Adlet left Villa-Sylva at dawn.

  The massive gates closed behind him with a dull, final sound, and the city’s stone walls slowly faded into the morning mist as he took the eastern road toward Tray. Moisture clung to the ground, turning dust into dark streaks beneath his boots. Ahead, the road stretched in a long, unwavering line, cutting through plains that seemed to roll on without end.

  Fourteen days.

  That was all the time he had to reach the capital.

  He did not slow his pace. Every step carried weight now—not urgency born of fear, but direction. For the first time since leaving his village, he wasn’t simply chasing a dream.

  He was moving toward something he had chosen.

  Travel settled into rhythm.

  Walk. Breathe. Advance.

  The open land changed little from day to day—low grasses bending under constant wind, scattered groves breaking the monotony, occasional streams carving quiet paths through the earth. Without patrols, orders, or companions, silence followed him everywhere. At first it felt strange.

  Then necessary.

  Each evening, when fatigue finally forced him to stop, Adlet trained.

  Beneath the faint glow of the distant Stars embedded high within the vault above, he sat beside small campfires and practiced controlling the Bind Lizard’s regenerative Aura. His method lacked elegance, but it worked.

  A shallow cut from his kitchen knife.

  A sharp inhale.

  Then concentration.

  Green light stirred beneath his skin, uneven at first, spreading like hesitant roots searching for soil. Flesh tightened. Heat built. Pain flared—not overwhelming, but insistent.

  The wound closed.

  Again. And again.

  Pain became instruction. Failure became adjustment. The healing grew faster with each attempt, more responsive to his intent. Yet the discomfort never truly vanished. Every success carried resistance, as if his body reminded him that power did not erase consequence.

  He was healing.

  But he was still human.

  One night, exhaustion settled over the plains like a heavy veil.

  Adlet sat beside a small, fading fire, watching the embers pulse weakly in the dark. The road had offered him nothing that day but distance and silence. No monsters. No challenges. Only time — and his own thoughts.

  He turned his hands slowly in the firelight.

  When he focused inward, he could feel the familiar presence of the Bind Lizard’s power — a quiet, living warmth somewhere beneath his skin. Regeneration waited there, patient, responsive, ready when called.

  He let the sensation fade.

  Then reached for the other presence.

  The beetle’s Aura answered differently — heavier, grounded, like pressure settling into bone and muscle. Not warmth, but resistance. Stability. Endurance.

  Two powers.

  Two instincts.

  For days he had trained them separately, switching from one to the other, never holding both at once. Each time one emerged, the other receded, as if his body refused to listen to two voices simultaneously.

  It bothered him more with each passing night.

  If both existed within him… why did they refuse to coexist?

  The fire cracked softly.

  Adlet leaned forward, elbows on his knees, replaying past battles in his mind — moments where endurance and regeneration together would have changed everything. Defense flowing into recovery. Damage answered instantly instead of endured.

  Efficiency.

  Survival.

  The thought formed slowly, almost cautiously.

  If I have two Guardians… why shouldn’t I use both?

  He drew in a steady breath and extended his arms.

  Left arm — he reached for the green Aura.

  Right arm — he called for the black.

  For a fraction of a second, both answered his will—

  He focused carefully, imagining each power rising independently. Two instincts. Two presences answering him at once. The resilience of the beetle. The regeneration of the lizard.

  For a single heartbeat, both lights flickered into existence.

  Hope surged—

  Then everything collapsed.

  The Auras shattered like unstable flames crushed by invisible pressure. A violent pulse slammed through his skull. Nausea surged upward, stealing his breath as his knees hit the ground hard.

  It felt wrong.

  Not painful in the ordinary sense—wrong in structure. As if his body rejected the idea itself. Like forcing one mind to split into two separate beings, each demanding control at the same time.

  He braced himself against the earth, breathing unevenly.

  One person.

  One will.

  One Aura at a time.

  The lesson settled deeper than any training exercise.

  The journey continued.

  Days passed in solitude, measured only by distance and repetition. Plains drifted by without memory. Wind replaced conversation. Footsteps replaced doubt—until doubt returned anyway.

  Alone, thoughts grew louder.

  What if he wasn’t strong enough?

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  What if this power was something he couldn’t truly control?

  What if he failed again… when it mattered most?

  The questions followed him for miles.

  But so did progress.

  The black Aura grew denser, responding faster to instinct. The whip-like force of the Bind Lizard’s power became easier to shape. Regeneration no longer required complete stillness—healing began to answer even while he moved.

  His body adapted.

  And beneath lingering uncertainty, something else awakened.

  Excitement.

  On the fourteenth day, the land began to rise.

  Far ahead, shapes emerged from the distance—massive silhouettes carved into stone. Towers climbed upward in layered tiers, their outlines jagged against the luminous vault above.

  Tray.

  Even from afar, the capital dominated the horizon, impossibly vast, impossibly distant—and yet undeniably real.

  Adlet slowed without realizing it.

  His stride no longer faltered from fatigue.

  He felt stronger. Faster. Sharper.

  Changed.

  He didn’t yet understand what that change meant… or where it would lead him.

  But he had already decided one thing.

  Whatever he was becoming—

  he would see it through.

  The distant outline of Tray had grown steadily larger throughout the afternoon, until at last Adlet reached the base of the great stone ascent leading into the capital.

  The staircase carved into the plateau rose in long, measured tiers. Travelers moved along it in both directions—merchants guiding loaded carts, messengers descending at a hurried pace, students climbing with quiet determination. It felt less like an entrance and more like a threshold separating two worlds.

  Adlet began the climb.

  The rhythm of his steps echoed faintly against the stone. With each level gained, the plains behind him receded, replaced by the ordered presence of the capital walls above. The air changed subtly here—less wild than the open road, carrying the muted sounds of a city already awake.

  At the top, Tray opened before him.

  The streets were wider than those of any town he had known, paved in fitted stone worn smooth by constant passage. Buildings lined the avenues in careful rows—brick and timber structures topped with tiled roofs, practical rather than grand, but numerous enough to give the city its overwhelming scale. People moved with purpose everywhere: apprentices carrying crates, Protectors crossing paths in quiet discussion, vendors preparing their stalls for the day.

  It felt busy. Structured. Alive.

  Adlet didn’t linger.

  He turned toward the outer district, following the road that ran along the inner edge of the plateau. The Academy stood near this side of the city—the same direction from which new candidates and returning Protectors usually arrived. He remembered the way well enough.

  After only a few streets, the atmosphere shifted.

  The noise of the city softened as high stone walls came into view, enclosing a vast compound separate from the surrounding districts. The Academy’s perimeter rose solid and austere, its construction older and more deliberate than the neighboring buildings.

  A massive gate marked the entrance.

  Students and Protectors passed through beneath its arch while attendants moved supplies inside, preparations for the upcoming tournament already visible in the steady flow of activity.

  Adlet crossed the final stretch of road and stepped through the gate.

  Beyond it, the courtyard opened wide, revealing the arena complex alive with movement. Competitors trained in small groups, workers adjusted equipment, and voices carried across the stone as anticipation quietly built.

  He slowed despite himself.

  The combat arena stretched across a broad expanse of polished white stone, tiered seating rising around it in patient silence. Empty for now—but waiting.

  For a moment, Adlet imagined the noise that would soon fill the space.

  Then he exhaled and turned away, heading toward the academy building itself.

  Wide steps led up to the entrance. Inside, cool air replaced the warmth of the courtyard, and the scent of old wood and paper settled around him. The bustle outside faded into muted echoes as he followed familiar corridors toward the administrative wing.

  At the end of a quiet hallway stood a door he recognized immediately.

  Barno’s office.

  He knocked once before entering.

  Behind the desk, Barno looked up, one eyebrow lifting in recognition.

  “Good day, sir,” Adlet said, bowing slightly as he stepped into the office. “I’d like to register for the promotion tournament.”

  Barno looked up from the papers spread across his desk. Surprise flickered briefly across his face before settling into measured scrutiny.

  “The tournament?” he repeated. “You’ve only just returned from assignment. That was… what, a month ago?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you certain you’re ready?”

  Adlet held his gaze. His heart beat faster, but his voice remained steady.

  “I am. I’ve continued training. I’m stronger than before.”

  Barno studied him for another moment, weighing the words rather than accepting them.

  “…Show me your Aura.”

  Adlet nodded.

  He drew a slow breath and focused inward. The familiar presence answered immediately. Darkness gathered around him, spreading from his core outward as the Scarab’s Aura unfolded in a controlled ripple. A faint vibration filled the room — subtle, restrained, but dense with power.

  Barno felt it at once.

  His posture shifted almost imperceptibly.

  “…I see,” he murmured.

  The Aura settled, hovering tightly around Adlet’s body, heavier and more stable than before.

  “Rank 2,” Barno said quietly. “Intermediate.”

  The words struck Adlet harder than he expected.

  Intermediate Rank 2.

  So it was real.

  The change he had felt since the forest… the difference in his control, the weight behind every movement — it hadn’t been imagination. Something had truly shifted within him. Whether it came from the battle, the assimilation, or something deeper, he couldn’t yet say.

  He let Barno draw his own conclusions.

  “Remarkable progress in such a short time,” the instructor continued, already reaching for a parchment. “Your Guardian must have evolved through combat.”

  Adlet remained silent.

  The scratch of a quill filled the room as Barno finalized the registration, then slid the document across the desk.

  “You’re entered. The tournament begins in two days.”

  Adlet accepted the parchment carefully.

  “The arena is unforgiving,” Barno added, leaning back slightly. “Most participants have far more experience than you. Don’t mistake advancement for readiness.”

  Adlet nodded once. “Understood.”

  He hesitated a moment before asking, “How does the tournament work?”

  Barno’s expression shifted faintly, as though amused by the question.

  “Simple structure,” he said. “Each participant fights a single match. Pairings are drawn at random shortly before the event. No preparation against a specific opponent.”

  Adlet listened closely.

  “Victory is determined in three ways: knockout, surrender… or forcing your opponent outside the arena boundaries.”

  Barno paused, his gaze sharpening.

  “And control matters. This is not a battlefield. Lethal intent results in immediate disqualification and suspension from official tournaments. Remember that.”

  Adlet inclined his head slightly. Win — but with restraint.

  “One more thing,” Barno continued. “Despite the name, this is less a competition and more an evaluation. You will fight only once. Your performance alone determines whether you advance to Confirmed Protector.”

  One fight.

  No second chance.

  The weight of that settled quietly inside Adlet’s chest.

  Barno returned to his paperwork, already finished with the conversation.

  “That will be all.”

  Adlet bowed lightly and turned toward the door.

  The courtyard greeted him with movement and noise the moment he stepped outside. Competitors trained in scattered groups across the stone, Auras flickering briefly as techniques were tested and corrected. Voices overlapped, anticipation hanging in the air like approaching thunder.

  Two days.

  He stood still for a moment, the parchment in his hand rustling softly in the wind.

  Intermediate Rank 2.

  The realization felt strange — not triumph, not relief. Just confirmation that the road he had chosen was carrying him forward whether he felt ready or not.

  Around him, others laughed, argued, trained harder.

  Everyone here was chasing something.

  Adlet exhaled slowly.

  The arena waited beyond the courtyard walls, silent for now. Soon it would be filled with noise, pressure, expectation.

  One fight.

  One chance to move forward.

  He folded the parchment and slipped it inside his coat.

  As the wind crossed the academy grounds, he felt the familiar weight of his Aura resting beneath his skin — steadier than before, sharper, alive.

  The tournament was close.

  And this time, he would step into the arena not as a student… but as someone who had already survived a battle meant to break him.

  He began walking across the courtyard, the noise fading behind his thoughts.

  Ahead, the path continued.

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