Char stood in the open courtyard behind the safehouse, the cool night air tinged with the scent of damp stone and distant city life. A few lanterns flickered around the perimeter, casting long shadows against the weathered brick walls. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Enough space for them to train, enough isolation that no prying eyes would see them honing the new powers they had unlocked.
Before him stood Ishmael, Callen, Marin, and Tess—each of them freshly empowered by the Ascension Stones. They had taken their time assimilating the skills, but now it was time to see how well they could actually use them.
Char rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension of the past weeks settle deep into his bones. He had to remind himself that it wasn't just about his own power anymore. If they were going to stand against the Syndicate's return—and whatever else lurked in the shadows of Oryn-Vel—they needed to grow stronger.
"All right," Char said, clapping his hands together. "You've all had time to get used to the new abilities. Now show me what you can do with them."
Ishmael was the first to step forward, a sharp grin tugging at his lips as he unsheathed his sword. The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, his new ability, Darkness Cut, activated. A deep, inky blackness bled from the blade, curling in tendrils like living smoke.
"This is the fun part," Ishmael mused, giving the weapon a casual swing. The darkness trailed behind it like an afterimage, lingering in the air before dissipating.
"Try it against something solid," Char instructed, motioning toward one of the training dummies they had set up.
Ishmael nodded and lunged. The blade sliced clean through the wooden post, but as soon as the dark energy made contact, the wood cracked and splintered from within, almost as if the shadow itself had eaten through it. A jagged, smoldering gash remained where the cut had landed.
"Damn," Callen muttered. "That's vicious."
Char narrowed his eyes, studying the effects. It wasn't just a simple enhancement—it had a corrosive effect, something that would be deadly against an opponent. "Good. Keep practicing the control. You don't want to waste energy coating the blade if you don't have to."
Ishmael nodded, though the grin on his face said he was already eager to test it in a real fight.
Marin stepped up next. Her new ability, Iron Reinforcement, was different. Unlike Ishmael's darkness, hers was purestrength. She clenched her fists, and with a deep breath, her skin took on a metallic sheen, like she had been sculpted from polished steel.
"Let's see how much force you can handle," Char said, gesturing to a large stone slab they had set aside for testing.
Marin exhaled and cocked back her arm before slamming her fist into the rock. The impact echoed through the courtyard as cracks spiderwebbed through the surface. A second punch sent the entire slab shattering into fragments.
Marin grinned and flexed her fingers. "Not bad."
"Not bad?" Tess scoffed, crossing her arms. "You just turned a boulder into pebbles."
Char smirked. "The strength is there, but what about defense? Try blocking."
Marin lifted her arms just as Callen stepped forward, eager to test his own skill. His ability, Afterimage, allowed him to leave behind a flickering illusion of himself while dodging attacks.
He moved first, darting forward, his body flickering like a mirage. In an instant, he was gone—and then reappearedbehind Marin, his fist already swinging. Marin barely had time to react, but her iron-clad forearm shot up just in time to block the hit. The impact rang out like metal striking metal.
"Damn," Callen grumbled, shaking out his knuckles. "That stung."
Marin smirked. "Good. Means it's working."
Char nodded approvingly. "Marin, you're going to need to work on speed. Right now, you're tough, but against someone fast, you'll be struggling to react. Callen, your dodging is good, but you need to be unpredictable. If I can tell where you're going to reappear, so can an enemy."
Callen frowned but gave a short nod. He knew Char was right.
Finally, Tess stepped up. Her ability, Cat's Eye, was more subtle than the others, but in the right circumstances, it could be just as powerful.
"Well?" Char asked. "What do you see?"
Tess tilted her head slightly, her pupils dilating as her vision adjusted. "Everything," she murmured. "Infrared, ultraviolet, even through objects…"
She blinked, then turned her gaze directly to Callen. "For example… I can see your heartbeat. You can't lie to me anymore, Callen."
Callen paled slightly. "Okay, that's terrifying."
Char chuckled. "It's going to be invaluable. Being able to track enemies, see through illusions, and detect heat signatures? That's huge."
Tess smiled smugly. "I know. I just need to practice switching between the different visions."
"Then do it. See if you can track us all in the dark," Char challenged, motioning to the others. "You've got the skill—now master it."
The training session continued, each of them refining their abilities, testing their limits, and pushing themselves further. Char watched, arms crossed, as they honed their powers.
The Syndicate was growing stronger. They had Holy Knights in their ranks. They had Rook, who was clearly playing both sides.
And soon, there would be war.
They needed to be ready.
"Again," Char ordered, as the night stretched on.
*
The training grounds of the Syndicate's hideout were dimly lit, the flickering torches casting jagged shadows across the open stone courtyard. The cold northern air bit at the gathered members, but none of them dared to complain—not under their gaze.
Lady Zefaria and Sir Alden stood at the head of the assembly, clad in their signature black and silver armor, both exuding an air of absolute authority.
Zefaria's piercing gaze swept over the assembled Syndicate members—mercenaries, assassins, former soldiers, and thieves alike. Though she had only been with them for a short time, none doubted her ruthlessness. She carried herself with the rigid posture of a seasoned warrior, and even without a weapon in hand, there was an unshakable deadliness about her.
Beside her, Alden was colder, his presence even more unsettling. Where Zefaria's intensity was sharp and commanding, Alden was void—like a blade hidden in the dark, unseen until it struck. His expression never wavered from calm indifference, his ice-blue eyes giving away nothing.
Seventy Syndicate members stood before them in varying states of readiness. Some, like Ivara and Felix, were already skilled fighters. Others, like Grendon and Harker, had raw talent but lacked the polish the Holy Knights demanded. And then there were the rest—capable in a brawl, but nowhere near disciplined enough for what was to come.
"Line up," Zefaria commanded, her voice slicing through the murmurs like a dagger. "I want to see what we have to work with."
The Syndicate members scrambled into formation, standing shoulder to shoulder in loose ranks.
Alden took a slow step forward, hands clasped behind his back. His stare was unnerving, making even the hardiest of criminals fidget under his gaze.
"Varrel has plans for all of you," he said, his voice even and emotionless. "The war to reclaim our power is coming. And when it does, weakness will not be tolerated. If you are unprepared, you will not be a warrior. You will be fodder."
Zefaria smirked as she slowly unsheathed her blade—a wickedly sharp longsword engraved with holy inscriptions. "We're going to fix that," she said. "Starting today."
She raised her sword and pointed at the crowd. "Pair up. I want to see what you can do."
The Syndicate members quickly broke off into sparring pairs, the sound of steel ringing through the courtyard. Some clashed eagerly, others hesitated—until Zefaria and Alden forced them into action.
Felix stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as he scanned the crowd. He wasn't in the mood for this, but he knew better than to slack off. He locked eyes with Ivara. "Shall we?"
Ivara smirked. "Try to keep up, Felix."
Nearby, Grendon was already gripping his axe, facing off against a wiry assassin with twin daggers. Harker, ever the opportunist, had chosen an opponent he thought would be easy—a younger recruit wielding a spear.
It wasn't long before the courtyard became a battlefield.
Zefaria walked between the pairs, scrutinizing every movement, every strike, every mistake. The ones who faltered, she corrected with sharp, merciless words. Those who hesitated, she struck with the flat of her blade, forcing them to react or suffer.
Alden, on the other hand, simply watched. He did not interfere. He did not offer guidance. He only observed.
And then, just as the fights were reaching their peak, he moved.
Fast.
Alden blurred between the fighters, his black-clad form a ghost among them. In an instant, he struck, his armored fist slamming into the gut of a Syndicate member who had left their side exposed. The man collapsed, gasping for air.
Without missing a beat, Alden spun and caught another combatant's blade mid-swing with his bare hand. The sword trembled in the man's grip as Alden twisted it, forcing the fighter to his knees.
"You rely too much on your weapon," Alden murmured. "A real warrior does not cling to their tools. They are the weapon."
Zefaria smirked, watching her partner work. "Now that's a proper lesson."
The training continued for over an hour, with the Syndicate members being pushed to their limits. Some improved, others struggled—but in the end, they all understood one thing.
Zefaria and Alden were not just trainers.
They were executioners-in-waiting.
And if the Syndicate was to rise again, only the strongest would survive.