Cain woke before the bell.
There was no abruptness to it—no lingering disorientation or rush of thought. Awareness returned quietly, settling into place as pale morning light filtered through the narrow window of his room. The academy remained still in that brief interval before routine asserted itself.
He lay unmoving for a moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
The memory surfaced without effort.
Not the room.
Not the corridor beyond the door.
The window.
Cain raised a hand slightly and spoke in a low voice.
"Status Window."
Light unfolded in the air above him.
---
[ Status Window ]
Name : Cain Arkwright
Rank : C
Level : 1
HP : 100 / 100
MP : 120 / 120
Attributes
Strength : 12 / 20
Agility : 14 / 20
Mana Capacity : 13 / 20
Control : 15 / 20
Elemental Attributes
Fire
Wind
Skills
— None —
???
[ Access Restricted ]
---
The display was unchanged.
His vitals were full. Mana reserves steady. No fluctuation in the numbers, no distortion in the layout. It reflected his condition with the same indifferent precision as the night before.
Cain's gaze moved over it once—no more.
At the bottom, the same entry remained.
Three symbols. No label. No explanation.
He dismissed the window. The light folded away, leaving the room exactly as it had been.
If the system did not move, neither would he.
Cain rose, dressed, and stepped into the corridor as other doors opened in sequence. Students emerged in small groups, conversation low and ordinary. No one spoke of curses. No one spoke of anomalies. Whatever tension lingered beneath the academy's foundations had not reached the surface.
The bell rang.
Swordsmanship resumed as scheduled.
The training hall was already half full when Cain arrived. Wooden racks lined the walls, practice blades arranged with methodical symmetry. The stone floor bore faint traces of prior sessions—marks already dulled by routine maintenance.
Instructor **Halden** entered without announcement.
"Pairs," he said.
The class moved immediately.
Cain selected a wooden sword and stepped onto the floor. Its weight was familiar. Balanced. He tested the grip once, then faced his assigned partner—a student from Class 1B, cautious and technically sound.
They nodded.
"Begin."
The first exchange was exploratory. Light contact. Measured distance. Cain let the rhythm establish itself before committing to movement. His opponent tested angles rather than power, probing for reaction rather than advantage.
Cain adjusted his footing, sliding half a step to the side. The motion was reinforced with a thin layer of mana—just enough to sharpen the transition.
The response came a fraction late.
Not failure.
Not resistance.
A delay.
Cain compensated instinctively, tightening the follow-through and redirecting the strike without breaking flow. The correction was subtle enough that his opponent never noticed. The exchange continued uninterrupted.
They traded positions. Cain observed everything: breathing cadence, foot placement, the hesitation that preceded each committed strike. When he pressed, it was controlled. When he yielded, it was deliberate.
A second reinforcement—this time to stabilize a pivot.
Normal response.
The delay did not repeat.
The bout ended cleanly. Cain disengaged and stepped back, posture neutral. No comment followed. Instructor Halden had already moved on.
As the session wound down, Halden raised a hand.
"Cooldown."
Students spread out across the hall, some sitting, others standing as they loosened their grips and rolled their shoulders. The sharp edge of combat bled away, replaced by measured breathing and controlled circulation.
Cain lowered himself to one knee and began regulating his mana.
The process was simple. Inhale. Circulate. Disperse excess. Let the body settle. His HP remained full, the bar unmoved—but he could feel the difference between numbers and condition. Muscles carried faint tension. Breath needed regulation.
Around him, other students compared quietly.
"I barely took a hit and my HP dropped fast."
"My MP's already half gone—how?"
"Control matters more than capacity, I think…"
Cain listened without reacting. Numbers explained state, not readiness. The system could measure damage, but it could not measure discipline.
Near the edge of the hall, a training rune pulsed as another group finished their cooldown. For an instant, its glow dipped—barely perceptible—before stabilizing again.
Instructor Halden glanced toward it.
He paused.
Only for a breath.
Then he turned away, offering a quiet correction to a student's posture instead.
Variance.
Nothing worth halting training over.
The shadow near the wall stirred.
Cain's familiar had partially manifested, its form thin against the stone. Its eyes were open, tracking the room with silent attention. It did not approach him. It did not withdraw.
It simply watched.
Cain did not acknowledge it.
The session concluded without incident. Students dispersed in small groups, conversation gradually returning to mundane concerns.
Rei fell into step beside him as they left the hall.
"You notice it?" Rei asked casually.
Cain glanced sideways. "Notice what?"
Rei rolled his shoulders. "The numbers. Everyone's obsessed already." He laughed softly. "Half the class thinks higher HP means they're harder to beat."
"It doesn't," Cain said.
"Yeah, I figured." Rei exhaled. "My MP tanked faster than I expected. Control really does make a difference."
"It does."
Rei studied him briefly. "You barely checked yours."
"I already know what it says."
Rei snorted. "Must be nice."
They walked in silence for a short while, footsteps echoing through the corridor as bells signaled the next period. Students flowed around them, voices overlapping—comparisons, speculation, minor disappointments.
Normal.
Cain continued alone.
The air felt light. Mana responded cleanly again, obedient to intent.
And yet, beneath it all, the same awareness lingered.
Contained.
Unresolved.
Far below the academy's foundations, seals held.
For now.
---