Two days later, at the lecture hall, the air vibrated with anticipation, a restless energy that thickened the atmosphere like an approaching storm. Murmurs and paper shuffling intertwined, a cacophonous melody. Students clumped together in teams, constellations fallen from a dark sky, trying to make sense of the chaos in the hall.
Mark and Drake stood at the rear, an island unto themselves amidst a sea of chattering kids. Drake's voice, tinged with bitterness, broke the momentary silence. "I'm sorry," he muttered-the weight of his words sinking his shoulders like anchors. "Because of me, no one wants to join our group."
Mark's right hand fell on Drake's shoulder, his touch a calm bridge over the stormy waters of doubt. "Don't blame yourself for this," he said, his tone steady as the roots of some ancient tree. "Even if that accident in the Mana and Aura Check-In room hadn't happened, they would have found another reason not to join."
Drake's eyes stayed down, shrouded with self-doubt, until Mark's face changed. A spark of hope fluttered in his eyes, and a smile creased his face as his hidden worry dissolved. "Drake," Mark started, pride threading his voice. "We have found the person to take that last position."
Drake looked up, his face etched with confusion, like a question left hanging. "What do you mean?" he asked, looking into Mark's eyes for an explanation.
Mark gestured to the side of the hall, his smile widening as he did so. Drake's gaze followed the gesture and came to rest on Victor Freya, who was standing alone, her posture tentative, her presence understated. Like them, she too had been pushed to the periphery, a quiet outcast in the vibrant chaos of the room.
Mark and Drake exchanged a knowing nod before stepping forward, Mark taking the lead. "Hi," he began warmly, his voice a steady beacon. "I'm Mark, and this here is Drake." He pointed to Drake, who offered a small nod.
Freya looked down, her eyes avoiding theirs like a bird too timid to meet the gaze of a predator. "Yeah," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, fingers fidgeting nervously. "Everyone knows who you two are."
Mark cleared his throat; his tone softened. "We approached you because we're hoping you'll join our team. What do you think?"
Freya's hands closed more desperately over the folds of her gown, the fabric twisting in her trembling grasp. "You may regret it later," she stammered, her voice unsteady. "I'm not confident that I can be of much help."
Mark, impassive, extended his hands and clasped hers firmly, his touch cool with reassurance and resolution.
Freya's head jerked up in surprise, her face crimson as her gaze met Mark's unflinching one. "You don't need to worry about that," he said, his voice steady as a lighthouse in a storm. "Just do your best and leave the rest to us."
Freya felt her heart racing, her face pale, with all the emotions churning inside. This was the first time anyone had acknowledged her-more than her family had ever done. She jerked her hands away, her face turned to one side as if she shielded herself. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't think I'll be able to live up to your expectations. You should find someone more fitting for your team."
It was then that Drake spoke up; his voice, quiet yet powerful, cut through her diffidence. "How about this?" he said, as unwavering as a mountain. "You do know my condition. Why don't we work hard together, become stronger, and face our shortcomings directly instead of running away or being afraid that we will be a burden to others?
Freya looked between them, her eyes darting, filled with her hesitation, before she slowly reached out and took the team registration form from Mark. He handed it over, his smile growing.
She filled in her name, the action felt monumental. As she was handing it back to Mark, the faintest hint of a smile danced across her lips, like a morning breeze.
They all sat down together to talk about their plans, and the hallways around them buzzed softly with murmurs of anticipation. "We should clear some time to work on our teamwork," Drake said, an excited tingle in his voice.
Mark added, "Monday through Wednesday is Drake's and my weapon mastery class, so those days are out.
They now looked at Freya, who, after a moment of hesitation, nodded. "Yeah, I'm also stuck with alchemy class those days too," she said. "What about Thursday and Friday? Those would be for practice."
Looking into each other's eyes, the determination shone brightly in them, and they nodded together. "We need to get going to our classes before it's too late," Drake said, and they all scattered.
****
The training and evaluation center stretched in the south wing of the academy like a big labyrinth, comprising five mastery zones: sword, fist, arrow, spear, and dagger. Each area was alive with purpose as students worked at their crafts in the crucible of discipline.
Drake stepped into the sword mastery center, his eyes scanning the spacious 15-square-meter room. At the back of the room, two large weapon racks stood watch, silent sentinels-one bristled with wooden swords and the other gleaming with steel. To the left, exercise equipment glittered under light; to the right, a sparring ring dominated the space.
There were already eleven students present, their movement filling the room with low hums of activity. Ronan and Victoria were among them, sharpening the edge of the room.
As soon as Drake was inside, Ronan turned, his gaze locking onto him with predator-like intensity. "Who do we have here?" Ronan called out, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "If I remember correctly, you are a spellcaster. What business do you have here? Or have you been rejected?"
The room broke into a peal of laughter, the jeering notes soaring like a chorus of mockery. Only Victoria was silent, her gaze conspicuously averted.
Drake nodded slightly, his face composed with an edge of pity. He turned away, and his movement goaded Ronan further. "Stop trying to act cool, you bastard!" Ronan jeered.
Drake turned only enough to meet Ronan's gaze as his frown deepened. There came a light pressure off him, insistent but mild. Ronan shivered as the weight of it leaned against him, a sheen of sweat breaking on his forehead.
"It's none of your business," Drake finally shot back, his composure unruffled as he strode away.
Ronan clenched his fists, shame burning in his chest. Unable to let it go, he strode toward Drake, his steps fueled by anger. Just as the tension threatened to snap, a voice cut through the air like a sword.
"Hope I'm not too late."
The door opened and in came a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a blue armless shirt and trousers, with an athletic yet commanding aura. Sharp eyes scanned the room, quickly assessing the scene before him. Turning toward the sparring ring, he addressed the students in a tone commanding yet calmly leading. "I hope everyone is ready for the class."
The students quickly fell into lines, rows of discipline as both sides stared at each other, tension ebbing into focus.