Garn woke to the taste of bitterness.

  Medicine.

  His head throbbed like someone had driven a nail behind his eyes and left it there for fun. When he tried to move, his muscles answered with a slow, stubborn pain—like his body was reminding him that fire and flesh were not meant to agree.

  He blinked at a white ceiling.

  Then he turned his head—

  Zamora lay beside him, asleep, wrapped in clean bandages. Her breathing was shallow but steady. One of her hands rested near her chest, fingers curled like she was still gripping something in a dream.

  For a moment, Garn didn’t speak.

  He let the silence sit.

  Then he slipped inward—down into the place where the world turned quiet and the noise of the body became distant.

  “Akash,” he asked, voice low. “What happened?”

  Akash lounged in his inner world like she owned it. Crimson eyes half-lidded. Hair like flowing ember-light. Her expression carried the lazy amusement of a creature that had lived long enough to find human panic entertaining.

  “You went berserk,” she said.

  Garn’s brow tightened. “Vyze?”

  Akash shook her head. “No.”

  She leaned forward slightly. “But just like Vyze comes from within… so did that.”

  Garn stared at the ceiling through his own eyes, jaw tightening. “So something else is inside me.”

  “Something,” Akash agreed. “And it pushed you closer. I can feel it—your Vyze is trying to form. It’s like a blade halfway pulled from its sheath. You need a proper path before it cuts the wrong direction.”

  Garn exhaled through his nose. “How?”

  Akash’s smile sharpened. “I have to search your entire body with mana.”

  Garn frowned. “Search…?”

  “Your muscles,” Akash said, as if describing a map. “Your bones. Your blood. The places where your will clings. That unknown power left a residue—like smoke. If I follow it, I can find where your Vyze wants to be born.”

  Garn’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you ‘follow’ it?”

  Akash clasped her hands, delighted. “Burning you with crimson flames would be the best way to find it.”

  Garn turned his head slowly on the pillow, staring at Zamora’s sleeping face like she might offer an escape from this conversation. “Are you going to burn me with crimson flames?”

  Akash’s smile widened. “That would be fun.”

  Garn groaned.

  “But,” Akash continued, tilting her head, “it would be even better if you learned to produce my crimson fire on your own.”

  Garn blinked. “Crimson fire? Not the normal flames?”

  “Your flames are crude,” Akash said bluntly. “Strong. Useful. But crude. Crimson fire is different. It remembers. It clings. It doesn’t just burn the flesh—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Garn muttered. “I get it. You’re special.”

  Akash’s eyes gleamed. “I am.”

  Garn stared at the ceiling again. “How long will that take?”

  “All you have to do is keep using fire until you understand it,” Akash said, like it was simple as breathing. “You copy what you can. You force it. You fail. You repeat. That is how humans learn.”

  Garn let his head fall back. “I’m taking a break from fire.”

  “Aww. Why?”

  “Because I turned my whole body into an inferno,” Garn muttered. “And I’d prefer not to smell like cooked meat.”

  Akash pouted theatrically. “Fine. A few days.”

  Then her eyes sharpened. “But you’re going to Riktor’s order soon. You’ll need to defend yourself. Especially if you keep provoking people until they try to kill you.”

  Garn’s lips twitched. “They shouldn’t be so easy to provoke.”

  Akash laughed. “Says the boy who yawns at nobles.”

  Garn closed his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

  He tried to relax back into sleep—but the moment he did, the pain in his chest reminded him exactly where Yona’s blade had opened him. His fingers curled against the sheets.

  Akash watched him, amused. “You’re not fine.”

  “I said I’ll be fine,” Garn repeated, and forced his breathing steady until the medicine pulled him under again.

  Zamora woke later.

  And instead of resting, she limped out.

  The training grounds were quiet in the morning, the sand still unmarked by the day’s drills. The air was cool. Birds sat on palace rooflines like they were waiting for the city to wake.

  Zamora planted a wooden pole in the earth.

  Then she began swinging.

  A staff at first—because her glaive was broken.

  Slashing arcs.

  Piercing thrusts.

  Her technique wasn’t elegant. Not yet. It was raw, built from desperation and a refusal to stay weak. Every time she drove the weapon down, her legs buckled.

  Every time she fell to her knees, she forced herself back up.

  Behind a pillar, Karen watched in silence.

  The captain’s eyes were narrowed—not at Zamora’s form, but at the direction her will was taking. There was something dangerous in devotion like that. Something that could become strength… or ruin.

  Zamora swung again.

  Collapsed again.

  Her hands shook as she rose.

  Karen stepped out.

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  Zamora looked up, breath ragged, sweat and pain mixing on her skin.

  Karen’s voice was calm, but there was urgency underneath it. “We have three weeks. Maybe less.”

  Zamora swallowed. “Three weeks for what?”

  Karen’s eyes hardened. “To learn Vyze. Before the monster recovers.”

  Zamora’s expression sharpened instantly. “He is no monster.”

  Karen didn’t argue. She reached behind her and tossed Zamora something heavy.

  A weighted staff.

  Zamora caught it with both hands—and nearly dropped it. The weight dragged her arms down like iron chains.

  “Why—?” Zamora gasped. “Captain, this is—”

  “Reality,” Karen cut in. “Garn doesn’t fight like a normal knight. He walks into storms and expects the storm to break first.”

  Zamora gritted her teeth and lifted the staff again, trembling. “Then I’ll break with him.”

  Karen’s gaze softened for half a heartbeat. Then she stepped closer, voice lowering.

  “From now on, if you’re going to follow Garn, you’ll need a weapon like that. Something that can clear the path for his success.”

  Zamora’s fingers tightened around the grip until her knuckles paled.

  Karen’s tone turned sharper. “If you awaken Vyze… you must become the sword that protects him.”

  Zamora stared down at the staff.

  Then she lifted it—arms trembling, shoulders burning, ribs screaming.

  “…Alright,” she said. “Let this be the true beginning of my change.”

  Karen nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”

  And for a week, they trained.

  Karen drilled Zamora into the ground and dragged her back up again. She corrected stance. Corrected footwork. Corrected timing. She made Zamora hold the weighted staff until her arms shook uncontrollably—then made her swing anyway.

  When Zamora collapsed, Karen didn’t mock her.

  She only said, “Again.”

  And Zamora never once asked to stop.

  When Garn could finally stand without swaying, Karen entered the infirmary and found him training his body.

  Not sparring.

  Not lifting.

  Something different.

  Controlled breathing. Muscle tension. Precise movements. Like he was rebuilding himself out of pain—relearning where his balance lived now that his chest carried a fresh scar.

  Karen watched for a moment before speaking. “You look like you’re fighting the air.”

  Garn didn’t stop. “Air doesn’t fight back. Yet.”

  Karen snorted. “Can you finally leave this place?”

  Garn shot her a look. “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

  Karen smirked. “This isn’t a prison.”

  She turned. “I’m taking you to the throne room.”

  Akash’s attention sharpened inside Garn like a predator waking.

  She awakened, Akash noted. And she’s close to Honed.

  Garn blinked. “So you awakened Vyze.”

  Karen lifted her hand.

  Dark blue Vyze coated her fingers—sharp, refined, like an edge made of flowing water. It didn’t flare wildly. It didn’t explode. It simply existed—controlled, confident, hers.

  Garn stared. “You beat me to it.”

  Karen rolled her eyes. “I was already close.”

  Garn’s mouth twitched. “Still annoying.”

  Karen’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

  Akash chuckled inside him. Weak to provocation, she sang quietly.

  Garn ignored her.

  The throne room doors opened.

  Zamora was already there—kneeling.

  Garn’s eyes narrowed.

  She looked different.

  More built. More stable. Her posture stronger. And her hair—shorter, cut like she’d decided she didn’t have time to be dragged around by anything, even her own past.

  Akash smiled in Garn’s mind. Looks like you sparked a fire in that one. She even cut her hair.

  Garn’s mouth twitched. “Seems I got left behind while I was bedridden.”

  Zamora glanced back just enough to meet his eyes, then looked away again like she was afraid he’d see too much in her.

  The King looked pleased seeing Karen step fully into the realm of Vyze users.

  Then the room shifted.

  Riktor entered.

  And Titus.

  Even without speaking, Titus’s presence felt like pressure—like the air itself had decided to become heavier out of respect.

  King Xavier’s voice filled the room.

  “The Crimson Knights will be sent on a border protection and scouting mission along the far eastern border. Orion is showing aggressive movements—preparing for something.”

  His gaze hardened. “This is a sensitive time. Especially with the barbarians now within the kingdom.”

  If war was confirmed, feudal houses would be notified. Preparations would begin.

  Titus stepped forward as if the throne room was just another training yard. “Add the barbarian and the beast girl.”

  The King nodded. “Garn held his own against a vessel-ranked. He’ll be useful.”

  His eyes shifted to Zamora. “And the beastwoman?”

  Karen stepped forward, voice steady. “It will be good experience for her.”

  The King nodded. “Fine. Allowed.”

  He turned to Riktor. “I leave preparations to you.”

  Riktor bowed. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Then he looked at Garn and Zamora. “You two will go with Titus to the border town Log. A few knights, and three other Vyze users Titus will select. I will follow in two days with more men. I have matters to discuss with the King first.”

  Titus turned away immediately. “Prepare. We leave at noon.”

  He walked off, already bored.

  Garn watched his back.

  That’s someone I have to surpass… if I’m going to build my own knight order.

  Karen sighed. “I’m going to train my knights and do paperwork.”

  Garn blinked. “Paperwork?”

  Karen smirked. “Yes. The King expects more from me now—recruitment, management, duties.”

  Garn’s eyes narrowed. “When I return, I want that rematch.”

  Karen walked away laughing. “I’ll probably be too strong by then. Learn Vyze soon.”

  Zamora stayed quiet, staring at Garn like she was trying to memorize the shape of him.

  He felt it and sighed. “Are you trying to burn a hole in the back of my head?”

  Zamora flinched. “N-no.”

  Akash giggled. Still shy. Cute.

  Garn shook his head. “Let’s get our things.”

  “O-okay,” Zamora said, following.

  At noon, they arrived at the carriage yard.

  Knights packed supplies. Horses stomped. Armor clinked. The scent of leather, sweat, and metal mixed with the dry heat of the sun climbing toward its peak.

  Titus stood with three Vyze users.

  One was vessel-ranked—slightly smaller than Titus, dark-skinned, red eyes, short black hair. His posture screamed discipline, but his eyes held the tired irritation of a man who’d been assigned responsibility he didn’t want.

  Two were tempered-ranked:

  A woman with long blonde hair and green eyes, moving efficiently among the soldiers, checking straps, tightening knots, shifting weight like she’d done this a hundred times.

  A man with long green hair and pale blue eyes, sitting atop one of the carriages like he’d been born there, watching everything with the calm boredom of someone who didn’t feel threatened by anything in the world.

  Titus nodded when he saw Garn and Zamora. “You made it.”

  He pointed to the vessel-ranked knight. “Damien. He’ll be managing you.”

  Damien’s expression stayed flat. “So I’m a babysitter?”

  Titus nodded. “Yes. For now.”

  Damien looked at Garn, then at Zamora. “Try not to die. It creates paperwork.”

  Garn stared back. “You sound like Karen.”

  Damien’s eyebrow twitched. “That’s an insult.”

  Titus gestured to the others. “Amira. Vincent.”

  Amira gave Garn a quick glance, then nodded politely. Vincent lifted two fingers in greeting without bothering to stand.

  Titus’s eyes moved between Garn and Zamora. “While we’re traveling to Log town—three days if the roads behave—you train with them.”

  Zamora stiffened. “Train… with Vyze users?”

  Amira looked her over more carefully. “She doesn’t have Vyze yet.”

  Titus shrugged. “Then she’ll learn how it feels to face it.”

  Vincent leaned back on the carriage roof. “That sounds like suffering.”

  “That’s because it is,” Damien said.

  Garn’s gaze sharpened. “And what about me?”

  Titus smiled slightly, like he liked the question. “You’ll do the same.”

  Akash stirred in Garn’s mind. He wants to see what you are.

  Garn clenched his jaw. “Fine.”

  Titus raised his voice so the whole yard heard.

  “We leave before the sun sets!”

  The knights roared back in unison. “YESSIR!”

  The carriages began to roll.

  Wood creaked. Hooves struck stone. The palace gates opened, and the world beyond the capital greeted them with road dust and open sky.

  Garn sat in the lead carriage with Damien and Amira while Vincent rode above, legs dangling, watching the horizon like it was an old friend.

  Zamora sat across from Garn, weighted staff resting against her shoulder like a promise.

  For the first hour, no one spoke.

  Then Damien broke the silence.

  “Show me your stance,” he said to Garn, like they were already in a training hall.

  Garn frowned. “Now?”

  Damien’s red eyes met his. “Especially now. Your body remembers pain. It also remembers fear. If you let it, it will choose hesitation next time.”

  Garn shifted, careful of his chest wound, and raised his hands. No sword. No flames.

  Just him.

  Damien watched his balance, his breathing, the way his shoulders tensed when he expected impact.

  “You rely on power,” Damien said. “Not structure.”

  Garn’s eyes narrowed. “Power wins fights.”

  Damien nodded. “Power wins fights when you can keep it. But you burned yourself out in the garden. That’s not strength. That’s a tantrum with heat.”

  Amira glanced out the carriage window, but her mouth twitched like she agreed.

  Garn’s jaw tightened.

  Zamora’s fingers curled on her staff, ready to defend him even from words.

  Damien noticed and sighed. “Don’t glare at me, girl. I’m keeping him alive.”

  Vincent’s voice drifted down from above. “Barely.”

  Damien ignored him. “Now. Again. Stance.”

  Garn adjusted. Lowered his center. Forced his feet into something steadier.

  Damien nodded. “Better.”

  Amira leaned forward slightly. “Your breathing is wrong.”

  Garn looked at her.

  She tapped her chest. “You breathe like you’re preparing to explode. Calm it. Vyze users read that. They’ll know exactly when you’re about to act.”

  Garn didn’t like being read.

  But he listened anyway.

  The carriage rolled on.

  Dust rose behind them like a trail of smoke.

  And in Garn’s inner world, Akash laughed softly—because she could feel it too.

  Ambition.

  Pressure.

  The slow, relentless beginning of a forge.

  “You have a long way to go,” Akash whispered.

  Garn’s eyes burned, not with fire, but with the kind of heat that didn’t need mana.

  “…You’re right,” he muttered.

  Zamora watched him quietly, gripping the weighted staff like she’d never let go again.

  And the road to Log town stretched ahead—long, unforgiving, and waiting to shape them into something sharper.