Caspian swept his gaze across the assembled students, his hands resting loosely on his belt. The air was thick with the scent of damp pine and the nervous hum of fifty different Ichor signatures.
"Alright," Caspian called out, his voice echoing off the treeline. "Who's going to be the first to step into the ring? Don't be shy now. I promise this will be an enlightening experience. Think of it as a friendly conversation—just with more bruises."
The students hesitated, the weight of Caspian's earlier words about "amateurs" still hanging over them. Then, the silence was broken by a confident step.
Layla walked into the center of the clearing, a bright, defiant smile on her face. She adjusted her gloves, her eyes locking onto Caspian with a playful yet sharp intensity.
"I'll do it," Layla said, her voice ringing with clarity. "I'd love to help you realize that you might be judging us a bit too quickly. Calling us inexperienced before you've even seen us move is a bold move, Instructor. I think I'll make you eat those words."
Caspian let out a deep, rolling chuckle, clearly enjoying the spark in her. "Spoken like someone who hasn't been hit hard enough yet. I like the spirit." He jerked a thumb toward the man leaning against a nearby oak tree. "In that case, you'll be fighting Henry over here."
Henry, who had been halfway through a yawn, froze. His eyes snapped open as he looked at Caspian in genuine betrayal. "What? Why me? You're the one who issued the challenge. Get in there and get your boots dirty."
Caspian just smirked and pulled a small, battered notebook from his duster pocket. "Because I'm the primary evaluator for this block, Henry. I need to take notes on their form, their output, and their mental state while they're under pressure. I can't do that if I'm busy dodging her strikes."
Henry let out a long, theatrical sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his entire military career. He looked at Layla—who was already bouncing on the balls of her feet—and then back at his friend.
"This is going to be a long, exhausting day," Henry muttered. He stepped forward, discarding his black coat onto a nearby branch. He didn't take a weapon, simply standing in the dirt with his hands tucked loosely into his pockets. "Alright, sweetheart. Whenever you're ready. Try not to make me work too hard; I'm still technically hungover."
Layla looked at Henry, a wild, sharp-toothed grin stretching across her face. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to see what you're actually made of," she said, her voice buzzing with anticipation.
She reached back, tying her long blue hair into a high, punishingly tight ponytail. The moment the knot clicked, the air around her fractured. Blue lightning began to coil around her limbs, snapping like whips against the dirt. The excitement in her eyes seemed to feed the storm, the arcs of electricity growing more aggressive by the second.
In a literal flash, she vanished.
A streak of blue light tore across the clearing. Layla reappeared in a blur of motion, her leg swinging in a high arc toward Henry's head. Henry didn't move until the last millisecond, bringing both forearms up to catch the blow. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, and Henry slid back several feet, his boots carving deep furrows in the earth.
She didn't give him a second to breathe.
Layla became a recursive loop of lightning. She was everywhere—left, right, above—showering him with a barrage of high-speed kicks. Each strike carried the crackle of ozone. Henry was a fortress of efficiency, his hands moving in a blur of precise, minimal blocks.
Henry sighed, the sound barely audible over the thunder. "Enough."
As Layla lunged for another kick, Henry didn't block. Instead, he slammed his fist into the ground. The earth buckled. A shockwave of raw power erupted, throwing Layla off balance and sending her spiraling back.
Henry didn't wait. He launched himself into the air, closing the gap in a heartbeat. Layla, mid-air, twisted her body to throw a desperate, full-power kick at his face.
The students gasped. The blow connected squarely with Henry's jaw.
But Henry didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He tanked the strike as if she were a child hitting a mountain. While her foot was still pressed against his face, Henry drove a single, short-range punch into her gut.
The sound was like a muffled explosion. Layla was launched backward, disappearing into the thick treeline of the forest with a crash of breaking branches.
The clearing fell deathly silent. Caspian stood by, his pen hovering over his notebook, ready to call the match. But then, a low, vibrating hum began to shake the trees.
A pillar of blue light erupted from the forest.
Layla walked back into the clearing. Her uniform was torn, and blood was beginning to leak from the corners of her eyes—a sign of severe power overdraw—but she was still smiling. She held both hands out in front of her, palms up.
Above her hands, the lightning began to compress. It condensed into a perfect, floating diamond-shaped artifact of pure, roaring electricity. The air around it turned white-hot.
"The Vajra," someone whispered from the crowd. "The Thorne family's legacy art."
Layla was shaking, her vision likely blurring as she pushed her Stage Ⅱ limits to the breaking point. She was ready to throw the sun at him.
Suddenly, the blue light of the Vajra was choked out.
Inky, oily black tendrils began to manifest from the shadows at Layla's feet. They didn't just move; they seemed to erase the light they touched. The tendrils spiraled up the diamond, coiling around Layla's arms like starving snakes.
Layla gasped, the temperature in the clearing dropping forty degrees in an instant. She stepped back, but bumped into a solid, cold wall.
It was Henry. He was standing directly behind her, his presence suddenly so massive and terrifying that the students in the front row found it hard to breathe. He looked less like a instructor and more like an Abstraction.
Henry reached out from behind, his hand gently but firmly gripping her face. The black tendrils began to crawl up her cheeks, tracing the lines of her skin like ink in water.
"The Vajra is a beautiful move, Layla," Henry's voice whispered in her ear, cold and devoid of his usual laziness. "But it is still not strong enough."
Layla felt the terrifying weight of his Continuance (Stage Ⅳ) pressing down on her soul. The smile stayed on her face, but she knew the game was over.
"I give up," she chirped, her voice trembling slightly.
Henry stepped back. The tendrils dissolved into mist, the Vajra flickered out of existence, and the crushing pressure evaporated. Henry shoved his hands back into his pockets and walked toward the weapon racks.
"You're going to be a problem," Henry muttered, his voice returning to its usual low, tired drawl. He let go of her face, the terrifying pressure vanishing as if it had never been there. "Your battle instincts are top-tier, and your technical skill is overwhelming. Plus," he glanced down as she stabilized her stance, "you've got serious power in those legs. Most people forget that a strike starts from the ground up."
Layla let out a shaky breath, the blue lightning finally receding. She wiped a stray drop of blood from her eye and managed a weak, teasing smirk. "Are you complimenting my legs, Instructor? I mean, I'm not complaining—I know they're beautiful."
Henry let out a genuine chuckle, the first one the class had heard all morning. "Your willpower is the real masterpiece. Let's go again sometime when you aren't trying to blow yourself up."
Layla limped back to the group, her face pale but her spirit high. Serena immediately met her with a damp towel and a look that was half-impressed and half-furious.
"Are you an idiot?" Serena hissed, pressing the towel to Layla's face. "The Vajra is a high tier technique. You're pushing your Ether pathways to the point of permanent scarring for a training session, you absolute dumbass."
Layla just grinned, wincing as the cold water hit her skin. "Yeah, it was stupid. But you were right, Serena. He lives up to the reputation. I felt like I was trying to kick a mountain."
Caspian clapped his hands, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet clearing. "Alright! Entertainment's over. Who's next? Don't let the girl with the blue hair have all the fun."
Leena Remington stepped forward before anyone else could move. Her black long hair was perfectly tied, and her expression was a mask of cold, focused fury.
Henry's eyes softened just a fraction. "How have you been, Peanut?"
The reaction was instantaneous. Leena clenched her fist, her knuckles turning white. "Don't call me that," she growled, her voice trembling with anger. "You don't get to call me that anymore. Especially not after you just... disappeared. You left us behind."
Henry's lazy grin didn't falter, though there was a hint of something sadder behind it. "Oh, come on. Don't be like that. Come and give your big brother a hug."
"I swear to God, Henry, I will kill you," Leena spat, stepping into the ring.
Henry raised his hands in a mocking surrender. "Alright, alright! Don't get so worked up. You'll mess up your form." He glanced at the crowd, then at the clock. "Actually, let's speed this up. One more person. If we do this one-on-one, we'll be here until the winter solstice."
Kaelen Remington was about to step forward to defend his sister's honor, but Wanda moved faster. She slid into the clearing with a chaotic grace, her eyes shimmering with purple light.
"I'll team up with her," Wanda said, glancing at Leena. "I've never actually fought alongside another user of the Witch Path before. It'll be an interesting experiment."
Leena looked at Wanda, her anger momentarily diverted by curiosity. "You're an Alignment tier of the Witch Path too? Fine. I suppose I can share a few tips while we work."
Wanda's smile was sharp and dangerous. "Works for me."
Leena turned back to Henry, "First, we're going to teach this arrogant jerk a lesson."
Wanda chuckled, "You stole the words right out of my mouth."