Kai woke with a sharp inhale, as though he had been drowning.
His eyes flew open, staring at the ceiling, breath uneven, chest rising too fast, too loud. For several seconds, he did not move. He did not blink. He simply lay there, listening—to his heartbeat, to the quiet of the room, to the silence that felt heavier than noise.
"…I'm awake," he whispered.
well that means i slept back and wasn't takenThe words sounded fragile.
His hand rose slowly, trembling slightly as he pressed it against his chest. His heart was still racing, still pounding like it was trying to escape him, but there was no pain. No burning sigils. No chains.
Just a lingering pressure.
Like something had settled deep inside him and decided to stay.
Kai turned his head.
The room looked the same. Bed. Desk. Chair. Bag leaning against the wall. Early morning light slipping through the curtains.
Normal.
And yet—
"…Why does it feel like I left something behind?" he murmured.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. His fingers came away dry. No blood. No crimson glow beneath his skin.
That should have been comforting.
Instead, it made his stomach twist.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his movements stiff, cautious, like he was afraid the world might crack if he moved too quickly. His feet touched the floor, cold against his skin.
"I'm fine," he told the empty room. "It was just a dream."
The silence did not argue.
The shower steamed the small washroom, fogging the mirror until Kai could barely see his own reflection. He stood under the spray, head bowed, water running through his hair and down his face.
He stayed there longer than usual.
Too long.
The warmth should have relaxed him. Instead, it reminded him of something else—heat without flame, pressure without force, a presence that did not push or pull but simply was.
Kai braced his hands against the tiled wall.
"…They were kneeling," he whispered.
The water hit his back harder, as if answering.
"Kings," he continued, voice barely audible. "Creatures that shouldn't even exist. They all—"
He stopped himself.
"Stop," he muttered. "You're awake. You're here. That's enough."
But even as he said it, another thought followed, uninvited.
If it was only a dream… why does it feel like something noticed me?
Kai shut the water off abruptly.
The silence that followed rang louder than the spray ever had.
He dried off, dressed, and left the room without once looking back at the fogged mirror.
The academy grounds were already busy when Kai stepped outside. Students walked past in groups, talking, laughing, complaining about early classes or bragging about last night's training.
Kai walked among them like a ghost.
His stomach felt tight, but not painfully so. It was an empty, hollow sensation—one he registered distantly, as though it belonged to someone else.
He reached the path that led toward the dining hall.
Slowed.
Then stopped.
He stood there for several seconds, staring at the entrance.
"…I should eat," he said quietly.
The thought felt distant. Optional.
He frowned.
Why does it feel optional?
Kai turned away.
It wasn't until he was nearly at the classroom building that the ache sharpened.
His stomach clenched suddenly, sharp enough to make him slow his steps.
"…Ah," he breathed. "So you do care."
He placed a hand against his abdomen, half amused, half irritated.
"Did I skip breakfast on purpose?" he asked himself.
He replayed the morning in his head. Waking up. The shower. Getting dressed. Leaving.
No decision.
No urgency.
Just… absence.
Kai let out a short, humorless laugh.
"So what," he muttered, "I just forgot to eat?"
He took another step, then stopped again.
"What the hell am I even doing," he said under his breath, frustration creeping into his voice, "going to class on an empty stomach?"
"Now is not the time for that, boy."
Kai froze.
The voice was calm. Sharp. Too close.
He looked up.
The survival class instructor stood a few steps ahead, tall and straight-backed, arms folded loosely across his chest. His eyes were keen, measuring Kai in a way that made him feel exposed.
"I—sorry, sir," Kai said quickly.
The teacher's gaze did not soften.
"When it is time to eat, you eat," the man said. "When it is time to train, you train. You don't improvise your needs based on mood."
Kai swallowed. "I didn't mean to—"
"That's worse," the teacher cut in. "Neglect disguised as accident."
A few students nearby slowed, listening.
The teacher stepped closer, lowering his voice—not kindly, but firmly.
"Survival isn't about pushing yourself until you collapse," he continued. "It's about maintaining awareness. You ignore your body, and it will betray you when it matters."
Kai nodded. "Yes, sir."
The man's eyes lingered on him.
"And don't try to be different for the sake of it," he added. "Hunger is not discipline. Carelessness is not resolve."
Kai's jaw tightened. "Understood."
The instructor straightened.
"When it's time for that training you're waiting for," he said coolly, "you'll be notified. Until then, do what you're told."
He turned away.
Kai stood there, heat creeping up his neck.
"…I wasn't trying to be different," he muttered quietly.
But even as he said it, he wasn't sure he believed himself.
Survival class began.
The instructor paced slowly in front of the class, boots striking the stone floor with measured weight. He did not raise his voice. He didn't need to. Silence followed him naturally, like a trained reflex.
"Survival," he said, stopping at the center, "is not about bravery. It is not about talent. And it is certainly not about power."
He turned, eyes scanning the rows.
"It is about usefulness."
A few students straightened unconsciously.
"Everything in the field has value," the teacher continued. "The mistake most novices make is assuming value must be obvious."
He reached down and picked up a dull, gray shard from the desk beside him.
"Tell me," he said, holding it up. "What is this?"
A pause.
Then a student near the front spoke. "Stone, sir."
The instructor nodded once. "Incorrect."
The student stiffened.
"This," the teacher said calmly, "is a wind-splitter shard. It forms near high-altitude ravines after prolonged mana erosion."
He turned slightly. "Uses?"
A hand shot up. "Weapon edge reinforcement?"
"Correct," the teacher said. "One."
He turned to another student. "You."
The student hesitated. "It… absorbs directional force? So it can be used to stabilize structures?"
The teacher nodded. "Two."
He set the shard down.
"Same material," he said. "Different purposes. Its value does not change. Your understanding does."
Kai watched silently.
His stomach tightened—not from hunger, but from the way the teacher spoke. Every word felt deliberate. Weighted.
The instructor reached for another item—this one wrapped in dark cloth. He unwrapped it slowly, revealing a pale, brittle fang etched with faint markings.
"Now," he said, "this comes from a Gravehowl Beast."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the class.
"Single purpose," the teacher said flatly. "Anyone?"
A student toward the back answered. "Ritual catalyst, sir."
"Yes," the instructor replied. "And nothing else."
He tapped the fang lightly against the desk.
"It cannot be reforged. It cannot be repurposed. Attempting to do so results in mana backlash—or death."
He looked around.
"Survival means knowing when versatility matters," he said, "and when restraint does."
Kai felt the words settle uncomfortably deep.
Single purpose…
Multiple purposes…
His mind betrayed him, drawing parallels he didn't want.
The teacher moved on.
"A beast's corpse," he continued, "is not just meat. Bone can become armor. Blood can become poison, ink, or binding medium. Hide can be insulation, camouflage, or warding."
He stopped suddenly and pointed.
"You. Name a beast whose blood has more than three known uses."
The student swallowed. "The Ashveil Serpent, sir."
"List them."
"Corrosive agent, anti-magic suppressant, and—uh—used in heat-resistant dye?"
The teacher nodded. "Acceptable."
He turned away without praise.
Another student raised a hand. "Sir, what about beasts whose remains have no use?"
The teacher paused.
"That," he said, "is a dangerous question."
The room grew still.
"There is no such thing as useless," he continued. "Only things you do not understand yet—or things you are not meant to use."
His gaze drifted across the class.
Not stopping on Kai.
Not avoiding him either.
Just… passing.
Kai lowered his eyes.
The instructor gestured toward a diagram on the board—a rough sketch of terrain, beasts, and scattered resources.
"Scenario," he said. "You are stranded in a mana-poor region. Hostile fauna. Limited supplies."
He pointed to a student. "What do you prioritize?"
"Shelter."
Another student. "Water."
Another. "Threat elimination."
The teacher nodded at each response.
"All correct," he said. "But incomplete."
He turned slightly. "Survival is not choosing one. It is ordering them correctly."
A hand rose. "Sir, what if your body fails before you can act?"
The teacher's eyes sharpened.
"Then," he said evenly, "you failed long before the situation began."
Kai stiffened at that.
The teacher continued speaking, moving from example to example, asking questions, correcting misconceptions, explaining quietly brutal truths about the field.
He never called on Kai.
Not once.
Not obviously.
But Kai noticed.
Every time the teacher's eyes passed over him, it felt like standing just outside a closed door—close enough to hear what was inside, but never invited in.
Halfway through the class, Kai realized something else.
The instructor wasn't just teaching survival.
He was evaluating.
Not strength.
Not magic.
Awareness.
Discipline.
Readiness.
Kai's fingers curled slightly against the desk.
Is that why you're here today? he wondered. Or am I just imagining it?
The bell rang not long after.
Too suddenly.
Too mercifully.