The combat grounds smelled like steel and ozone.
Karl stood on the stone-ringed field beside Kael, surrounded by other first-years forming up in pairs. No magic yet. No weapons.
Just posture. Stance. Focus.
Instructor Delrin paced before them — robes pinned at the waist, sleeves rolled to reveal old scars and glowing sigils carved into each forearm.
"This isn't about strength," he said.
"It's about control. Most of you have none."
He gestured toward the center circle.
"Today's assignment: one-minute sparring rounds. Show me what you are. Not what you want to be."
Names were called. Pairs stepped forward. Faint bursts of wind, flame, and body-boosted strikes began to echo across the field.
When Karl's name came up, his partner's had already been waiting.
Riken Corth.
The boy from his arrival. Steel-black hair. Custom uniform. Gloves laced with metal filaments.
Their eyes met. No words.
Just… tension.
"Begin," Delrin called.
Riken moved first.
A blur of speed — faster than before, more precise. No flash, no wasted motion. His open-palm strike aimed low, feinting right.
Karl barely shifted — sidestepped, using his shoulder to redirect the blow. Riken pivoted immediately, sweeping out with a leg.
Karl jumped back.
One second. Two. Five.
Riken's mana flared — orange and red lines crawling up his gloves.
Karl didn't flare back.
Didn't tap Raiven.
Didn't reach for frost or flame.
He just moved.
Slipped, dodged, blocked — not winning. But not losing.
"Enough," Delrin said after sixty seconds.
Both boys stepped back, breathing steady.
"Better," the instructor muttered. "Control, not chaos."
But Riken's eyes lingered on Karl.
Not angry.
Just curious.
"You weren't defending," he said quietly.
"You were testing me."
Karl looked away.
"You talk a lot for someone who barely blinked."
Riken smirked.
"See you next round, Veilwalker."
As Karl returned to the edge of the field, Nyra popped up beside him with two stolen apples and a grin.
"So that's your academy rival, huh? Intense eyes, tragic jawline, dramatic tension?"
"He's not my rival."
"Sure. That's what they always say at episode twenty-eight."
Kael appeared next, throwing Karl a water flask.
"You didn't fight back."
"Didn't need to."
Kael nodded once.
"Next time you do… tell me first so I can stand far away."
Karl chuckled.
Just a little.
But inside, the mark stirred.
Not loudly. Just a whisper.
A reminder.
Soon.
The fire won't be able to stay quiet forever.