Time moved differently when you were locked in focus.
For Tarrin, the last two weeks slipped past like sand through open fingers—gone before he could count the grains.
Two weeks of brutal training under Sergeant Vincent. Two weeks of bruises, sore muscles, and relentless repetition.
The man's methods were anything but conventional, but Tarrin had to admit—they worked.
In between the pain and insults, they'd made real progress. Most importantly, they'd started unraveling the mystery behind Tarrin's Gift.
It took effort—a lot of effort—but together, they'd managed to classify its effects into three distinct auras.
The first was the passive aura—the one that was always on, whether Tarrin wanted it or not. Subtle, disarming, naturally persuasive.
It eased people's guard, built trust, and wrapped his words in something that just sounded right. Vincent called it his charm field. Tarrin just called it unfair.
The second was the aura of dread—the one that surfaced in the cafeteria. That raw pressure that made Felix flinch without understanding why.
It radiated fear, subtle and primal. According to Vincent, it could be deadly against instinct-driven enemies like Scarbanes—creatures that smelled weakness and fled from strength.
The last was the most difficult to control: the aura of command. It had appeared briefly during one of their earlier sessions—a flash of presence that demanded attention.
It didn't compel obedience, not yet, but it made others more willing to follow Tarrin's lead, more open to his suggestions.
For now, it was nothing more than a flicker. He couldn't force anyone to obey. Couldn't issue mind-breaking orders or rewrite thoughts. But even so, having it was better than not.
Three auras. Three tools. And for the first time since awakening… Tarrin felt like he was starting to understand what made him dangerous.
Tarrin stood at the edge of the treeline, flanked by four fellow cadets, who were now, for better or worse, his team.
Lena Arden. Klein Carter. Noah Jones. Olivia Xandres.
This was his squad for the duration of the exercise—a simulated hostage rescue scenario. Simple rules. This round, they were the defenders.
He could feel their eyes on him. Waiting. Expecting. As if he already knew what to do.
He straightened his back, let a slow, confident smile curve his lips.
"Alright, listen up. We already know the enemy's entry point and the location of the hostages. That means the pressure will hit hardest from the frontal left quadrant."
Klein raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. "And how exactly do you know that?"
Tarrin let a hint of his passive aura slip free—warm, disarming, just enough to smooth the edge off their skepticism. He met Klein's gaze with a calm he didn't quite feel.
"Because their starting position is offset slightly to their right. Trust me. It's the logical push point."
That seemed to take some of the edge off. He didn't wait for a response.
"Each of us will be assigned to a hostage. One person floats between the two on the frontline. Backline defenders—you're not babysitting, you're support. Stay close enough to reinforce the front on short notice."
He looked at each of them in turn. No one interrupted.
"Now... which one of us is the strongest?"
A beat of silence. They glanced around awkwardly. No one stepped forward.
Tarrin's smile didn't fade.
'Good. That means I get to pick.'
Lena's voice broke the silence. "I don't think I'm suited for the front line."
Tarrin nodded without missing a beat. "Noted. Here's what I'm proposing—I'll take left front. Lena, you're my support from behind. Noah, with your spear and shield, you're perfect for the right front."
He turned toward Olivia. She was already upright, spine straight, eyes sharp. Ready.
"You're center-front. Your bow and mobility make you ideal for controlling space. Shine there."
Then his eyes shifted to Klein, who gave a single nod. No protest. No ego. Just quiet acceptance.
"Alright," Tarrin said, clapping his hands once. "Let's get to it."
Minutes later, he perched on a high branch at the edge of the left front, just inside the clearing's shadow. The height didn't bother him like it used to. Four meters off the ground? Just another Tuesday.
Two weeks ago, he would've been shaking.
Now? With his saturation at 29.6%, just shy of the deployment threshold? He felt sharp. Ready. Ahead of the curve.
He eyed the dull figurine placed in the clearing—today's 'hostage.'
Tarrin smirked.
I'm thinking two, maybe three... Can I pull it off?
A soft rustle broke his focus. Grass shifting.
He clicked his communicator. "Got movement. Two or more. Olivia, be ready."
Carefully, he inched forward along the branch until he had a better vantage point. His body moved with quiet precision—no tremble, no hesitation.
Then two figures stepped into the clearing.
Felix Garner.
And someone else—another cadet, nameless, forgettable.
Tarrin's grin widened.
The communicator crackled. "Two on me," came Noah's voice, tense.
Tarrin responded instantly. "Lena, on me. Olivia, support Noah. Klein—center. One's headed your way."
"Copy." Klein's voice was calm, but Tarrin was already tuning him out.
Below, Felix scanned the clearing.
Left. Right. Front.
But not up.
Big mistake.
Tarrin crouched, sucked in a breath, and leapt.
Leaves burst into the air. The pair looked up too late.
"Fucking crazy—" the other cadet managed, just before Tarrin crashed down on his head with both boots.
A brutal takedown.
'That's gonna leave a mark.'
Tarrin rolled on impact, air punched from his lungs, but he was already moving again.
One down.
One left.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
"You crazy fucker," Felix spat, sword already humming with faint blue light.
Tarrin staggered upright, grinning through the pain. "C'mon, bitch. You think I forgot about my shoulder?"
No more words.
They surged forward at the same time.
Tarrin struck first—a fast slash aimed at Felix's midsection.
Clang.
Felix blocked with ease, pivoting with a fluid turn. His blade came up fast, a blur slicing toward Tarrin's neck.
The blade missed by an inch—but it didn't miss completely.
A thin line bloomed across Tarrin's neck, a shallow cut left by the eerie blue aura wrapped around Felix's sword. The sting was sharp, like ice biting through skin.
Tarrin flinched. His eye twitched.
Is this lunatic actually trying to kill me?
That thought burned away as his stance shifted. His knees bent, muscles coiled tight like springs. Then—he launched.
A brutal thrust, all his weight behind it, aimed straight for the base of Felix's throat.
Felix's eyes widened—just for a moment—but his blade moved like lightning, sliding in and deflecting the strike. Steel rang against steel.
Tarrin didn't stop.
He dropped low mid-motion, twisting his body into a sweeping kick.
Felix leapt, just barely clearing it.
"You've gotten better, bastard," Felix muttered under his breath.
Tarrin grinned, teeth bared, his own breathing labored. "You haven't. Bitch."
Then he charged again.
'Dawn. Reverse Dawn. Comet to Zenith.'
A flurry of techniques, back to back, each one flowing into the next with raw instinct. Every strike blocked, every rhythm disrupted.
But Tarrin didn't slow.
His footwork wasn't perfect, and his swordplay still lagged behind his speed—but his momentum was unrelenting. The edge in his movements wasn't polish. It was violence.
What he lacked in skill, he more than made up for in ferocity.
He wasn't fighting clean.
He was fighting to break something.
Tarrin parried a wide slash and spotted it—a brief opening.
Without thinking, he went for it. His leg whipped up into a high kick. Risky. Reckless. But if it landed, it would shift the fight.
Felix stepped back at the last second, light on his feet, already coiling to spring forward.
But Tarrin's balance betrayed him.
His leg overextended. His foot slipped.
Oh fuck—
He crashed to the ground, barely catching himself on his hands. His head snapped up toward Felix—just in time to see a boot fill his vision.
Bang.
Pain exploded behind his eyes as his skull whipped back. His vision swam, stars burst across his sightline, and his body rolled instinctively—just in time.
A blade stabbed the dirt where he'd been a heartbeat ago.
This bloody lunatic.
Tarrin rolled again, and again, until finally he found his feet. He staggered upright, sword up—just in time to block another slash. The impact jarred his arms to the bone.
His sword nearly flew from his grip.
But he was still standing.
No time to breathe.
He lunged forward, swept in from the right—Dawn—and flowed into a straight thrust. Felix caught it with ease.
Tarrin's jaw clenched.
He had to admit it—Felix was better. Faster. Cleaner.
The only reason he wasn't bleeding on the floor was because Felix wasn't fighting to kill.
That didn't mean he'd make it easy.
He attacked again—right, left, low feint, pivot into an overhead strike. His blade moved fast, but never clean enough to land.
Felix blocked every move like he'd seen it all before.
Tarrin grunted, catching a diagonal strike and stepping back on instinct.
Good call.
Felix's next move came in a blur—his sword slicing the air with enough force to whistle.
If Tarrin hadn't backed off, that strike would've skewered him clean.
After a failed block, Felix twisted with the momentum and drove a brutal punch straight into Tarrin's liver.
White-hot pain exploded through his side. Tarrin staggered, gasping, his vision momentarily blurring as bile rose in his throat.
But there was no time to breathe.
Another flurry came crashing down, steel and fists moving in perfect sync.
Felix didn't fight—he dismantled.
Ting. Clang. Shk.
His sword flashed high. Tarrin barely parried, only to eat a vicious elbow to the ribs. Felix swept low—Tarrin jumped, but Felix was already spinning, chaining the missed sweep into a full-body slash.
Tarrin caught it, the force slamming through his blade and into his bones. His knees bent. His heels skidded back, tearing trenches in the dirt.
But he held.
"Still standing?" Felix panted, sweat dripping. "Stubborn bastard."
"Shut up and fight."
Tarrin's eyes darted behind him—there, a low branch. Perfect.
With each strike exchanged, he edged a step back, guiding Felix unknowingly toward the setup. The assault didn't slow—Felix went for a heavy diagonal slash, but Tarrin was already in position.
Their swords clashed—hard—locking together. Face to face, Felix snarled.
Tarrin smirked.
He twisted and bolted, one hand grabbing the branch.
"Oi—don't run from m—!"
He let go.
The branch recoiled and smacked Felix across the face.
"Argh—shit!"
He stumbled. That was enough.
Tarrin was already there—fist to the nose, a hook to the temple. Felix reeled, footing lost.
Tarrin roared and swung a Dawn slash to finish it, but Felix caught the blade, metal screaming as it slid across his own.
Tarrin jumped, aiming a dropkick—missed. Felix retreated just in time.
Then Tarrin saw it.
A silhouette in his peripheral vision.
A certain cadet has risen from his slumber, looking hellbent on making Tarrin pay for the humiliation
Tarrin's breath hitched.
'Oh shit. The sleepyhead's awake.'