Cyron didn't make it out of Court Two.
Not properly.
The moment Angelica Voss disappeared beyond the doors, the noise came rushing back—whispers, stares, questions he couldn't answer. Every step felt heavier, like the academy itself had shifted around him.
He lost.
That part didn't bother him.
What bothered him… was what almost happened.
A Card Subjugation Ritual.
Not rumor. Not theory.
Real.
And it failed.
That should've been impossible.
Which meant one thing:
He was no longer invisible.
"Cyron Vale."
The voice cut clean through the noise.
Instructor Kaelis stood at the entrance, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Office. Now."
No one spoke as he passed.
They didn't need to.
The way they looked at him said enough.
Kaelis' Office
The door sealed behind him with a soft hiss.
Cyron stood still, waiting.
Kaelis didn't speak immediately. She walked to her desk, tapped something on her tablet, then turned.
"You lasted longer than expected."
Cyron blinked. "…That's it?"
"You lost."
"…Yeah."
"You didn't die."
He frowned. "That's… a low bar."
"In this academy?" she said flatly. "No."
Silence settled.
Then—
"You resisted a Subjugation Ritual."
Cyron's chest tightened.
"I don't know what you mean."
Kaelis held his gaze.
Long.
Uncomfortable.
Then she exhaled lightly.
"…Of course you don't."
She turned away, tapping her tablet again.
"Your file's been updated. You'll remain in E-Class."
Cyron frowned. "After all that?"
"Yes."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It does," she said calmly. "If we assume you're weak."
Cyron went quiet.
Kaelis glanced at him.
"…Which is exactly what you want."
Not a question.
Cyron didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
Another silence.
Then she spoke again.
"Leave."
Cyron blinked. "That's it?"
"For now."
Something about the way she said it made his stomach tighten.
He nodded and turned—
"Be careful, Cyron."
He paused.
"That ritual wasn't standard procedure," Kaelis added. "Angelica Voss doesn't act without reason."
Cyron didn't look back.
"…Yeah. I figured."
He left.
Lower Training Sector – Restricted Wing
He didn't remember deciding to go there.
Maybe his feet just moved.
Maybe something else pulled him.
The lower levels of Ebonreach were different—quieter, dimmer, less maintained. Fewer students. Fewer eyes.
Perfect.
Cyron stopped in an empty training chamber, breathing out slowly.
"Okay…" he muttered. "We need to talk."
Silence.
"…Don't ignore me."
Still nothing.
Cyron clenched his fists. "You nearly let her take you."
A pause.
Then—
"Incorrect."
The voice echoed softly.
"She attempted to take me."
Cyron exhaled sharply. "Same thing."
"Not even close."
The mark on his arm pulsed faintly.
"You felt it, didn't you?"
Cyron didn't answer.
Because he had.
That moment—
When the ritual failed.
It wasn't resistance.
It was rejection.
"You said you chose me," Cyron said quietly. "Why?"
Silence stretched.
Longer this time.
Then—
Footsteps.
Not his.
Not imagined.
Real.
Cyron turned instantly.
A man stood at the far end of the chamber.
Tall. Lean. Dressed in a dark coat that didn't match the academy uniform. His hair was tied loosely, and his eyes—
Sharp.
Too sharp.
Like they'd seen too much and forgotten nothing.
"You ask dangerous questions for someone still breathing," the man said.
Cyron stepped back. "Who are you?"
The man didn't answer right away.
Instead, his gaze dropped to Cyron's arm.
The mark.
For a moment—
The air shifted.
Not violently.
But noticeably.
Like something recognized something else.
"…So it's true," the man murmured.
Cyron's pulse spiked. "What is?"
The man looked back up.
"God-rarity."
The word landed heavy.
Cyron froze.
"…You're wrong."
The man smiled faintly.
"Am I?"
Before Cyron could react—
The man raised his hand.
Darkness flickered across the floor.
Not shadows.
Something thicker.
Heavier.
Alive.
It moved toward Cyron—
fast.
Cyron stumbled back. "What are you—?!"
The darkness stopped just short of him.
Hovered.
Waiting.
"Relax," the man said. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be standing."
That… didn't help.
"Who are you?" Cyron repeated.
The man stepped forward.
"Aniel Thorn."
The name meant nothing to Cyron.
But something inside him reacted.
Not fear.
Recognition.
From something that wasn't him.
"…Ah."
Bygon Blood.
Awake.
Interested.
Aniel's eyes narrowed slightly.
"…So it recognizes me."
Cyron's breath caught. "You can—hear it?"
"Not hear," Aniel said. "Feel."
He stopped a few steps away.
"Blood and shadow don't lie, Cyron."
Cyron stiffened. "You know my name."
"I know a lot of things."
The darkness around Aniel's feet shifted again, coiling like living ink.
Controlled.
Perfectly.
"More importantly," he continued, "I know what happens to people like you."
Cyron swallowed. "People like me?"
"Ones who think they can hide a God."
Silence.
Then—
"…I am hiding it."
Aniel tilted his head slightly.
"No," he said. "You're suppressing it."
A beat.
"And you're failing."
Cyron clenched his jaw. "Then why aren't I dead? Or locked up?"
"Timing," Aniel replied simply. "Luck."
His gaze sharpened.
"And me."
Cyron frowned. "What does that mean?"
Aniel didn't answer directly.
Instead, he gestured lightly.
The darkness on the floor rose—forming a thin blade, hovering in the air.
"Control," he said. "That's what you're missing."
Cyron glanced at the blade. "…Yeah. No kidding."
"Power without control gets you killed," Aniel continued. "Or worse—taken."
Cyron's mind flashed back to Angelica's hand gripping his arm.
The ritual.
The pull.
He looked down at his mark.
"…So what? You're here to lecture me?"
Aniel shook his head.
"No."
The blade dissolved into shadow.
"I'm here to train you."
Cyron blinked. "Why?"
A pause.
Then—
"Because if you don't learn control," Aniel said quietly, "the next person who tries to take that power…"
His eyes met Cyron's.
"…will succeed."
Silence settled between them.
Heavy.
Real.
Cyron exhaled slowly.
"…And what do you get out of it?"
Aniel's expression didn't change.
"Survival," he said.
Cyron frowned. "Yours or mine?"
A faint smile.
"Both."
Another pause.
Then Aniel stepped back, gesturing toward the empty chamber.
"Show me your control."
Cyron hesitated.
"…You serious?"
"Yes."
"I could destroy this place."
"Then don't."
Simple.
Too simple.
Cyron stared at him.
Then—slowly—raised his arm.
The mark pulsed.
Faint at first.
Then stronger.
Inside his mind—
The voice stirred.
"You trust him?"
Cyron didn't answer.
Not out loud.
But his hand steadied.
"…No," he whispered.
A breath.
"…But I don't have a choice."
The crimson energy flickered to life.
Not exploding.
Not raging.
Just… present.
For the first time—
It didn't feel like it was about to tear everything apart.
Aniel watched closely.
Not impressed.
Not surprised.
Just… observing.
"…Good," he said quietly.
The shadows around him shifted slightly.
Responding.
"Then let's begin."
Inside Cyron's mind—
Bygon Blood whispered.
Soft.
Amused.
"This might be entertaining after all."