands of them—flickering into existence like a sky being rebuilt from scratch.
My eyes snapped open.
The points didn't disappear.
Even in my room, even with the bland walls and the quiet hum of the building, I could still see them—floating faintly, like dust motes that didn't belong to physics.
A slow grin pulled at my mouth.
"…So that's how it is."
I lifted my arm.
Come.
The dots surged.
Not toward my body in general—toward my intention. They wrapped around my forearm like a living sleeve, gathering faster than I expected, condensing until the air felt thick.
Metaphysical energy.
It coated my arm in a bright, clean layer of force—too sharp to be called a glow. More like light that had decided to become solid.
My heart thudded once—hard.
I swung downward, testing it instinctively.
The energy extended past my fist, stretching into a thin, translucent blade that snapped out through the air.
The moment it left my arm, my connection to it thinned. Like grabbing a rope that was already slipping through your fingers.
Stop—
Too late.
KSHHH.
The slash hit the wall and carved a deep line into it.
Not a burn.
A cut.
I stared at the damage, then exhaled slowly through my nose.
"…Yeah. That's going to be a problem."
I dropped back into a seated position immediately. The excitement was real, but I couldn't afford to let it control me.
Metaphysical energy control was an advanced course in the Triangle. Most students struggled for months just to form stable constructs. Some never did at all.
And I'd just done it on accident.
That wasn't only talent.
That was risk.
I checked the feeling in my core.
…Almost empty.
My smile vanished.
"Idiot," I muttered to myself.
I closed my eyes again and started circulating, pulling the river back together one thread at a time. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't fast.
It was necessary.
And I stayed like that—alone in my room—until the night stopped feeling like night and started feeling like morning.
[March 19, XXXX — 06:40]
[Academy Dining Hall]
"Hey, Dreyden—what's your skill?"
"No way it's just copying stuff. Tell us already."
I stabbed at my food and kept my eyes down.
If I had to name what this was, it wasn't fame.
It was infestation.
Ever since the ranking climb, people who used to walk past me like I was furniture suddenly wanted my attention. Some tried friendliness. Some tried pressure. Some tried the fake laugh that meant they were testing how much they could take.
And under all of it, there was something uglier.
Jealousy.
Not because I'd hurt anyone.
Because I'd moved.
A student at the front table snapped, "He said he doesn't want to talk. Stop bothering him!"
He wasn't defending me.
He was irritated I wasn't giving him what he wanted.
I didn't bother replying. They were weaker. They didn't outrank me. If I fought them, I'd be wasting time and feeding the exact story they wanted.
I finished eating, stood, and walked out while the questions followed behind me like flies.
I should check on Maya later.
Today was supposed to be her first time using her skill.
If she chose the identity I remembered… the change would hit fast. A different posture. A different confidence. Like someone had poured fire into the shape of her.
The thought almost made me laugh.
After class, then.
I had combat training today anyway.
And somehow—somehow—Lucas had gotten my number.
Now he wanted to "train."
I rubbed my face as I walked.
"Please don't turn into a problem," I muttered.
It absolutely would.
[Class A-1 Training Hall]
Swoosh—CLING—CLING.
Steel met brass in fast, clean bursts.
Lucas's sword versus my knuckles.
No abilities.
No flashy skills.
Just footwork, angles, timing.
Lucas stepped in with a sharp cut toward my ribs. The blade hissed past the fabric of my uniform close enough that I felt air move.
"That one came close," I said, twisting away.
I didn't clash the blade head-on. His weapon was higher grade—if we traded brute impact, mine would crack first.
So I did the only thing that made sense.
I hunted his grip.
Every exchange, I hit the same target: wrist, fingers, control.
Lucas adjusted mid-fight, of course. He always did. But my focus didn't shift.
A fraction of looseness appeared in his hold—
I took it.
I stepped inside, caught his arm, twisted it behind him, and drove a controlled strike toward the back of his head—just enough force to make him stumble and drop.
Lucas hit the floor with a sharp breath.
He raised both hands immediately.
"Okay," he said, voice slightly strained. Then he grinned. "Two to two."
I grabbed his hand and hauled him up.
"Sounding like that," I said, "it makes it feel like you're going easy on me."
"Believe me," he replied, rolling his shoulder, "I'm not."
"Good."
My lungs burned pleasantly. Sweat ran down the side of my face. I liked this kind of exhaustion—it was clean. Honest.
But my eyes kept flicking to the way he moved.
The angles.
The pressure.
The footwork that didn't belong to human schools.
I recognized it immediately.
Which made my stomach tighten.
Because I also knew when he was supposed to learn it.
And this wasn't then.
Lucas flexed his fingers, testing his grip again. "You don't train in the holographic room?"
"The what?"
He blinked. "You seriously don't know?"
He pointed with his sword toward a side corridor. "Combat sims. Styles. Weapon disciplines. It's used for refining technique."
"I didn't even know that existed," I admitted.
He tossed me a water bottle. I caught it, drank, then noticed something worse—
A group of students nearby were watching. Whispering. Eyes wide.
Because now I wasn't just "ranked."
I was training with Lucas.
"Aaah… this sucks," I muttered.
Lucas laughed like it was nothing. "You'll get used to it."
That laugh made me want to like him.
And it made me want to punch him.
I wiped sweat from my face with the towel he handed me, then finally said what I'd been holding in.
"Lucas. Why now?"
He frowned like he genuinely didn't understand the question. "I'm trying to be your friend."
I stared at him.
Then my mouth curved slightly. "So you gave up on making me your subordinate?"
He chuckled. "I knew you wouldn't accept that."
He dropped onto the bench, eyes drifting across the hall where Raisel was sparring—hard—like she was trying to erase something inside herself.
"As if," I muttered, sitting too.
We let the moment breathe.
Then I glanced at him again.
"Alright," I said. "Since we're apparently friends now…"
Lucas looked over.
I chose my words carefully.
"Be careful," I said quietly. "Using that swordsmanship so openly is dangerous."
His grin vanished.
His posture tightened.
"I—I don't know what you mean."
He took a half-step back.
I caught his wrist before he could pull away—not hard, just enough to stop him from pretending he could run from the conversation.
"These idiots might not recognize it," I said, voice low, "but if you use that style in front of the wrong staff here… you'll die."
I let go and stood.
He stayed still, staring at the floor like his brain was recalculating everything he thought was safe.
I turned toward the exit, my irritation fading into something heavier.
Lucas wasn't supposed to have this yet.
And if the timeline was changing here—
Then it was changing everywhere.
I exhaled once.
"…This is getting annoying."
And I walked out, already planning how to keep this from becoming the kind of change that got people killed.