The three of them returned to the central floor earlier than most.
Zareck sat cross-legged with his back straight, Tiger Claw Fingers resting on his knees. He didn't open it. He had already memorized the diagrams, at least the first sequence.
Around them, more children trickled back from the lower levels, some whispering excitedly, others wearing tight, uncertain expressions. Manuals and scrolls were clutched like lifelines. When the last stragglers finally arrived, the hall settled into a low, expectant hush.
Then the pressure changed.
Zareck felt it before he saw her.
Marrionette Hans stepped into the centre of the library again, her movements lazy, almost irritated, as if the act of walking itself were an inconvenience. She stopped, rolled her shoulders once, and let out a long, exaggerated sigh.
Several children stiffened.
"Alright," she said flatly.
A few instructors exchanged glances.
"You have five minutes," Marrionette continued, eyes sweeping the crowd without interest, "to learn the basics of the technique you chose."
Five minutes.
Zareck's eye twitched.
"After that," she went on, "you'll all fight."
The room stirred, confusion rippling outward.
"All at once," she added. "No brackets. No pairs. Everyone."
A beat of silence followed.
Then—
"If your technique uses a weapon," Marrionette said, already sounding done with the explanation, "come get one."
She reached into the wide sleeve of her robe and pulled out a narrow sash, no longer than her forearm.
She turned it upside down.
Metal clanged against stone.
Then again.
And again.
Swords. Spears. Sabers. Axes. Heavy poles. All blunt and without edge. Practice weapons piled onto the floor in an ever-growing heap, each far too large to have fit inside the sash by any reasonable measure.
Gasps echoed through the hall.
Even the instructors stared openly now. One elder's mouth hung slightly ajar.
The pile finally stopped growing. Marrionette shook the empty sash once, glanced at it as if mildly disappointed, and tucked it back up her sleeve.
That was when Elder Grigs moved.
He floated down from his elevated position, robes snapping faintly with agitation, and landed directly in front of her.
"What," he demanded, voice sharp and utterly unconcerned with decorum, "do you think you are doing?"
Marrionette looked at him.
Really looked.
Her gaze was dry, flat, unimpressed.
"I'm conducting combat orientation," she said.
"This is reckless," Grigs snapped. "These are children. Five minutes to grasp unfamiliar techniques, then a free-for-all? You'll cripple half of them."
Marrionette tilted her head slightly. "No."
Grigs' eyes flashed. "You—"
"Freidak told me," she interrupted calmly, "to lead the combat orientation for my nephew and his generation."
The name fell like a weight.
The air shifted.
Grigs stiffened.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, slowly, visibly, Elder Grigs drew himself back, his expression tightening as if he'd bitten into something sour. The authority drained from his posture, replaced by something closer to restraint.
Though he no doubt looked both reluctant and bitter.
"…Very well," he said at last, voice clipped. "But you'd best make sure none of the good ones are harmed."
His eyes flicked, briefly, toward Malichi and a select other few.
"Because if they are," Grigs continued, glaring at Marrionette, "that will be on you."
Marrionette didn't even blink.
"Relax," she said. "If they break that easily, they were never good."
Grigs said nothing more.
He rose back into the air, face tight with humiliation.
Marrionette turned back to the children.
"Five minutes," she repeated. "Start now."
Malichi let out a short, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"…Yeah," he said, half-grimacing. "That's my aunty for you."
Neither Zareck nor Will responded. There wasn't really anything to say.
Malichi stepped away, carving out a small pocket of space for himself among the other disciples. His usual confidence drained as he unrolled his scroll, eyes narrowing, posture tightening. Swift Root Mirage, he attacked it with total focus, lips moving faintly as he traced lines of text and diagrams.
Will lingered close to Zareck, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. But he, too, quickly withdrew into himself, attention locked fully onto his own manual. His brow furrowed, jaw set, spiritual energy beginning to gather sporadically around him as he tried to follow the instructions of Stone Pulse Body.
Zareck finally opened his combat manual again.
Tiger Claw Fingers.
He scanned the diagrams once more, but his eyes slid across them without effort. The finger positions, the tension points, it all felt already done, as if his body had accepted it the moment he first skimmed the pages.
He was surprised really. He looked to have incredible comprehension ability. At least compared to every other thirteen-year-old here.
Five minutes wasn't much time, but standing idle felt wrong.
His gaze kept drifting back to one particular section.
Gather a slight excess of spiritual energy into the fingers.
Slight.
The word nagged at him.
A thought surfaced.
Then another.
And then, before he could stop it, a crazy one.
What if I don't keep a cap on it?
Even at thirteen, with only days of real cultivation experience, Zareck knew better. You didn't alter combat techniques on a whim. Manuals and scrolls were refined over generations, tested through blood and failure. Changing even small parameters often resulted in instability at best, and permanent damage at worst.
He knew the risks.
Yet his eyes kept drifting back to that line.
Excess spiritual energy.
His mind drew the comparison before he consciously allowed it.
Thy Image of Zenith.
The ethos was the same.
Gather beyond comfort. Push past the natural limit. Force the body and mind to adapt instead of retreat.
The technique warned against excess for stability's sake.
But the forbidden cultivation manual had thrived on excess.
Zareck's heartbeat quickened slightly.
He wasn't changing the finger movements. He wasn't altering the circulation path. He was only… reconsidering the amount.
Logic whispered to him, cool and dangerous.
If the structure remains the same, and only the load changes?
His body was already abnormal. Denser. Hardened through pain that would have broken others. His mind had endured strain far beyond a typical Body Forging cultivator's limits.
If anyone could handle the backlash—
It would be him.
His fingers curled unconsciously.
Pain didn't scare him.
Failure didn't either.
But before the thought could root any deeper—
Clap.
The sharp sound echoed through the hall.
Every head snapped up.
Marrionette stood at the center once more, hands already lowering, her expression bored and utterly indifferent.
"Time's up," she said.
Zareck slowly exhaled.
His fingers relaxed.
The thought retreated, but it did not vanish.
It lingered.
Waiting.