Kael swallowed.

  And nearly slit his own throat in the process.

  Velara was perched above him.

  The tip of her sword pressed lightly against his skin—just enough for him to feel the cold of the metal.

  He was sweating, muscles rigid, breath caught in his chest. He whispered, tense:

  "What are you doing…?"

  "You thought you could sleep deeply without consequences?" she said calmly.

  She tilted the blade a little more.

  Kael felt a tiny line of blood bead beneath his throat.

  "Lucanis isn’t here to stand watch for you.

  And right now… you’re dead."

  She paused.

  Then withdrew the sword and added, more quietly:

  "But I do want to congratulate you.

  You didn’t let go of your weapon, even in your sleep."

  A fleeting smile crossed her face.

  "I’m proud of you."

  She straightened, then concluded:

  "You can go back to sleep.

  But know this: from now on, every night, you will be woken up.

  You won’t know when.

  You won’t know how.

  But you will be.

  And your goal is to wake up before I kill you."

  "Do you understand?"

  Kael nodded slowly, still in shock.

  He lay back down without a word.

  He was woken at dawn. This time, there was no bucket of water, no blade at his throat.

  The sun filtered gently through the forest canopy, and mist brushed the ground of the clearing.

  Velara was already on her feet.

  She threw him a simple:

  "Positions."

  For the first exercise of the day, Velara blindfolded him.

  "You’ve got a saber. I’ve got a staff. If I hit you, you scream.

  If you hit me, I’ll admit you’re not a vegetable."

  She circled him in silence.

  The first strike came at his leg.

  Kael screamed.

  Second. Shoulder.

  Third. Flank.

  He began to pivot, saber raised at chest height, focused on the wind, the vibrations, the silence.

  An hour passed.

  Then two.

  He finally managed to parry a blow.

  Velara clicked her tongue.

  "Finally."

  For the second exercise of the day, he had to remain perfectly still, saber in hand, while Velara attacked in bursts—from every direction, without warning.

  The goal: hold.

  Without advancing. Without fleeing. Just hold.

  The impacts drove him back a step—sometimes two.

  But he always returned to his position.

  Numb arms.

  Trembling hands.

  Unsteady legs.

  But he stayed standing.

  When the sun began to sink, he could barely stay on his feet.

  His arms hung at his sides, heavy as lead.

  His body was soaked in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead.

  Velara approached, calm.

  "Not bad."

  She passed him, then added without turning back:

  "Tomorrow, we do it again."

  And the training went on.

  Six full days of discipline, sweat, silence, and blows.

  Kael’s body had already changed.

  His muscles were more defined, tighter.

  His movements more fluid, more precise.

  He moved fast, but without tension.

  He reacted before thinking.

  Every night, Velara woke him.

  At first, it had been the blade at his throat.

  A silent threat, resting there—cold and lethal.

  But as the days passed, something had changed.

  Kael began to feel danger approaching in his sleep.

  A shiver. A pressure in the air. A kind of raw instinct.

  And then, he would open his eyes.

  Stand up.

  And draw his saber before the blade arrived.

  Velara said nothing.

  But with each early awakening, she smiled a little more.

  Never commenting.

  As if ticking boxes in her mind.

  Kael said nothing either.

  He simply remained standing, saber in hand, staring into the night.

  At dawn on the eighth day, Velara decided to test Kael’s limits.

  She watched him in silence as he finished warming up.

  His body had changed. Firmer, more sculpted. The muscles weren’t bulky, but defined, aligned, efficient.

  But that wasn’t what she was watching.

  What she noticed was his gaze.

  Gone were the dull, tired eyes from the beginning.

  Kael now carried a sharp, alert, focused look.

  The look of someone who knows why he’s here.

  She smiled.

  Without a word, they took their places facing each other.

  The sun shone high at the zenith. The air vibrated faintly with heat.

  There was no longer any need for orders. No need for warning.

  Kael lunged.

  His saber cut through the air—fast, precise.

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  No wasted strikes. He wasn’t attacking to impress. He was searching for the opening.

  Each attack was deliberate. Every movement had a purpose.

  He chained a sidestep, a sweeping strike, a feint down the centerline.

  Velara parried without effort, still rooted in place. But this time, she had to move her arms.

  Kael pivoted, retreated, advanced with precision.

  He handled the saber’s weight better now. He struck on timing, not on raw instinct.

  His breathing was steady, his guard stable.

  He was no longer the disorganized boy she had seen fall on the eve of his first day.

  But Velara remained untouchable.

  She barely dodged, deflected, observed.

  She read his movements like a book—just a little better written than the day before.

  Kael attempted a combination:

  A high slash flowing into a low thrust, followed by a turning step.

  A very good sequence.

  But still too slow.

  Velara simply raised her elbow.

  Then she slid a step to the side—and struck.

  The backhand was sharp, precise, brutal.

  Kael never saw it coming.

  He collapsed into the grass, features drawn tight, cheekbone already swelling.

  His breath came short, his mouth filled with a metallic taste.

  He lay there for a moment, staring at the sky.

  Velara, meanwhile, hadn’t moved an inch.

  She looked down at him, arms crossed.

  "Your technique is still far from polished," she said.

  She paused.

  "But your body has evolved enough. We can begin teaching you the true handling of the saber."

  She crouched beside him, her gaze as calm as ever.

  "I hope you like pain, Kael. Because now, we’re getting to the serious part."

  Velara handed him a canteen.

  Kael drank in long gulps, water spilling down his chin.

  They were both sitting in the grass, enjoying the sun.

  It was a rare moment of calm.

  Kael still hadn’t worn clothes since the training began.

  Only underwear.

  His sensitization to Elan was still ongoing. The slightest seam would have interfered.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the silent truce.

  Then Velara stood up.

  "We’re going to do a little exercise… under real conditions."

  She clapped her hands. A sharp, crisp crack.

  Kael flinched—then sprang to his feet.

  "Real conditions?

  Because to me, all of this already feels pretty damn real, you know!"

  Velara smiled.

  "Wait… you’ll understand."

  He immediately felt the tingling race across the surface of his body.

  Intense. Maximum alert.

  He turned his head.

  And his heart froze.

  A horde of Overdrawn was pouring down the hills.

  The same kind as the one he had killed when he first arrived in the valley.

  They ran without a sound, carried by a morbid grace.

  Their black veils billowed around them, like a tide of shadowed silk ready to swallow everything.

  Kael took a step back, stunned.

  Velara, meanwhile, turned toward him, all smiles.

  "They’re yours now. Good luck."

  She casually climbed onto the rock at the center of the clearing, sat cross-legged, as if settling in to watch a show.

  Kael swallowed, breath short.

  "That might be a lot of Overdrawn, don’t you think…?"

  Velara lifted a hand in a casual farewell.

  "Then it was a pleasure knowing you, Kael."

  He turned back, horrified, toward the approaching horde.

  The ground didn’t even vibrate.

  They made no sound at all.

  Just that black wave—fast, hungry.

  And then, in the silence, a sentence resurfaced.

  The Dean’s voice, unforgettable:

  "To respond is to obey an external logic.

  To react is to let speak that within you which refuses the imposed order."

  Kael drew a deep breath.

  His muscles tensed.

  His feet anchored into the grass.

  "The time has come… to react."

  He drew his saber.

  And faced the tide.

  Kael slapped both his cheeks at the same time.

  A sharp crack.

  He exhaled hard, as if forcing the fear out.

  His fingers closed around the hilt of his saber.

  He studied the environment.

  The clearing was a trap.

  Too open. Too wide.

  The horde could overwhelm him in an instant.

  He made his decision.

  And he ran.

  Straight toward the forest.

  With every stride, autumn-colored leaves burst around him, swirling like dying embers.

  The Overdrawn were right behind him.

  A black tide—silent, but fast.

  He reached the treeline.

  Dove between tightly packed trunks, thick roots, low branches.

  The first Overdrawn leapt.

  Kael pivoted on one foot, raised his saber, and cut it cleanly in two from top to bottom.

  No scream. Just a black mass collapsing onto the leaves.

  He looked for choke points.

  Clusters of trees, tangled roots, dense undergrowth.

  Anything that could slow or isolate the creatures.

  He ran another ten meters.

  Then three more Overdrawn burst out at once.

  Kael didn’t hesitate.

  The first charged, claws forward.

  He parried the strike, pivoted, and severed both of the creature’s front limbs.

  It crashed to the ground, slowly bleeding out its black fluid.

  The second came from the left—

  Kael lowered his saber and decapitated it with a lateral strike.

  The third tried to outspeed him.

  Kael skewered it mid-run.

  The blade went straight through. He kicked it away.

  His breathing was fast.

  But he was holding.

  He moved with fluidity, without haste.

  His saber was becoming an extension of himself.

  But the forest still throbbed.

  Shadows circled around him.

  A dozen Overdrawn were still there.

  And their numbers didn’t seem to be dwindling.

  He backed up between two thick trunks.

  Only two or three could come at him at once here.

  It was this—or death.

  The first charged.

  Kael drew it toward a root, made it stumble, and finished it with a strike to the nape of the neck.

  The second attempted a frontal assault—

  He feinted an attack, threw himself aside, and the creature slammed into a tree trunk.

  He drove his blade into its back without hesitation.

  But they were adapting.

  The next ones no longer rushed in headlong.

  They began to circle him slowly.

  Kael pivoted constantly, eyes locked on the slightest movement.

  His right arm was starting to tire.

  Each motion grew a little heavier.

  He clenched his teeth, sweating, panting.

  A claw grazed him. He barely dodged.

  His foot slipped on a carpet of moss. He regained his balance at the last second.

  Another leapt over him—

  Kael rolled aside, came back up, blade held at a defensive angle.

  The Overdrawn struck, but he countered on a tight line, slicing through a leg in the motion.

  The ground was littered with bodies.

  The Overdrawn’s black blood mingled with the damp earth.

  Kael was still standing.

  But surrounded.

  Eight left. Maybe more.

  He was bleeding from a cut on his thigh.

  His breathing was ragged.

  His vision blurred at times.

  But he still held his saber.

  And his gaze was just as sharp.

  Kael heard nothing now but his own breathing.

  Dry. Irregular. Chopped.

  His chest was rising too fast.

  His muscles screamed. His arms trembled. His legs buckled with every step.

  His saber—still held firmly—now felt as heavy as an anvil.

  His right shoulder screamed in pain with every strike.

  His calves were stiff as wood.

  A gash ran along his left thigh, bloody but not deep. He was limping slightly.

  His skin was covered in scratches, bruises, black blood—and his own.

  He was breathing through his mouth, unable to control his breath.

  His vision blurred at times.

  Each heartbeat echoed like a drum inside his skull.

  And yet, he was still standing.

  The remaining Overdrawn closed in around him, silent as shadows.

  Seven. Maybe eight.

  They were moving cautiously now.

  Their savage nature didn’t prevent them from learning.

  Kael slowly pivoted, his back to a tree.

  He wouldn’t run.

  The first charged.

  He raised his saber and cut its throat without hesitation.

  The second leapt from a trunk.

  He rolled across the ground, came back up, drove his blade into its abdomen, then pulled it free with a sharp twist.

  The third came from behind.

  Kael used a fallen branch, spun quickly, and struck with a backhand, cleanly disemboweling it.

  His movements were tired—but precise.

  He no longer left room for chance.

  A fourth leapt—

  Kael didn’t dodge. He blocked, forced a counter, and ran the creature straight through.

  His face was slick with sweat.

  His arms were numb.

  His side was bleeding now—a claw strike that had come too close.

  The next two attacked together.

  Kael deflected the first blow, took the second on his forearm, grimaced, stepped back, then struck with a shout, sweeping one of them aside.

  The last was driven back against a trunk and pinned to the ground with a vertical strike.

  Only one Overdrawn remained.

  And it was different.

  Bigger.

  Heavier.

  Its black veil billowed like a cloak, and its claws looked forged from raw steel.

  Kael stared at it, panting.

  His arms almost refused to rise.

  His legs were on fire.

  His entire body was screaming for him to stop.

  But he raised his saber one last time.

  The Overdrawn leapt.

  Kael barely dodged. The rush of the creature’s passage made him stagger.

  He tried a slash, but the strike was slow.

  The Overdrawn reacted fast. A claw tore into his left arm—deep.

  He stumbled back a step, pain exploding in his shoulder.

  But he didn’t let go.

  He pivoted, parried, slid along the bark of the trees, fought on pure instinct.

  Every strike became a test. Every parry, an agony.

  And then—an opening.

  Tiny.

  But real.

  Kael planted his foot, ignored the pain, and drove his saber into the monster’s throat with all his strength.

  The impact jolted up into his shoulder.

  The creature let out a rasp, then collapsed in a cloud of black silk.

  Silence.

  Kael remained standing, gasping, saber in hand.

  Blood streamed down his arm.

  His breathing whistled.

  He closed his eyes for a second. His whole body was shaking.

  Then he dropped to his knees.

  Not from exhaustion.

  Not from fear.

  Just his body saying: enough.