The infirmary smelled of burnt herbs and damp stone. Raka sat on the edge of a cot, shirtless, as a nurse with glowing hands prodded his bruised ribs. Her fingers left faint trails of warmth where they touched, knitting torn flesh and mending cracked bone.
"Ki burn," she muttered, her tone clipped. "You're lucky it didn't char your meridians."
Raka flexed his hand, watching the faint shimmer of his Ki—pale and unstable, but still flowing. "How bad is it?"
"Bad enough to keep you out of training for a week." She pressed a cold compress to his swollen eye. "Next time, don't overextend. Ki isn't a weapon—it's a tool. Use it wrong, and it'll turn on you."
He nodded, though the warning felt hollow. He'd died four times already. Ki burn was the least of his worries.
The nurse stepped back, her hands dimming. "Rest. And if you feel any sharp pains, come back immediately."
Raka didn't reply. Rest wasn't an option.
---
Night fell, and the academy grew quiet. Raka sat cross-legged on the dormitory floor, his Ki cycling in slow, deliberate patterns. The bruises ached, the burn throbbed, but he pushed through the pain.
Coren watched from his bed, sharpening a dagger with lazy strokes. "You're going to kill yourself before the midterms."
"Better than letting someone else do it," Raka said without opening his eyes.
Coren snorted. "You're not wrong."
The silence stretched, broken only by the scrape of steel on stone. Then—
"You're not like the others," Coren said, his tone casual but his gaze sharp. "Most first-years are scared stiff. You… you act like you've been here before."
Raka's Ki faltered for a heartbeat. "Maybe I have."
Coren's whetstone stilled. "Careful with that kind of talk. People might start asking questions."
"Let them."
Coren chuckled, low and dark. "I like you, Raka. But not everyone will."
---
The next morning, the dining hall buzzed with whispers. Students clustered around long tables, their voices hushed but their eyes darting toward Raka.
"That's the new guy, right?"
"Lathrin. The one who took down Team Nine."
"Did you see his footwork? It was rough, but… he predicted everything."
"Rumor is he's self-taught. Street fighter."
Raka ignored them, grabbing a tray and moving to the quietest corner. Cold bread, salted fish, watered-down juice—he ate mechanically, his mind elsewhere.
Across the room, Lira waved half-heartedly. She was surrounded by her own clique now—half-impressed, half-suspicious peers who suddenly found her more interesting.
Raka didn't mind. That's how it always went.
Until they stopped whispering.
And started asking questions.
---
A few hours later, he was summoned.
A student messenger handed him a sealed note, the wax imprinted with a triple-circle sigil—Master Lorr's seal.
No explanation.
Just: "Come. Now."
---
Lorr's chamber was buried beneath the central tower. Not luxurious. Just books, training tools, a few old weapons. And a single chair in the middle of a dim-lit room.
Master Lorr stood by the far wall, facing away.
"You fought with… precision," he said without turning. "That arena match—impressive."
"Thank you."
"Too impressive."
Raka said nothing.
The old man finally turned. His one eye focused sharply.
"You've never used academy techniques. Your stance is fragmented. Your aura leaks during movement. And yet… you countered glyphs with perfect timing and turned a brute into a puppet."
A beat of silence.
"Where did you learn that?"
Raka hesitated.
"I trained with mercenaries. Picked up what I could. Then practiced alone."
Lorr stepped forward.
"That's not a lie," he said slowly. "But it's not the whole truth either."
Raka clenched his jaw.
He couldn't explain everything.
Not yet. Maybe never.
Lorr studied him another moment, then… smiled?
"A shame you're not the first strange student I've seen. I'll be watching. But I won't interfere."
Raka blinked.
That… wasn't the reaction he expected.
"Why?"
"Because this world eats people like you. If you're strong enough to chew back, I want to see it happen."
---
Back at the dorm, Coren leaned on the window frame as Raka entered.
"You made an impression," he said.
"I'm not interested in fame."
"You don't have a choice anymore." Coren tossed a folded parchment toward him. "You've been drafted."
Raka opened it.
Special Evaluation: Independent Tactical Test
Location: Eastern Training Grounds
Time: Tomorrow, dawn
Purpose: Strategy and leadership review
Supervisor: Knight-Captain Thalos
He looked up.
"They're testing me."
"Hard," Coren said. "That guy's a former field officer. Most people don't see him unless they're about to be recruited—or eliminated."
Raka stared at the parchment a while longer.
He wasn't sure which one he preferred.
---
Later that night.
Raka returned to the library. Not the public one. The restricted one.
Coren had told him about a trick with the southern window. A weak enchantment on stormy nights.
The rain was thick, loud. Perfect cover.
He slipped in.
The air inside was dry, musty—filled with ancient glyphs, old maps, and spellbooks bound in dragonhide.
But Raka wasn't here for spells.
He was here for history.
Specifically, about soul anomalies.
He'd never found anything in the public archives. Too sanitized.
But the restricted section had rumors. Case studies. War reports.
One name appeared again and again:
The Hollowman.
A figure who allegedly walked through battlefields and "possessed" the fallen. Appearing in one army. Then another. Always wearing a different face. Always fighting with knowledge he shouldn't have.
No one ever caught him.
Most dismissed it as myth.
Raka wasn't so sure.
He flipped the final page. A sketch of a symbol—two intersecting spirals forming a mirrored eye.
His chest tightened.
He'd seen that symbol once before… in the briefest flicker, carved into the bone of some monsters in the war before.