The white light faded, leaving Raka's vision swimming with afterimages. The academy grounds had warped—walls bore deep gouges, the air reeked of charred ozone, and from the forest beyond the gates came a sound like grinding bones.
Coren's dagger was already drawn. "Survival drill. First-years versus second-year illusions." His grin was all teeth. "Try not to die before breakfast."
Lira vanished mid-step, her form blurring into the shimmering air.
Raka exhaled, reaching for the energy coiled in his gut—Ki, the inner force that flowed through every living thing. It was measured in thickness and hue—novices emitted thin, pale wisps, while masters burned with dense, colored auras. His own was still raw, flickering like a guttering candle.
A shadow lunged from his blind spot.
Instinct took over. He pivoted, channeling Ki into his legs, just enough to boost his speed, and barely dodged the swipe of claws. The creature was a construct, a second-year's conjuration: a wolf-shaped void with eyes like smoldering coals.
Illusion magic. The manipulation of ambient mana—the external energy that permeated the world. Unlike Ki, which came from within, magic required shaping the unseen forces around you. Measured by the number of circle below the body when casting.
The wolf pounced again. Raka rolled, his borrowed body protesting as his shoulder slammed into dirt. He had no weapons, no spells—just the desperate cunning of someone who'd cheated death before.
He snatched a fistful of sand and flung it at the wolf's eyes. The construct recoiled, snarling—and Raka struck. His palm slammed into its throat, Ki surging through his arm in a single burst.
The wolf dissolved into smoke.
Panting, Raka stared at his hand. The skin was reddened, as if he'd dipped it in boiling water. Ki burn—a novice's mistake. He'd pushed too much, too fast.
"Not bad for a corpse." Lira reappeared beside him, her daggers dripping phantom blood. "But you're leaking Ki like a sieve."
Coren emerged from the haze, dragging a limp, groaning student by the collar. "They're going easy on us. Real drills have teeth."
A horn blared. The illusions shattered, the gashes in the walls smoothed over, and the morning sun returned as if nothing had happened. Around them, students groaned, clutched injuries, or lay unconscious in the dirt.
Master Lorr stood atop a floating platform, arms crossed. "Pathetic. Thirty percent failure rate before the first bell." His gaze swept the crowd, lingering on Raka. "Those still standing, report to the Moon Hall. The rest—infirmary or the exit. Choose wisely."
---
Moon Hall hummed with tension. The surviving first-years clustered in nervous groups, comparing bruises and near-death experiences. Raka flexed his aching hand, watching the faint shimmer of his Ki—pale, unsteady, but there.
At the front, a slate board etched with glowing runes displayed team assignments.
Mock Battle: Team Sparring
Rules:
- No lethal strikes
- Ki and magic permitted (novice-tier only)
- Victory by submission or ring-out
- Failure disqualifies from midterm tournament
Raka scanned the list—and froze.
TEAM 7: Raka Lathrin & Lira Vexen
Lira materialized at his elbow, smelling of iron and lavender. "Looks like you're stuck with me, farmboy."
He met her gold-flecked stare. "Try not to slow me down."
She smirked. "You wish."
---
The arena was a circle of white stone, its edges marked by floating sigils that shimmered like heat haze. Around them, students packed the stands, shouting bets and insults.
Their opponents—Team 9—took their positions: a hulking boy with a warhammer, and a silver-eyed girl already weaving a water glyph between her fingers.
The announcer's voice boomed: "BEGIN!"
The hammer-boy charged. Lira blurred into motion, daggers flashing. Raka focused on the mage—her fingers danced, mana condensing into three interlocking rings.
Water magic. High-pressure jets.
He lunged left just as the first jet sliced the air where his head had been. The second grazed his ribs, drawing blood. The third—
He dropped flat, feeling the spray of stone as the jet cratered the ground behind him.
Too close.
Lira was a whirlwind, her strikes forcing the hammer-boy back—but the mage was the real threat. Raka rolled, Ki flaring in his legs as he closed the distance.
The mage's eyes widened. She raised her hand—
Raka grabbed her wrist and twisted. "Disrupt the caster, break the spell."
The glyph shattered. The mage gasped as he drove his knee into her stomach—not hard enough to injure, just enough to stagger.
"Yield," he growled.
She spat a curse—then nodded.
One down.
The hammer-boy roared, swinging wildly. Lira ducked, but the shockwave sent her skidding. Raka saw his opening—
He feinted left, then dove right, driving his shoulder into the boy's ribs. The impact rattled his teeth, but the brute stumbled—
Lira's foot hooked behind his knee.
THUD.
The hammer-boy hit the ground, Lira's dagger at his throat.
"Yield," she purred.
The arena erupted in cheers.
---
Master Lorr watched from the balcony, his expression unreadable. Beside him, a hooded figure murmured, "That one moves like he's fought before."
Lorr's lips curled. "Or died before."
The figure stilled. "You think he's—?"
"We'll see."
Below, Raka wiped blood from his lip, his Ki flickering like a dying ember.
This was only the beginning.