Itekan hissed in annoyance. He was pissed — more than pissed. How had he overlooked something so obvious?
He dodged the next barrage of attacks with desperate precision. If another one of those trunk strikes landed, he wasn't sure he'd survive it. His mind flashed back to the critical mistake he'd just made. The trees before him were called swamp slime trees — named for their symbiotic bond with the slimes that dwelled on their branches. It was the slimes that allowed their movement; the gelatinous creatures slid between joints the trees lacked, granting mobility, while the trees provided them food and protection in return. That was why, only after killing the tree beast, had the slime emerged.
Itekan's shadow tentacles lashed out, seizing one of the shadow daggers still embedded in the bark as he made his move to capture the slime.
Stretching his arms outward, he released ten more tentacles, each armed with a shadow dagger. His shadow spirit had healed most of his fractured ribs, and his shoulder blades were nearly restored. Wiping the blood from his face, Itekan steadied his breath.
Round two was about to start.
The trees, sensing his renewed determination, surged with ferocity unlike before. Itekan, knowing better than to stand still, dashed forward.
"Toitoi," he muttered.
His body darkened to pure void, shadows engulfing him entirely. A flickering stalk of shadow rose from his head as his form fully transitioned.
His shadow tentacles whipped outward, latching onto a descending branch. He launched upward as the branch recoiled. Twisting midair, he landed deftly atop it and sprinted forward — a black blur cutting through the air. All one hundred shadow daggers followed in his wake, pulled by the grasping tentacles alongside his original pair.
The shrieks of the tree-beast echoed but never reached him. Enveloped in his full shadow form, his defense had spiked dramatically. By deflecting SE from his ears, he muted the sound entirely, perceiving only the vibrations of the creature's agony. Unbothered, he drove his shadow daggers relentlessly into the trunk, stabbing and thrusting with merciless rhythm.
The surrounding trees, witnessing the carnage, momentarily ceased their assault. Itekan didn't let up until the tree collapsed, lifeless.
Panting heavily, he grabbed at the writhing slime beginning to peel away from the dead bark. His stamina, unlike his injuries and SE, hadn't been restored by his shadow spirit — but if his guess was right…
He tore a chunk of the slime free and, without hesitation, bit into it.
A faint halo shimmered around him as the slime's essence coursed through his veins. His healing accelerated, but more importantly, the exhaustion weighing on his bones dissipated almost instantly. A grim smile crept across Itekan's face as he rose to his feet, hands slick with bluish slime and drying blood. His shadow form receded, reverting to his base state.
He leveled his shadow dagger at the next tree.
"You're next," he growled.
---
The other group was doing... alright — at least for now. The formation structured by Avery was just that — alright.
As the pack of flame wolves closed in, Avery snapped orders.
"Tankers! Circle up, shields high!"
Without hesitation, the tankers rallied around the group, forming a defensive ring.
"Attack squad! We move in pairs! Aaron, you're with me!" Avery shouted to the burly man wielding a massive blade beside him. Aaron nodded, and the two surged forward. Following their lead, the others paired off and charged into battle.
Avery shot a quick glance toward Instructor Keel Kun and the other instructors, still unmoved and unbothered by the screams of the trainees.
They're not planning to help at all, huh? he thought bitterly.
Aaron's heavy blade crashed down on a wolf, cleaving it clean in two. Avery didn't falter either — his fist pulverized another's skull in one blow.
The terrified trainees, witnessing how easily the two dispatched the wolves, found their courage. With renewed battle cries, they rushed into the fray.
Keel Kun couldn't help but be impressed. They're definitely beyond trainee level. Grade D flame wolves... taken down like nothing. And Avery's leadership? Off the charts.
That's the makings of a Hero, Keel Kun mused.
But soon, reality sank in. The wolves weren't as easy as Avery and Aaron had made them seem. Some trainees, overzealous, rushed in without backup and were swiftly overwhelmed. Panic spread as injuries piled up.
"Healers on standby! Tankers up front!" Avery commanded sharply.
The tanks scrambled to the front, but their coordination faltered.
"Coordinate, dammit! Surround those wolves! Strike team, fall back! Grab as many wounded as you can!" Avery barked, restoring a semblance of order.
He dashed into the chaos, hauling a wounded trainee whose leg had been bitten clean through, muscle and bone mangled, intestines dangerously close to spilling. The boy wailed in agony as Avery dragged him behind the makeshift barricade.
"Healers! Now!" Avery yelled.
A green-haired girl with a flushed, trembling face dashed forward. She knelt beside Avery, her hands shaking violently.
"How good are you?" Avery demanded.
"I—I know a few second-stage healing spells. Can't regrow limbs, but I can stabilize," Rose stammered.
"Then start! Now!" he snapped, thrusting the boy into her care. Without pause, Avery rushed back in, returning seconds later with another — this one far worse. His stomach had been ripped open, intestines pouring out, a grotesque mess of blood and gore. His dead eyes were frozen in a mask of terror.
Damn it. This is my fault. I rushed us in... I forgot the SE boost in this zone. My recklessness got him killed. Avery clenched his teeth in anguish.
Then, another body was brought in. His breath caught.
Aaron.
His best friend, his childhood companion — dead.
Avery's composure shattered. Tears broke free, streaming down his face. He was just fourteen. Barely a man.
He had grown up in a village just outside the Ransthrol estate with his mother. The illegitimate son of one of the great-grandchildren of Enasto Ransthrol — the drunken, disgraceful descendant who'd bedded his mother, a mere hostess, after too much wine. She had kept his lineage secret until late in her pregnancy, spreading rumors to leverage safety. Instead of execution, they had dragged her to the estate, offering protection under the condition that her son — Avery — would serve as a retainer, not an heir.
His grandfather, a rare benevolent figure, had agreed. So long as Avery proved useful, they would be spared.
Until he turned eight.
That was when they had been cast out — to "prove their worth." His mother's reputation plummeted. Seen as lower than filth, a stain on the Ransthrol name, they were scorned. He had known privilege once, but on the streets, he knew only hatred.
Aaron had been the one who stood by him. Despite warnings, despite ridicule, Aaron stayed — teaching Avery the value of life and loyalty.
And now Aaron was dead.
Avery bit back a strangled cry, his grief tearing at his chest. It wasn't supposed to be this way. It wasn't—
He froze.
Spinning around wildly, his eyes searched for the instructors — the ones meant to keep them safe. The ones meant to make sure no one died.
There was no one.
"No... they abandoned us?" Avery whispered, disbelief quaking in his voice.
Spiritual Energy -- SE
Spritual Sea -- SS
Spiritual Signatures -- SST