The morning light streamed through the dorm window, dragging me back to consciousness.

  I blinked, groaning as I sat up. Toho was already halfway dressed, bouncing around like he'd had three cups of coffee.

  "Combat class today!" he grinned, tossing me my jacket. "Time to throw hands, baby!"

  I shook my head, smirking a little. Confidence stayed steady in my chest — not arrogance, not nerves. Just the quiet feeling that whatever came next, I'd handle it.

  After grabbing a quick breakfast in the cafeteria, we made our way to the Combat Grounds, where the real training would start. The Academy grounds buzzed with energy. Some students talked tough. Others looked like they were going to throw up.

  None of it mattered to me.

  When we reached the sparring fields, Instructor Rael — a tall, grizzled man with scars crisscrossing his arms — stood waiting for us.

  "Let's see if any of you can actually fight." He barked.

  His voice echoed off the stone walls as we lined up.

  "You’ll spar. No lethal attacks. No outside interference. If you lose consciousness, or the instructor calls it, the match ends."

  Simple enough.

  Names were called, and students paired off.

  When he got to mine, he barely even glanced up.

  "Zero Langham. Caelan Rook."

  Caelan stepped forward, the glint in his silver eyes sharp. No words. Just a look like he was already sizing me up.

  He's in Class A like me; he has to be somewhat strong. But... he's not a match for me.

  Rael raised a hand.

  "Begin."

  Caelan didn't waste a second. His Essence flared, shimmering around his arms. A long, jagged blade materialized in his hand — pure energy hardened into steel. His Innate Technique, Phantom Forge, allows Caelan to turn Essence into hardened weapons or objects.

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  I didn’t reach for magic.

  Didn’t need to.

  I shifted into a stance — loose, relaxed — just my body, trained by years of brutal discipline.

  Caelan lunged, blade slicing a vicious arc through the air. I ducked low, sliding beneath the swing, and snapped a kick toward his ribs. He twisted away, fast, but not fast enough to avoid the follow-up elbow that grazed his shoulder.

  The students watching gasped.

  I didn’t let up.

  Caelan attacked again, thrusting with the energy-forged blade. I side-stepped, grabbed his wrist mid-thrust, and twisted — leverage, momentum, pain — all instinct. He stumbled, losing balance for a split-second.

  I could’ve ended it right there.

  But I waited.

  Measured.

  Tested.

  Fighting wasn’t about showing off. It was about control.

  And I had plenty of it.

  From the sidelines, Rael watched — but didn't say a word—just another pair of kids to him.

  Caelan growled low, Phantom Forge flickering brighter in his grip. He conjured a second weapon — a short dagger in his free hand — and charged.

  Good.

  Let’s see how far he can push me.

  I let him close the distance, reading the rhythm of his movement — the telltale flex of his shoulder, the shift of his weight before he struck.

  The short dagger aimed low for my side. The sword followed in a heavy downward slash.

  Sloppy.

  I caught the dagger hand at the wrist, pivoted under the sword, and planted my knee square into Caelan’s gut.

  He gasped, air exploding from his lungs.

  I didn’t give him time to recover.

  A simple sweep of my leg sent him crashing to the mat.

  Silence.

  Even the buzzing noise of sparring around us seemed to dim for a second.

  Caelan groaned, struggling to rise. His Phantom Forge flickered, the weapons starting to destabilize.

  Rael's voice finally rang out.

  "Match over. Langham wins."

  A few scattered claps from the sidelines. Nothing more.

  No big announcement. No instructor rushing over.

  No impressed glances.

  Just another name on the list.

  I offered Caelan a hand up. He hesitated, then took it, his pride clearly stinging more than the blows.

  "Not bad," he muttered.

  "Not done yet," I said, brushing imaginary dust off my uniform.

  Because this-this wasn’t where it ended.

  This was just the warm-up.

  Rael called the next match without even looking at me twice.

  I moved back to the benches, Toho waving me over.

  "Bro," he grinned widely, slapping my back. "You didn’t even use magic! You mopped the floor with him."

  "Not worth it yet," I shrugged. "Save the real stuff for later."

  Toho laughed, but he caught the meaning.

  Combat wasn’t a show for me. It was survival.

  And I'd been surviving long before I ever set foot in Celestia Academy.

  ***

  Later that day, after rounds of matches finished, Rael gathered the class.

  "You are Sorcerers. You have gifts. But your gifts mean nothing if you crumble when facing real danger."

  His eyes scanned the students, most too tired to meet his gaze.

  "Tomorrow," he said, voice grim, "we take it outside the arena. Into real field scenarios."

  "I've scheduled for this class, all 15 of you students, to enter the city for a real mission. Instructors'll supervise you at all times. The goal: Take down a gang of Marks and their leader, Dren Veylor. They've been selling weapons embedded with Essence to the general population, which is illegal. So tomorrow, we'll see who can handle themselves in the actual field. "

  Rael smiled - not the friendly kind.