The second cadet was closing in fast.
Tarrin didn't have the luxury of time.
He snarled and focused inward, dragging at the pit of heat inside him. 'Make them fear me. Make them bleed fear.'
The effect was instant. A ripple of pressure rolled off his body, invisible yet oppressive. The air thickened.
The charging cadet froze mid-step. Even Felix paused, eyes narrowing.
That hesitation was all Tarrin needed.
He pivoted sharply, knees bending low, and lunged like a serpent striking from coiled grass.
The cadet never stood a chance. Tarrin's training sword—blunt but brutal—pierced through the cadet's shoulder with a sickening crunch. Bone cracked.
The protective uniform absorbed some of the force, but not enough.
A ragged cry tore from the cadet's throat as he collapsed.
Tarrin wrenched his blade free with a grunt—just in time to feel Felix's sword tear across his chest.
Shk!
Blue-tinged steel sliced through fabric and into skin, the searing aura burning deeper than metal alone could.
Tarrin staggered, breath catching in his throat. Pain surged hot across his ribs.
Felix didn't relent. He was already there, pressing forward like a bloodhound on scent.
Tarrin barely parried, each clash of metal forcing him back, step by step, like prey cornered in a pit.
His chest throbbed. His grip weakened. But he moved forward anyway. Desperate. Defiant.
Slash left. Switch grip. Thrust right. Nothing landed.
Felix read him like a book, and his grin said it all.
Out of options, Tarrin called on his Gift again.
A flicker of pressure spilled out—but it was weaker this time, ragged around the edges. It drained him. Felix didn't even blink.
"You think that cheap trick works twice?!" he roared, sword flashing.
Tarrin leapt backward—
Rustle.
Too late.
The second cadet barreled into him like a boulder, driving Tarrin forward—
Straight into Felix's waiting blade.
The blade hadn't gone clean through—just carved a deep gouge along his side. But damn, it burned.
Tarrin sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, refusing to scream. He wouldn't give Felix the satisfaction.
He tried to rise. His arms pushed, knees braced—then buckled. His body crumpled back to the dirt, useless. Treacherous.
From somewhere above, Felix muttered, "I'll grab the hostage. Cover me."
Their footsteps moved off without a second glance, leaving Tarrin bleeding into the soil.
He lay still for a moment. Long enough to hear the rustle of leaves. Then—
Click.
His communicator flared to life. Olivia's voice came through, light but breathless.
"We won. How are things going on your side?"
Tarrin stared at the sky, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.
We won, huh?
Bitterness curled in his gut.
They won… and I lost. I did okay, but…I wanted to win.
His jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. He tried to rise again—nothing. Again. Still nothing.
Grimacing, he tapped his comm. "I lost. Bleeding out. The hostage's gone."
There was silence. Then Klein's voice answered, clipped and focused. "I'm chasing him. Olivia—assist if you can. I'm near the hostage on the right flank."
"On my way," she responded instantly.
Tarrin let his head fall back with a dry, bitter laugh.
'They're still going. I'm the leader, and I'm the one lying here like dead weight. Fuck.. I wanted to win, I wanted to beat that bastard. But I lost. '
Then he heard it—footsteps, fast and frantic.
He turned his head.
Lena.
She was sprinting toward him, face drawn, breath ragged, eyes locked on his broken form.
"Tarrin!" Lena's voice rang out as she dropped beside him, eyes wide with panic.
He didn't answer, just clenched his jaw and stared at the sky. Her hands hovered over the ragged wound on his side, shaking slightly.
A soft golden glow bloomed from her fingertips. Within seconds, the bleeding slowed, the torn flesh knitting just enough to keep him conscious.
Tarrin exhaled through his nose. "Bloody healing Gift. Must be nice."
It was a weak attempt at humor, but Lena didn't smile. Her face was pale, mouth pressed into a tight line. There was something in her eyes—fear, guilt, maybe both.
His brow furrowed. "Lena. You okay?"
He let a trace of his aura slip free, trying to soothe her, to take the edge off.
It didn't work.
She didn't answer. So Tarrin reached out, gripped her wrists, and gently pulled her hands away, breaking the healing flow.
"H-Hey, what are you doing?" she asked, voice low, almost wounded.
"I'm fine. I'll manage."
She didn't believe it—but she didn't fight him either. A hollow smile tugged at her lips. "Okay. Just… let me know if 'managing' becomes bleeding out."
"It is bleeding out. I'm just doing it politely."
He tried to laugh, immediately regretted it. Pain lanced through his ribs like white-hot wire. With a hiss, he let her help him up and hobbled toward the nearest tree.
The loud buzz of the exercise bell echoed through the clearing. The round was over.
Tarrin straightened up, waving off Lena's help. His legs wobbled under him, but he kept walking—because pride was a hell of a drug.
By the time he reached the staging area, the rest of his team swarmed him.
"You good?" Klein asked, brow furrowed.
"Yeah," Tarrin grunted, straightening up. "Just a scratch."
His voice didn't waver, but his vision definitely did.
They gave him space, concern still etched on their faces. Lena stayed close. The others grouped up behind Klein, already talking strategy. A new team was forming—without him.
Great.
As he limped toward the familiar cluster of friends, Tarrin braced himself.
'Riko's gonna have a field day with this. Bloody rapper wannabe.'
And sure enough—
"You okay? Woah, they really did a number on yo ass."
Jayden elbowed him. "Chill out, man. He's barely walking."
Riko shrugged with a shit-eating grin. "Well no fucking wonder genius, maybe because they sliced him up like a bloody chicken."
Jayden tried to keep a straight face, failed halfway. A grin broke through.
Tarrin smirked, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side. "You should've been a comedian, Riko. Beats pretending you're not just a gangster with daddy's credit line."
Riko barked a laugh. "He's still got that mouth, huh?"
Tarrin kept his swagger. Barely. But internally?
'Still no healer? No stretcher? Guess blood loss isn't a priority around here.'
'Another literally bloody Tuesday.'
Then he felt it—that presence behind him.
He turned sharply, hand instinctively twitching toward his sword, only to stop when he saw her.
Celith.
Too close. His heart jumped.
She stood still, arms at her sides, expression unreadable. But behind the usual apathy, there was something else. A flicker of concern, almost too subtle to catch.
"Are you okay?" she asked, voice flat—like she was inquiring about the weather, not someone bleeding from the ribs.
"Yeah," he said, forcing a grin. "Never better."
The moment the words left his mouth, the world tilted. His vision spun like a wheel coming loose, and his knees buckled before he could catch himself.
'Fuck you, fate,' he muttered inwardly, letting gravity do its thing.
He expected the dirt—but instead, two slender arms caught him mid-fall. Effortlessly.
For a split second, he considered staying there.
Maybe this is divine will. If the gods want us together, who am I to argue?
Then her breath tickled his ear. A whisper. Cool and quiet.
"Did you faint?"
"Can I faint?" he murmured back, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"You can if you feel like it. I'll hold you up."
She didn't even realize—this was the first time she'd touched someone in this place outside of sparring. No blades, no bruises. Just... support.
"I feel like a bitch," he muttered, straightening up despite his body screaming otherwise.
From behind came Lena's voice, sharp and teasing. "Is that supposed to be an insult?"
Without turning, he replied flatly, "I don't know. Are you one?"
She shrugged like it was a fair answer. "We should really get you to a healer."
She stepped forward to help him, but a hand shot out, stopping her cold.
"I'll take him," Celith said, voice like ice.
Her golden eyes locked onto Lena's, unblinking.
Lena's eyes widened a fraction—subtle, but noticeable. The rest of the group wasn't much better.
Even Riko looked stunned, jaw slightly slack. For once, words failed him.
'Is this what it feels like to witness history?' he thought, staring as Tarrin limped away with Celith practically glued to his side.
'Man's actually scoring. Will the next generation of Sahrins call me uncle?'
"Damn, did you see that?" Lena blurted, voice rising with scandalous delight. "She's totally into him."
She looked like she'd just uncovered state secrets.
The guys exchanged awkward glances, each waiting for someone else to say something intelligent.
"Yeah…" Jayden mumbled, his tone noncommittal.
Meanwhile, Tarrin focused on doing the impossible—walking straight while actively bleeding.
Years of muscle memory kicked in, his spine straight despite the crimson seeping through his side.
"Let's find Vincent," he muttered, voice quieter than usual.
Celith stayed close, offering support without touching him—an odd but strangely comfortable distance.
Neither of them noticed the stares.
The other cadets glanced from under lowered brows. The guys? Jealous. The girls? Strangely… also jealous. No one could quite tell who they envied more—Celith for clinging to the team's rogue prodigy, or Tarrin for earning the icy queen's attention.
A few minutes later, they found him.
Sergeant Vincent. Bald, broad-shouldered, and looking like he'd bench-pressed tanks in his spare time. He stood behind a tactical screen, arms crossed, clearly watching the tail end of the matches.
"Sergeant," Tarrin called, already bracing for the verbal beatdown.
Vincent turned, expression unreadable—until his eyes flicked to how close Celith stood beside Tarrin.
A wicked glint sparked.
"Did our little kitty get scratched?" he boomed, voice laced with mockery. A few chuckles rippled in the distance.
Tarrin didn't bother playing along. "Sir, permission to seek medical attention. I'm actively bleeding."
Vincent gave a lazy nod—no comeback, no sarcasm. Just a short, almost respectful motion.
About time, Tarrin thought bitterly. What kind of backwards place doesn't have a healer on standby?
"You already had your match?" he asked Celith, glancing her way.
She shook her head slowly. "Not yet."
"Guess we'd better hurry then," he said, trying to smile—then immediately regretted it as a fresh wave of pain flared through his ribs.
The silence between them settled like dust after a storm—not awkward, not strained. Just… comfortable.
Then Tarrin broke it.
"There's a healer somewhere near the testing grounds, right? I think someone mentioned it earlier."
Celith gave a small nod. Barely a movement, but it was enough. It confirmed what he didn't want to say aloud—he was starting to feel light-headed.
His gaze drifted to her, locking onto her golden eyes for a heartbeat too long. She didn't look away. If anything, she stared right back, eyes unblinking.
Shit. That's not helping. He looked forward again.
Ten minutes passed as they followed the Telcom map through winding paths, buildings that looked like they'd been dumped from the sky and left where they landed.
'They be hiring anyone, huh? Because who the hell designed this place?'
They finally reached a squat, white building with a faded emblem of the healer's sigil on its door.
"You wanna wait outside?" he asked, pausing at the threshold.
She shook her head. "I'll come with you."
Tarrin pushed the door open and stepped inside. A faint sterile scent clung to the air—clean, sharp, and unforgiving.
Drip.
He looked down. Blood pooled at his boots, staining the pristine floor. Crimson on white. Real art.
The door at the far end of the clinic burst open.
A woman in her mid-thirties stormed out, round glasses perched precariously on her nose. "Get in here! Hurry!"
Tarrin didn't argue. He moved, slow but steady, and Celith followed, eyes quietly tracking the cuts on his back.
"Take off your top," the healer ordered briskly, already pulling gloves on.
Tarrin blinked, caught off guard. 'You could buy me dinner first,' he thought, then grimaced. The pain was making him see double, or the blood loss. He wasn't sure.
The healer arched an eyebrow. "Embarrassed?"
"Not even slightly."
With practiced fingers, he peeled off his uniform top, careful not to tear it further. Dignity hung by a thread—but at least he hadn't passed out yet.
Now shirtless, he stood tall in front of her, waiting for judgment.
The healer took one look and froze. Her eyes narrowed at the gash carved deep into his side.
"How long have you had this?" Her voice tightened, and inwardly, she began questioning his sanity. This wasn't a flesh wound—it was a butcher's job.
Tarrin shrugged, glancing once at Celith, then back. "Fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty? I wasn't really keeping score."
The healer stared. "Are you insane? You should be unconscious!"
Then she shoved him into a chair before he could react. "Sit your stupid ass down!"
With a snap of her fingers, glowing threads of essence swirled into her palms. Her Legacy flared to life—clean, efficient, and just a little pissed off.