"This time, I'm truly fucked."
Lan could barely hear his own words. His heartbeat pounded louder than his voice as he sprinted through the courtyard, weaving between alleyways and buildings. His breath came in ragged gasps. Every step jarred his ribs, but he couldn't stop.
The clouds above were grey—bloated with stormlight, heavy with the threat of rain.
The academy was massive. If he could just keep moving, keep slipping between the cracks, he might escape. Hide. Survive.
He just needed to—
Crack.
Pain exploded through his face. His jaw wrenched sideways as a hand slammed into it. Something inside tore open. Blood splattered from his mouth—hot, thick, and far too much.
Lan hit the stone floor hard.
"Why run?" said the boy who struck him, casually rolling the same hand. The tone was almost amused.
Lan groaned. His jaw hung loose, dislocated. Blood pooled in his mouth until he had to spit just to breathe.
He gasped, breath sharp—pain flaring through his chest with it.
Above him, three boys loomed.
Seventeen. Smiling.
The one in the center was broad-shouldered, red-haired, square-jawed. His eyes were gold—cruel, gleaming with amusement.
He wore his uniform open at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Black tattoos of burning blades spiraled across his forearms.
Gareth.
The leader. Always the leader.
To his right stood a lanky boy with a thin face and nervous, darting eyes. On his left, a heavier-set boy cracked his knuckles with slow, practiced delight.
Gareth looked down at Lan and clicked his tongue. "Why don't you ever learn? You're in this academy with a joke of a mana core, and you still haven't figured out when to shut up."
He wasn't wrong.
Lan was nothing here. Less than nothing. And Gareth wasn't the only one who reminded him of that—but he was the one who enjoyed it the most.
"I... I'm sorry... please... I won't... again..."
Lan tried to speak. Tried to form words through the pulped mess of his jaw. Each syllable was molten pain—but still, he begged.
A crowd was forming.
"I can't hear you," Gareth said, head tilted. "Speak up."
"I... said... I'm sorry."
Lan again. Weaker. Blood dripping from his chin.
Gareth glanced at his companions. "Did you catch that?"
"Not a word," the lanky one muttered. The other shrugged.
Gareth stepped forward. "Speak up, Lan."
"I said... I won't... do... again..."
"Oh, you won't?" Gareth echoed.
And then his boot arced out—slamming into Lan's face.
The world spun.
Lan let out a soundless cry, breath leaving him in a ragged gasp as his body crumpled.
"Don't worry," Gareth said. "I'll make sure you won't."
He nodded once. "Hold him up."
The two boys grabbed Lan and dragged him upright. His legs barely responded. Blood soaked the front of his uniform. His arms hung like rope.
"Aren't they going too far this time?" someone whispered.
"It's his fault. He's weak," another replied.
Gareth cracked his knuckles. Rain began to fall.
The first punch was to the gut—hard, sharp, and deep. Lan convulsed, blood spurting from his lips.
An elbow smashed into his ribs. Something gave with a sickening snap.
Kicks landed next. Legs. Side. Back. A blur of pain. The lanky one wasn't strong, but it still hurt.
Gareth took his time. He grabbed Lan's head and slammed it against a stone pillar, then began punching his jaw and temple—methodical, like he was shaping clay.
The world blurred. Blood ran into Lan's eyes. His ears rang. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe.
And still, the rain fell. Harder now. A downpour.
Thunder cracked in the distance. The boys didn't stop.
Lan collapsed when they finally let go, his body folding into the rising puddle. The sky above wept.
He didn't move. Couldn't.
'Is the sky crying for me?'
He lay on the cold stone, eyes fluttering open. The clouds twisted above, bleeding stormlight. Rain stung his skin like needles.
'Is this... how I die?'
Maybe. It wouldn't be surprising. Not with how things had gone. He was bound to die in an alley. Or on a battlefield. Or in the jaws of a mana beast.
The weak die.
There was no way around it.
And Lan was weak. The weakest.
His mana core was barely active. Not once had he cast a proper spell. He only got into the academy because of his high knowledge of magic—the dean had been impressed enough to offer a chance.
That chance had become a curse.
Every day had been worse than the last.
Maybe it was better to just... let go.
No more pain.
No more—
"No."
The word slipped from his lips. Barely audible. More blood than voice.
"No..." he muttered again, louder. Angrier. "I won't die... not until I make you bastards pay... not until I'm the strongest!"
His scream tore from a broken jaw—a defiant cry soaked in agony and rage.
It wasn't heroic.
It was pathetic.
It was painful.
But it was his.
A spark.
Not just pain.
Resolve.
Foolish? Utterly.
But that didn't make it any less real.
And in that moment—
The air shifted, something appeared.
---
[Forbidden Arts Synchronization Complete]
[Time Taken: 16 years, 10 months, 15 days]
[Memory Synchronization Has Begun]
---
Then came the flood.
A lifetime—not his, yet unmistakably his.
A man who became a God.
Who slaughtered saints and razed nations.
Who stood atop the Seven Martial Realms.
Untouchable. Unbreakable. Unchallenged.
A man who reached the peak of cultivation—and then kept going.
Lan gasped as the memories tore through him, devouring everything else.
Power. Knowledge. Rage. Divinity.
And he finally understood.
The rain wasn't falling for him.
It wasn't grief it offered.
It was warning.
The sky wasn't crying for Lan—
It was crying for the rest of the world.