A few hours had ticked by since Nova's heart-to-heart with Freya, the weight of her pregnancy still buzzing in his head like a shot of cheap whiskey. He stood in his dingy apartment, readying for his first training session at the Guild of America, his Circle of Pillars sigil itching like a fresh tattoo on his right hand.
The golden circles, still bare of pillars, pulsed faintly, as if mocking his unawakened state. Marcus had tossed him a bundle of clothes, claiming they'd suit his vibe, and Nova now eyed them with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
He unfolded the outfit: a sleek black jacket, its leather worn but sturdy, with crimson stitching that screamed trouble in all the right ways. The pants matched, dark and fitted, with subtle red accents that caught the light like embers.
A pair of heavy boots, scuffed but solid, completed the set, their soles etched with faint runes for grip. A gray shirt, soft but snug, hugged his lean frame, its collar sharp enough to cut through the guild's chaos.
Nova snorted, holding up the jacket like it was evidence in a crime. This is supposed to match me? he thought, his crimson eyes narrowing. "No way this flashy shit's my style," he muttered, tossing it onto the bed.
The colors, the edge, it was too perfect, too much like the God of Destruction he'd left behind in High Heaven. He wasn't that guy anymore, just a mortal punk with no pillars, no power.
Still, he pulled on the shirt, the fabric cool against his skin, and zipped up the jacket, its weight settling like a challenge. The pants fit like they were made for him, and the boots gave his steps a satisfying thud.
He caught his reflection in a cracked mirror: the outfit screamed reckless, dangerous, a little too cool for this rundown apartment. Marcus, you smug bastard, he thought, shaking his head. "This ain't me," he grumbled, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him—it fit like a glove, and he damn well knew it.
Nova shoved open the apartment's creaky door, the gritty August air hitting him like a slap. His new outfit, black leather jacket with crimson stitching, snug gray shirt, dark pants, and rune-etched boots, felt too damn sharp for this rundown city, but he wore it like armor.
He strutted down the street, his golden circles itching on his hand, still bare of pillars, a constant jab at his unawakened ass. Five minutes later, he reached the Guild of America, its red-lettered sign looming like a challenge.
Watching that bastard complain about me being five minutes late. I can beat my divinity on it. He thought with a smug.
Inside, the atrium buzzed with the usual chaos: mages tossing sparks, adventurers haggling over bounties, and clerks barking orders over glowing tablets. Marcus leaned against a pillar,his grizzled face set in a scowl.
Adam, the scrawny kid with glasses, hovered behind him, looking like a spooked alley cat. Nova was five minutes late, and Marcus's glare said he'd noticed every damn second.
Nova sauntered over, hands jammed in his pockets, moving like some cartel kingpin owning the block. His crimson eyes glinted with cocky defiance, but Adam shrank further, his shoulders hunched, glasses slipping as he dodged the crowd's stares.
Marcus straightened, his voice cutting through the guild's din like a blade: "Nice of you to fucking show up, Chosen Child," he growled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Thought you'd sleep through your first damn day."
Nova smirked, unfazed. "Had to make an entrance, Marcus. Can't all be punctual like Glasses here." He jerked his thumb at Adam, who flinched, muttering something incoherent.
Marcus's scowl deepened, but a glint of amusement flickered in his eyes, like he secretly enjoyed Nova's bullshit.
"You're lucky I don't kick your ass for wasting my time," Marcus snapped, jabbing a finger at Nova's chest. "You and Glasses, upstairs, now. I'm training you myself, and you better not fuck it up." He turned, his boots clacking on the polished floor, and led them toward a sleek staircase, its runes pulsing like a heartbeat.
Adam scurried after, his sneakers squeaking, while Nova followed, his swagger masking the nervous thrill in his gut.
They climbed to the third floor, entering a training hall that reeked of sweat and scorched metal. The room was a brutalist box: gray walls scarred from years of magical beatdowns, a floor pitted with cracks, and a ceiling rigged with holographic sensors tracking every move.
Dummies lined one wall, some charred, others split open like overripe fruit. A rack of blunt weapons—staffs, batons, and padded blades—stood in a corner, their surfaces worn but sturdy. The air crackled with residual magic, a gritty tang that made Nova's circles itch harder.
Marcus cracked his knuckles, his D-rank sigil glowing faintly as he faced them. "Alright, you little shits," he said, his voice rough as gravel. "This ain't a game. You're unawakened, so we're starting with the basics: hand-to-hand, no magic, just pain. Show me you've got something besides big mouths." He tossed Nova a padded baton, its weight solid, and handed Adam a lighter staff, the kid's hands shaking as he gripped it.
Nova twirled the baton, his grin sharp. This is my wheelhouse, he thought, his divine instincts humming despite his mortal limits. Adam, though, looked ready to bolt, his glasses fogging up as he clutched the staff like a lifeline.
Marcus didn't wait, lunging at Nova with a fist aimed at his jaw. Nova dodged, his body moving on instinct, and countered with a swift baton strike to Marcus's side. The Vice Guild Master blocked it with his forearm, the impact sending a jolt up Nova's arm, blood trickling from a scraped knuckle.
"Too slow, kid!" Marcus barked, pivoting to Adam, who yelped and swung his staff wildly. Marcus sidestepped, grabbing the staff and yanking Adam forward, sending him sprawling. A thin cut on Adam's cheek oozed blood, his glasses askew, but he scrambled up, his eyes flashing with desperate grit. "Fuck, kid, swing like you mean it!" Marcus growled, tossing the staff back.
Nova charged, his baton arcing toward Marcus's shoulder, but the Vice Guild Master was a blur, his evolved speed a D-rank nightmare. He caught Nova's wrist, twisting until blood welled from a strained joint, and shoved him back.
Nova hit the floor, his breath ragged, a bruise blooming on his arm. This guy's a damn beast, he thought, wiping blood from his lip. No pillars, and he's still beating me. Damn it, Marcus.
Adam lunged, his staff shaking but aimed at Marcus's legs. The Vice Guild Master parried with a casual flick, his own baton clipping Adam's shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood.
"You're tougher than you look, Glasses," Marcus said, a grin breaking through his scowl. "Keep it up, or you'll be spitting teeth." Adam nodded, panting, his face pale but stubborn.
The training was a brutal dance, Marcus weaving between them like a storm, his strikes precise but not crippling. Nova took a baton to the ribs, the impact splitting his skin, blood dripping onto the cracked floor.
He countered, landing a glancing blow on Marcus's arm, his knuckles raw and bleeding. Adam, despite his fear, swung harder, his staff grazing Marcus's thigh, leaving a red welt. The kid's cheek bled steadily, but his eyes burned with something new—resolve, maybe, or just raw survival.
Marcus didn't let up, his evolved ability letting him dart between them, his baton a blur. "You think this is bad?" he shouted, dodging Nova's swing. "Wait till you face a Beastaria wolf! Hit harder, you lazy fucks!"
Nova gritted his teeth, his body screaming, blood staining his jacket. I ain't a fucking Beastaria wolf right now, am I Marcus? He thought, his circles burning. Adam stumbled, his staff slipping, but he caught himself, landing a weak hit on Marcus's shin, drawing a grunt.
The hall echoed with grunts and thuds, the holographic sensors flashing red as they tracked the violence. Nova's martial skills, honed by eons, kept him in the fight, but his mortal body was a weak link, bruises spreading like inkblots.
Adam, clumsy but dogged, took a hit to the chest, blood seeping through his shirt, yet he kept swinging, his glasses barely hanging on. Marcus, untouched, moved like a predator, his D-rank prowess a wall they couldn't breach.
After what felt like hours, Nova and Adam collapsed, gasping, their bodies a map of cuts and bruises. Blood dripped from Nova's split lip, pooling on the floor, while Adam's cheek and shoulder oozed, his glasses cracked but intact.
Marcus stood tall, not a drop of sweat on him, his grin wide and infuriating. "Not bad for a couple of unawakened punks," he said, tossing his baton aside. "Meet me here tomorrow, noon sharp, or I'll drag you back myself."
This mortal is gonna be the end of my excitement here in the mortal realm. He thought, but then he smirked, realizing that that this was the reason he came to the mortal realm in the first place. For this type of treatment, where he wasn't the strongest, and wasn't to one-tap anyone and anything. Though I hate to admit it, it do be kinda fun. What the fuck was that English.