Chapter — Cracks Beneath the Blood
The sun cast golden arcs across the academy's eastern field, igniting dewdrops like stars scattered through morning grass.
The boys stood at the edge of the open grounds again, the arena's dusty ring behind them, now marked with the brutal memories of yesterday's sparring. Their bodies were bruised, fingers wrapped in cloth, muscles taut with strain—but their eyes held clarity.
Sleep had barely stitched their wounds.
But something had changed.
Yesterday, they fought like students.
Today, they trained like predators honing their fangs.
Morning — Training of Will and Flow
Nick moved first.
He was barefoot, his silver hair tied back, tunic soaked in sweat. Thin blades of wind gathered at his feet—not to lift, not to attack—but to follow.
He ran, darting left and right across the courtyard, leaving a whisper of air in his wake. Each motion was a cut, each twist of his hips a redirect of his mana flow.
He didn't summon wind to carry him.
He wore it.
Where once his wind moved separate from him—now, it clung to his limbs like a second skin. Zephyrfang was absent, but the foundation was being laid. Every dash was a precursor to a blade's sweep, every pivot a rehearsal for twin strikes.
"Again," he muttered, spinning into a sideways vault, wind trailing like ribbons.
Sand kicked up behind him. The air howled.
But he landed smoothly.
This time, the wind moved with him—not against him.
A few meters away, Asher stood shirtless under the midday sun, his blue hair gleaming with sweat, chest rising and falling like a furnace.
A dummy stood in front of him—heavily armored, reinforced with carved runes to withstand high-impact magic.
He didn't charge.
He walked.
Slow. Measured.
Both fists ignited with spiraling embers—controlled. Not a wildfire. Not an explosion. But concentrated heat along the bones of his arms, veins glowing a deep orange beneath his skin.
Then he struck.
A single punch. The sand shifted under his heel.
Boom.
A ripple burst from the point of impact. The dummy's armor rang out, glowing white-hot where the strike landed. Steam hissed from Asher's forearm, his skin reddened from proximity.
He exhaled sharply.
"Too much flow on the last second," he muttered to himself, shaking his hand. "Pull the heat in, not push it out."
He struck again—this time spinning low and hammering a flaming elbow upward. It was clumsy. But it cohered. Every motion he tried mimicked the imagined weight of Emberfang. If the sword was fire and steel, then his body had to move like the blade itself—aggressive, crushing, precise.
He grinned.
"If I ever learn to stop breaking my own limbs with this stuff, I'll be unstoppable."
Meanwhile — Control Through Lightning
Ethan was silent.
He sat cross-legged in the corner of the field, his shirt discarded, arms resting loosely on his knees.
Pain grounded him.
He inhaled slowly.
Crackles danced across his shoulders—tiny blue arcs zipping between fingertips, forearms, and spine. He breathed again, forcing his mana to crawl rather than surge.
Then he stood.
He moved forward with deliberate steps, spreading lightning to his feet.
"Dragon Art: Thunder God Light Speed—Phase Two."
His body flickered—disappeared—reappeared several feet ahead with a sharp snap of static.
But his landing was smoother now. No crash. No misfire.
He tried again.
And again.
Each flicker became less like teleportation and more like lightning striking forward—an extension of thought. A flash of intent. There was no momentum to adjust—he became the bolt itself.
Sweat slid down his back, chest heaving.
Then came the daggers.
Or rather—their echo.
He conjured two mirrored blades of mana in the air, simulating his Spellmirror Daggers. With a twist of his wrists, he hurled one illusionary dagger into a projected spell target. As it struck, he snapped his fingers—triggering a lightning burst from his opposite hand.
He was rehearsing the reflect and chain maneuver he could never master before.
This time, the spell responded.
The blade shattered the projected spell image—and bounced the charge back to his palm. Controlled. Stored. Returned.
Ethan's heart raced.
He could feel it.
Even without the real weapons.
He was getting closer.
Evening — Final Movements
As the sun dipped and the sky bled orange, the boys circled each other for their final spar of the day.
No weapons. Just essence.
Nick darted low, wind flaring at his heels. Ethan countered with a flicker, appearing behind him. Asher came in from the side with a wide flame-imbued spin kick that sent dust flying.
They weren't fighting to win.
They were testing flow.
Nick leapt mid-air, carving a horizontal wind slash from his bare hand. Ethan responded with a lightning lunge that snapped into a slide. Asher met both with a burst of heated ground, splitting the sand beneath them.
Dust.
Sweat.
Laughter between gasps.
Pain, but earned.
When they finally collapsed to the ground, staring at the early stars bleeding into the dusk, they didn't speak for a long time.
They didn't need to.
Their bodies ached in synchrony.
But this time, they knew the ache was worth something.
Night — Final Ritual
The dorm was quiet.
Oil lamps flickered softly in the corners, casting golden halos across the floor.
As always, the boys gathered around the sealed chest.
It had become a routine. Ritualistic.
The eggs still lay within—three of them, resting in silence.
Asher rubbed his palm against his tunic. "Alright, tiny freaks. Hope you're hungry."
Nick grunted. "I'm more worried if they aren't."
Ethan didn't smile.
Something felt...
Off.
The air.
The hum of mana in his veins.
He ignored the feeling.
Each boy reached forward in turn, pricking their palms and letting blood drip over the eggs as they had for days now.
But this time—
The eggs pulsed.
Not just a flicker.
They awakened.
The ember-hued egg blazed with sudden light. Not warmth—fire. Pure, unfiltered, ravenous fire that twisted in the air like smoke with fangs.
The gray-spiraled egg sparked with wind—violent, cutting gales slicing the cloth it lay on. The dorm's lamp flames bent toward it as if dragged by breathless force.
The last egg—veined with black and violet—crackled with static and shade. Not light. Not dark. Both. The shadows bent inward as if being devoured. Lightning coiled around it like a heartbeat on the edge of collapse.
Asher stepped back. "What the—?"
Then it hit them.
A pull.
Their knees buckled.
Essence—mana—life force—was yanked from them through the blood connection. Not slowly.
Instantly.
As if the eggs had opened invisible mouths and drank them whole.
Ethan's vision blurred. "They're... draining us—"
Nick dropped first, eyes rolling back as wind whirled uncontrolled around his form.
Asher fell next, hitting the ground hard, arm twitching, steam rising from his skin.
Ethan remained a moment longer, gritting his teeth, fighting it. "Stop—"
He collapsed mid-step.
The room fell into silence.
Only the hum of mana remained.
And then—
Crack.
A jagged line split across the ember-colored egg.
Crack.
The wind-infused shell broke along its side.
Crack.
Lightning jumped from the final egg as a piece of shell flaked away.
The dorm filled with a low, primal hum.
The eggs glowed brighter than they ever had.
And in that breathless moment, as their protectors lay unconscious—completely drained—the eggs began to hatch.