Azrael left the main building with James and Sara, eager to see the official results. The central plaza was packed with students who, like them, were struggling to get close to the large scrolls displaying the list of ranks obtained after the initial evaluations.
"Ahhhh, there are so many people!" the three friends exclaimed almost in unison, straining to carve a path through the gaps in the crowd, feeling the push and bustle all around them.
After several minutes of jostling, they managed to reach the front.
"We finally made it!" the three friends said with relief, rubbing their sore shoulders.
With their eyes quickly scanning the lists, Sara was the first to find her name. She had obtained a C-rank with 2 stars, a very respectable result. The second to locate his was James, who smiled upon seeing he was classified as C-rank with 1 star. The last one, whose name seemed to be hiding, was Azrael. After a moment of frantic searching, he found it: Rank F, 1 star.
At that moment, Azrael's blood ran cold. A deep disappointment flooded him; he had never imagined ending up with such a low classification. Meanwhile, Sara and James were congratulating each other, happy to have obtained a middle rank from the start.
"Don't worry, Azrael," Sara said in an encouraging tone, "this is just the beginning. With time and training, you'll improve."
James nodded, patting his friend's shoulder. "She's right. Everyone starts somewhere."
Azrael, with a lump in his throat, forced a weak, fake smile.
"Yeah… you're right. With time and a lot of effort, I'll become even more powerful."
He paused, looking toward the training field.
"Well, guys, I… I'm going to go train for a bit. See ya!"
Without waiting for a response, he turned around. Disappointment and shame were suffocating him. With a knot tightening his throat, he couldn't bear the burden of having failed expectations, neither his own nor the ones he imagined from others. Seeking a moment of solitude, he locked himself in the most remote bathrooms.
He didn't cry; he just stood there, staring vacantly at the wall in front of him, while a torrent of dark thoughts invaded his mind:
'Why? Why me? Why am I so useless? I'm good for nothing, I am nothing. My parents sold everything, bet on me… and they have faith in a useless fool who's good for nothing.'
Suddenly, he punched the cubicle door and stepped brusquely out into the empty hallway.
"No. No, no, no, no," he murmured to himself, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white. 'I am not going to fall behind. I can't disappoint anyone. I have to be better. No matter what I have to do, no matter how much I have to suffer… I will make it!'
Heading straight to the empty training field, Azrael drew his practice sword with grim determination. He began to practice, repeating the basic movements over and over, then more complex combinations. The world around him ceased to exist; he focused only on the edge of his weapon, the position of his feet, the angle of each slash. He completely ignored his own limits: the sharp pain screaming from every muscle, the skin on his hands splitting and bleeding from chafing against the grip, the cold sweat falling in thick drops forming a small puddle at his feet, and the sting of his eyes, red and irritated from not blinking in his fierce concentration.
Azrael had been going for five hours straight, not stopping for a second to drink water or rest. It was in this state of self-destructive trance that Dario, his instructor, passed by the field at dusk. He observed him from a distance, arms crossed and brow furrowed. The boy's intensity, though admirable, bordered on recklessness.
He walked toward him with a firm step.
"Hey, Azrael," he called in a calm but firm voice. "What happened? This isn't training, it's slaughter."
Azrael, immersed in his world of repetition and effort, didn't even turn his head. He didn't respond.
Dario sighed. He knew words wouldn't be enough. With a quick and precise movement, calculated to cause no permanent harm, he applied a soft but effective strike to a pressure point on Azrael's nape. The boy collapsed instantly, his consciousness clouded. Dario picked him up carefully and carried him in his arms directly to the academy's infirmary.
Dawn light filtered through the window when Azrael came to. Upon waking, a strange and terrifying sensation invaded him: his body wouldn't respond. He tried to move a finger, an arm, turn his head… Nothing. He could only blink and move his eyes. He saw his bandaged hands lying inert on the sheets. He saw the nurse on duty, a middle-aged woman with deep purple bags under her eyes, moving slowly around the room while collecting vials. Clearly, she had spent hours striving to heal him. Azrael, confused and scared, couldn't reconstruct the events.
In that moment of disorientation, he heard the sound of hurried, familiar footsteps in the hallway. The door to the room swung open abruptly. The first to enter, their faces full of worry, were James and Sara, who rushed to the bed to hug him gently, aware of his condition. Behind them, entering calmly but with a grave expression, was Instructor Dario. He found an empty chair by the window, pulled it to the head of the bed, and sat down, staring intently at Azrael.
"Uhhh, Instructor, sir…" Azrael managed to articulate in a hoarse, weak voice. "What… what happened? I don't understand. What am I doing here? Why… why can't I move?"