# Chapter 3: First Blood (Basics)

  The training field was a wide, fenced-off stretch of grass behind the main buildings, baked hard under the July sun. Bleachers on one side, equipment racks on the other—wooden swords, padded gloves, dummy targets scarred from years of use. The awakened group—Sky, Max, Frosty, Mira, Jefferson, Het, and Hiro—stood in loose clusters, squinting against the early light. The clan kids from Room 105 were on a separate field nearby, doing basic drills under assistants.

  Mr. Joy stood at the front, arms crossed, looking more like a coach than a sorcerer. No jacket today—just a black tank and cargo pants, scars visible on his arms that no one had noticed before.

  “Alright,” he called, voice carrying easily. “You’ve got the spark. Will energy. It’s in all of you, stronger than most. Today we wake it up.”

  He paced slowly.

  “Innate techniques—they’re unique. Personal. Some of you might channel it through fists, like raw force multipliers. Others through weapons—swords that cut rifts, blades that ignore armor. A few get the rare ones: domain-like fields, overwhelming pressure, elemental bursts. Whatever it is, it starts here.”

  A kid—Jefferson—raised a hand. “Does it… run out? Like mana in games?”

  Mr. Joy shook his head. “Will energy doesn’t deplete. It’s not a battery. It’s you. Your focus, your tolerance for pain, your drive. Push too hard too fast, and it’ll backlash—headaches, nosebleeds, worse. But it never runs dry. The limit is how much you can handle before you break.”

  He stopped, scanning faces.

  “Today: basics. No techniques yet. Just feel it. Get into groups of three. Spar. Controlled. Padded gear on the rack. Mr. Joe will supervise the clan side and float over here.”

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  He glanced toward the older man from last night—Clan Master Joe—already watching the Room 105 kids with a thermos of coffee.

  Mr. Joy pointed. “I’ve got a situation. Small rift signature at an abandoned high school twenty minutes out. I’ll handle it. You lot—fight it out. Learn what your body’s telling you.”

  The groups formed quick.

  - **Sky, Max, and Frosty** (Frosty shot Sky a look like don’t hold back).

  - **Mira, Jefferson, and Het** (Het taking the unofficial leader spot, cracking his knuckles).

  - **Hiro** got paired with two older summer intakes Mr. Joy waved over—second-years who looked bored but nodded politely.

  Gear went on: padded helmets, gloves, chest protectors. Wooden bokken for those who wanted them. Sky grabbed one; it felt good in his hands, balanced. Max went bare-fisted, grinning. Frosty took a bokken too, spinning it once like she’d done kendo or something in middle school.

  Mr. Joe blew a whistle. “Rotate every five minutes. No headshots. Tap out if it hurts. Go.”

  The field erupted into controlled chaos—grunts, thuds of wood on pads, laughter mixed with curses.

  Sky’s group circled up in a patch of shade.

  Max bounced on his toes. “Alright, let’s see what we got.”

  Frosty smirked. “Try not to cry, boys.”

  They started light—probing strikes, blocks. But ten seconds in, something shifted.

  Sky felt it first: a warm hum under his skin, like the electric buzz from the party but controlled. When Max threw a playful jab, Sky’s block came harder than he meant—wood cracked against glove, Max stumbling back with wide eyes.

  “Dude. That was me barely trying.”

  Frosty lunged next, bokken whistling. Sky parried, felt the hum spike—his swing came faster, stronger. Not superhuman yet, but enough that Frosty had to dig her heels in to stop the force.

  Max laughed, rubbing his arm. “Okay, we’re definitely not normal anymore.”

  Across the field, Mira was dodging Jefferson’s wild swings while Het coached quietly. Hiro’s group was more technical—precise forms, the second-years correcting her stance.

  Sweat poured. The sun climbed. Bruises bloomed under pads.

  Meanwhile—

  Mr. Joy’s black SUV kicked up dust on the access road, leaving campus behind. Twenty minutes later he pulled up to the abandoned high school—chain-link fence down in places, windows boarded, graffiti faded by weather. The place had been closed since some budget crisis years ago.

  He stepped out alone, no backup. The air felt wrong—thick, like before a storm. A faint red pulse leaked from the cracked gym doors.

  Joy cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders.

  “Show me what you got, death demon.”

  The doors creaked open on their own.

  Something inside growled—low, wet, hungry.

  Back on the field, the whistle blew for water break. Sky gulped from a bottle, chest heaving, that warm hum still thrumming in his veins like it was waking up.

  He glanced at Max and Frosty—both flushed, both grinning despite the aches.

  Whatever this power was… it was real.

  And it was only the beginning.