Vikram weaved through the barrage of knives and spells, his movements raw and instinctive. He was far from perfect. In truth, he was failing miserably. His limbs burned, his nerves flared with every impact, and he had long stopped keeping track of where the spells struck him.
But the pain kept him present. It was the only thing anchoring him.
He was getting close to Perfection in every martial art he had learned so far. His movements had gained clarity, his strikes honed to a razor's edge. He was nearing the peak of what he could accumulate.
Or so he thought.
There was something missing. He could feel it.
Vikram had only broken through with his axe arts because of guidance from Kayala and Brunus. Their insights and the system's quiet nudges had carried him forward, helping him build a foundation that others spent decades crafting.
But now, there was no breakthrough. No system message. No new tier.
Just silence.
And he was lost.
Vikram wiped the sweat from his face with a towel. The rough fabric dragged across his skin, leaving faint red marks. He pushed his wooden axe into the rack and slumped onto the mat, the exhaustion soaking through every bone.
His mind was frayed. A swirling fog of fatigue made it hard to focus. A breakthrough tonight was impossible. He had recently crossed into the threshold of the Axe Art.
"You're growing too fast in weapon arts. Slow down and condense what you have learned."
Kayala stretched nearby, her body lean and disciplined, still carrying the sharpness of a blade even after the intense session. She tossed her wooden axe aside and looked at him, studying the exhaustion etched into his posture. Vikram gave a nod in response, but his eyes were distant.
He wasn't thinking about the axe anymore.
He was thinking about the Neu's. The mages. The zombies.
Their last ambush had scarred him deeper than any wound. He needed a plan. A path. Something to break the encirclement and turn the field in his favor.
"What are you thinking about so seriously?" Kayala asked, settling beside him.
Vikram hesitated, then spoke. "What's the difference between an ordinary man and a man who cultivates?"
Kayala raised an eyebrow. "You mean between a mortal and a Walker?"
He gave a slight nod, and she paused.
"There are many differences. Mainly, mortals are weak compared to us."
"That's not it." Vikram shook his head. "I need something more fundamental."
Kayala scratched her head. "You're being philosophical again."
The door creaked open.
"It's energy," came Brunus's voice. He stepped in with two cups of steaming coffee.
"What?" Vikram frowned.
"The difference between a mortal and a Walker," Brunus said again. He handed the cup to Kayala and leaned against the wall. "It's the ability to harness energy. That's the foundation. Next week, all of you will be gathered in the main hall. You'll each choose a scripture."
Vikram slowly stood. His legs wobbled, but he barely noticed. A thought struck him like thunder.
"So… any cultivation, even for body types, is about using energy."
Brunus nodded.
Vikram slapped himself on the face and muttered, "How could I have been so dumb?"
He ran. Fast. Sprinting through the corridors, dodging students and staff alike.
All this time, he had thought like a player. A game-thinker. He saw the barbarian class as pure brute strength. He had believed the Crimson Pulse was about pressure, rhythm, and force. And it was. But it wasn't just that.
He had missed something vital.
Primal Blood.
Until now, the term had felt poetic. Symbolic. A name without meaning. But something in Brunus's words had unlocked a deeper truth.
He had never tried to circulate the Primal Blood within him. It had always remained dormant, embryonic, untouched. He assumed it would awaken with time.
But what if he was supposed to awaken it?
Primal Blood wasn't metaphorical. It was a power system. A core mechanic of the very barbarian path he walked. It wasn't about simply being strong. It was about awakening something older. Deeper. A source of energy no spell or scripture could replicate.
The strength he had wielded until now was his base. That was the terrifying part.
If this dormant force amplified him...
What would he become?
Vikram trembled, but not from fear. Not from pain. He felt excitement. Raw, trembling excitement. The possibilities unfolded in his mind like an infinite scroll, each one promising a new version of himself.
He rushed through the hallway, cutting through shadows. The urgency boiled inside him.
But just as he turned toward the restroom hallway, he slowed. A strange sound reached his ears.
"It aain't 'ere, you hummie, 'ou been too ouerdening."
The voice was distorted. Harsh. Inhuman. The accent was so bizarre it took Vikram a second to even parse the sentence.
Probably meant: "It isn't here, you human. You've been ordering me too much."
A sharper, more commanding voice followed.
"Listen here, you green shit. Do what I said. If you lose that, there won't be a 'you' left on the battlefield."
Vikram froze outside the restroom. Whoever was inside wasn't just a student. Probably a senior officer. The air carried authority, and hostility.
His instincts screamed for caution.
But nature called louder.
He took a breath and opened the door.
To his surprise, there wasn't a senior officer inside. Just a single individual. The same guy who had raised his hand awkwardly in Kayala's lecture a few days ago.
The man turned.
Rough features. Shadowed eyes. A stare that held more than annoyance—it held hatred.
Vikram paused.
Something was off. His senses prickled.
Was he hallucinating? Was this from fatigue? Or did he just walk into something far stranger than he expected?