Rosh steps into the sword training hall. The space is large, and a few students are already present, practicing with wooden weapons. Near the entrance, racks hold an array of wooden swords and other training tools. Without hesitation, Rosh grabs a wooden sword, goes to an open space and begins swinging. His movements are rough, his balance off, each swing uncoordinated.
As Rosh practices, a boy with short brown hair and a fit build notices him. In an instant, the boy freezes, his grip on his sword slipping until it clatters to the floor. His eyes, wide with dread, lock onto Rosh, and a single word escapes his lips, barely a whisper.
"Doomsrider."
The boy stands still, heart pounding, the name sending a chill through him. His thoughts race in panic.
"Is he the Doomrider? How did he get here? Am I going to die again?"
He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. "No... it can't be. Maybe he just looks like him... Exactly like him."
Watching Rosh struggle with his sword, the boy narrows his eyes. "His swings are rough, his stance weak. He's no master. If he's really the Doomrider, he's far from his former power. I should take care of him if he is really him but first, need to be sure before I act..."
Steeling himself, the boy forces a smile and approaches Rosh, trying to suppress the dread still lingering in his chest.
"Hey, you new here?"
Rosh pauses mid-swing, turning to face him. "Yeah, just joined."
"You're practicing swordsmanship. Did you awaken some sword-related abilities?" The boy asks.
Rosh shakes his head. "No, I awakened Necromancy."
The boy's expression darkens at the mention of necromancy. His voice drops, laced with suspicion.
"Doomrider." He says.
Rosh blinks, unfazed. "What Doomsrider? Some kind of movie?"
The boy's eyes flicker with a dark glow as he whispers a spell, his voice barely audible and asks. "Are you sure you've never heard that name before?"
"Yeah, never. Is there any problem? Anyway, who are you?"
The boy examines him carefully, his spell revealing no signs of deception. "No reaction", he thinks, relief creeping in. "He's telling the truth. If he was lying, I'd have seen it."
The boy finally relaxes and forces a smile. "Name's Joseph. Sorry about that. Thought you were someone I knew."
"No problem. I'm Rosh."
Joseph nods, still watching him closely. "Rosh, why don't you train with me? I can help you with your form."
"Sure, I'd appreciate that," Rosh replies, thankful for the help.
They spend the rest of the afternoon training together. Joseph corrects Rosh's posture and guides his swings, helping him improve little by little. By the time dusk falls, Rosh is exhausted but excited for the magic class the next day.
Rosh heads home, eats dinner with Clara and Jareen, then retires to bed early, feeling eager for the next day's lessons. As the sun rises, he makes his way to the institute, the anticipation of learning more about his powers gnawing at him.
He arrives at the institute and enters a large room where several other students are already seated on benches, waiting for the class to begin. Rosh sits down quietly, observing the room, his heart racing in excitement.
Moments later, a stunning woman in a flowing dark dress enters. Her presence commands attention as she walks confidently to the front of the room. Her long, silky black hair cascades down her back, and her piercing eyes seem to look straight through the crowd.
"Hello, everyone," she says, her voice calm and authoritative. "I am Sylvia, your magic instructor. We won't waste any time. As this is your first class, we will learn the basics of magic and abilities."
She looks at the group, her eyes filled with a mixture of seriousness and calm. "Abilities are different from magic. Abilities are a specific form of magic, while magic is the essence that allows you to use them. The key to controlling your abilities lies in mastering your magical power."
She raises her hand, and immediately, dark energy begins to form over her palm, swirling and condensing into a dark sphere about the size of a human. The sphere pulses with energy, casting faint shadows on the walls.
"Magic," she continues, her voice firm, "is formless. You can shape it into whatever you desire."
The sphere of darkness shifts in her hand, transforming into a sleek, black sword, sharp and menacing.
"If you need a weapon, it can become a sword."
The sword shifts again, seamlessly morphing into a bow.
"Or a bow."
The transformation continues as the bow bends and reforms into a heavy axe, dark and ominous.
"An axe."
Finally, with a gentle gesture, the axe becomes a large, thick book that hovers over her palm.
"Or something else entirely, like a book. You can give it form, shape, and size according to your needs."
The book grows larger and larger, doubling in size with each breath, until it looms over the room like an ancient tome of dark magic.
"The possibilities are endless, as long as you can control and imagine."
The massive book shrinks rapidly before dissipating into nothing. Sylvia lowers her hand, the shadows fading. "As I said, magic is formless. It can strengthen your body, grant you wings to soar in the skies, or mold itself into anything your mind can conceive. But the extent of what you can achieve depends on two things: how much magic you possess, and your control over it."
Her voice grows serious. "The more control you have over your magic, the more effectively you can wield it. With time and practice, your mana capacity will also grow, and your abilities will become sharper."
The students listen intently, some in awe, others eager to begin. Sylvia steps forward again, her voice calm but commanding. "Now, let's begin with the basics. Close your eyes and listen carefully. To control magic, you must first clear your mind and focus."
Rosh closes his eyes, following her instructions, and attempts to feel the flow of mana inside him.
"Magic flows within every part of you," Sylvia continues. "It pulses with every beat of your heart, through your veins, your muscles. It's like water, taking the shape of its container."
Rosh's concentration deepens. He tries to feel the mana flow within him, sinking into a calm focus. But as he delves deeper, everything around him suddenly goes silent. He can no longer hear Sylvia's voice, nor the whispers of his fellow students. The world around him goes mute.
He opens his eyes, startled to find himself floating in the same pitch-black space he saw during his awakening. The air is thick with an oppressive energy. Above him, a massive dark sphere hovers, its size colossal, like several buildings stacked on top of one another. Shadowy tendrils burst from its surface, twisting and writhing in the air.
Rosh's heart pounds as dread settles over him. His voice echoes in the void. "Hello, can anyone hear me? What is this place? And what is that thing?"
Before he can move or think, one of the dark tendrils shoots down toward him with lightning speed. It pierces his chest, stabbing straight into his heart.
The pain is instant, sharp and unbearable.
"Aaaargh!" Rosh's scream rips through the classroom. His voice, filled with agony, is so loud and primal that the other students jump in their seats, their eyes wide in shock. His body convulses, and the pain spreads like fire through his veins, consuming him.
He feels as if his chest is being torn apart, the tendril of darkness anchoring deep within him, twisting and pulling. He can't breathe, every muscle in his body is paralyzed with pain. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, and his vision begins to blur.
Sylvia rushes to his side, her face a mask of concern. "What's happening?" she asks, trying to assess the situation.
His body trembles violently, his hands clawing at the floor as though trying to escape the invisible torment. His voice cracks as the pain becomes too much to bear. Then, as suddenly as it started, the screams fade into a low whimper, and his body collapses into unconsciousness.
Sylvia quickly lifts him with her magic, her voice urgent as she takes him to the recovery room.
As Rosh's limp body is carried away, the other students remain frozen in their seats, their faces pale, haunted by the intensity of his agony.
As Rosh lies unconscious in the recovery room, the black stone in his room floats silently in the air. Dark tendrils seep from its surface, twisting and curling through the space like creeping shadows. The mist swirls along the floor and walls, pulsing faintly with an ominous energy, as if the stone is waiting to become alive.