The sun was setting over the Vanguard Academy, casting long, bruised shadows across the concrete pathways.

  Amari emerged from the Maintenance elevator. He squinted against the fading light. After forty-eight hours in the dark boiler room, the surface world felt too bright, too loud. The air smelled of cut grass instead of rust, which felt wrong.

  He rolled his shoulders. His bones felt heavy—dense. Stage 2 was stable. Every step felt anchored to the earth.

  A faint crunch sounded under his heel. He looked down. The concrete paver had spider-webbed under his weight.

  He checked his wrist. The holographic interface flickered to life.

  [System Notification: Calorie Deficit Detected.] [Recommendation: Consume Mana-Rich Nutrients to optimize Core Growth.]

  Amari stared at the text. He swiped the notification away with a sneer.

  "Stupid machine," he muttered.

  He knew the irony of his situation. The System was a tool built by the Mana God—the "Farmer"—to manage the livestock. It wanted him to eat Mana (the "Feed") so he would ripen for the harvest.

  But the System was just code. It was a cold, logical piece of software. It didn't have loyalty; it only had algorithms.

  I hate the Farmer, Amari thought, closing the window. But I’ll use his scale to weigh myself.

  As long as Amari kept killing things, the System was forced to reward him, even if he wasn't playing by its rules. He wasn't following the path; he was jailbreaking the software.

  He began the long walk toward the dorms, planning to sleep for twelve hours before the Tournament.

  "Malik."

  A voice rumbled from the shadow of an oak tree.

  Amari stopped. He didn't turn immediately. He listened to the footsteps. Heavy. Rhythmic. The sound of someone who weighed 250 pounds but knew how to walk quietly.

  "Bronson," Amari said.

  He turned around.

  The B-Class bully looked different. He wasn't surrounded by his lackeys. He wasn't wearing his flashy armor. He was wearing a plain tracksuit, and his arm was in a sling—a souvenir from the Alpha fight.

  "You look terrible," Amari noted.

  "I fell off a bridge," Bronson grunted. "Thanks for that, by the way."

  "I saved your life," Amari corrected. "If you stayed on the cliff, you'd be wolf food."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Bronson didn't argue. He kicked at the dirt with his good foot, looking uncomfortable.

  "I saw the bracket," Bronson said, looking up. "The Titan Golem. Thorne and the Dean... they're trying to execute you on live TV."

  "I know."

  "You can't beat it," Bronson said bluntly. "I fought a MK-III last year during a guild assessment. It's immune to blunt force. I hit it with a sledgehammer spell, and it broke my mace. The MK-IV is twice as fast."

  Amari studied Bronson. "Why are you telling me this?"

  Bronson hesitated. He looked around to make sure no Hero Class students were watching.

  "Because you didn't leave me to the wolf," Bronson muttered. "And... because I saw the way you crushed its throat. You didn't use a spell. You used a technique."

  Bronson took a step closer, his pride cracking.

  "My Earth Magic," Bronson admitted quietly. "It's stalling. I can stack rocks, but I'm slow. The Hero Class guys run circles around me. You... you moved differently. Efficient."

  Amari realized what this was. It wasn't an ambush. It was a transaction.

  "You want to know how to move," Amari said.

  "I want to know why I'm stuck at B-Class," Bronson said.

  Amari walked over to him. He tapped Bronson’s chest, right over his diaphragm.

  "You breathe wrong," Amari said.

  Bronson blinked. "What?"

  "Earth Mana is heavy," Amari explained. "You hold your breath when you cast to brace for the weight. That cuts off oxygen to your muscles. It makes you slow. You're fighting your own magic."

  Amari placed a hand on his own stomach. "Don't hold it. Cycle it. Inhale when you gather the rocks. Exhale when you impact. Let the mana ride the breath."

  Bronson tried it. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, visualized the mana, and exhaled sharply.

  Whoosh.

  For a second, the dust around Bronson's feet settled instantly. He looked surprised.

  "It feels... lighter," Bronson whispered. "Bronson’s jaw tightened. He hated that the truth felt like relief."

  "Practice that," Amari said. "Now, tell me about the Golem."

  Bronson nodded, his demeanor shifting to serious business. He owed a debt, and he was paying it.

  "The MK-IV has a blind spot," Bronson said rapidly. "The sensors are heat-based. It tracks body heat and mana signatures. But the cooling vent on its back creates a thermal distortion."

  Bronson used his hand to simulate the back of the mech.

  "If you stand directly behind it, about two feet away, the sensors get confused. It thinks you're part of its own exhaust system."

  "Two feet," Amari mused. "Close range."

  "Suicide range," Bronson corrected. "But if you can stay in that pocket, it can't target you with the lasers. You just have to worry about the hydraulic arms crushing you."

  "I can handle the arms," Amari said.

  Bronson looked at Amari’s hands. They were scarred and calloused, shaking slightly from the training.

  "You're really going to fight it without magic?" Bronson asked.

  "Magic is a crutch," Amari said. "I prefer iron."

  Amari turned to leave.

  "Malik," Bronson called out.

  Amari paused.

  "Good luck," Bronson said. "Beat the metal. It’ll piss off the Prince."

  Amari gave a small wave over his shoulder and kept walking.

  He had the intel. The Golem tracked Heat and Mana.

  Amari smiled.

  He had 0 Mana. And with his Void Body control, he could lower his heart rate until his body temperature dropped to near-hypothermic levels.

  To the machine, he wouldn't be a target.

  To the System, he already wasn't one.

  He would be a ghost.