The morning air in the Duskwood was heavy, thick with the scent of damp rot and decaying leaves. Kael woke up to find his body stiff from the unforgiving dirt floor, but when he looked down at his arms, he furrowed his brows in complete bewilderment. The gruesome blisters from his second-degree burns had completely dried up, peeling away to reveal fresh, flawless pink skin. He didn't dwell on it, assuming his exhausted body was somehow adapting to the mana, or perhaps the forest itself possessed strange properties.
Across the dark hollow, Lyra watched him silently from beneath half-closed eyelids. Seeing his burns heal with such impossible speed confirmed her theory from the night before. This boy was not just a vessel for destructive power; he was a wellspring of life. I must keep him alive and healthy until I can extract the core, she reminded herself coldly, burying any sense of awe beneath layers of greedy pragmatism.
"We cannot dawdle," Lyra said suddenly, rising with fluid grace and shrugging on her leather jacket. "The blast you caused last night drew the attention of every living and dead thing within a ten-mile radius. The beasts that feared your aura yesterday will return once they sense your weakness. We move now."
Kael stood and brushed the dirt from his trousers, then turned toward Faren. The old man was breathing with extreme difficulty, his face as pale as a corpse, and a cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He tried to stand, but his trembling legs betrayed him, and he collapsed onto his knees, coughing up droplets of viscous black blood.
Kael rushed over immediately, wrapping his arm around his master's waist and hauling Faren's good arm over his own broad shoulder, taking on more than half of the old man's weight.
Lyra looked at them with silver eyes devoid of any pity. "He is slowing us down. If he continues to drain your energy like this, he will die before we even see the Academy walls, and he will take us down with him. Leave him here. Dying in this hollow is far more merciful than being torn apart by ash wolves."
Kael tightened his grip around Faren's waist and shot her a burning, defiant glare. "I told you before: either we make it together, or we don't make it at all. If that bothers you, you can walk away right now and say goodbye to the core you're panting after."
Lyra offered a bitter, mocking smile. His blind stubbornness and loyalty reminded her of things she had tried so hard to forget, but she quickly slipped her usual cold mask back into place. "As you wish, noble blacksmith. But do not expect me to carry him for you when your muscles finally give out."
Kael searched the ground for the melted remains of his hammer—the only weapon he truly knew how to wield—but Lyra kicked it away with her boot.
"That scrap won't do you any good anymore," she said, tossing him something she had scavenged from the dirt just outside the hollow.
Kael caught it deftly with his free hand. It was an old iron sword, its blade riddled with deep notches and its wooden hilt partially rotted from the dampness. It likely belonged to a mercenary or adventurer who had met their end in these woods long ago.
Kael examined the weapon with the critical eye of a master blacksmith, running his thumb over the cold steel with disdain. "This sword is absolute garbage. The balance is entirely off, and it was forged at far too low a temperature, making the steel brittle. On top of that, the metal is riddled with cheap impurities. One solid strike against heavy armor and it will snap in half like a dry twig."
"He is... right..." Faren whispered in a weak, broken voice, barely lifting his heavy head from Kael's shoulder. "Steel... always tells the story of its maker, my boy. This sword... was forged in fear and haste, not with certainty and mastery."
Lyra shot the old man an annoyed glare for his interruption, then turned to Kael, approaching him with the silent, fluid steps of a feline. "We are not in your warm forge, blacksmith. You won't be striking armor; you will be cutting flesh. Flesh is soft and tears easily if you know where and how to strike."
She stood directly in front of him and drew her black dagger in a flash. "Your first lesson in surviving my world: stop swinging your weapon like you're striking an anvil. You rely on brute force, which makes you slow, exposed, and entirely readable to your enemy. And most importantly... never use the core's energy, understand? Use it only if we are all about to die."
Kael nodded solemnly. He secured the battered sword into his leather belt before tightening his grip on his master and beginning the grueling march behind their pale guide.
Over the next four hours, their progress through the dense thickets was a living hell. Kael was drenched in sweat under Faren's dead weight, his breaths burning his chest like coals, but he clenched his jaw and didn't utter a single complaint. As they walked, Lyra ruthlessly corrected Kael's posture. She struck the back of his leg with the hard scabbard of her dagger when his steps were too heavy and snapped branches, forcing him to walk on the balls of his feet to muffle his noise as much as possible, even while carrying the old man.
At first, Kael stumbled, his blood boiling with frustration and exhaustion. But he soon realized something strange and terrifying; his body was responding with impossible speed. His muscles weren't collapsing under the constant strain as he expected, and his reflexes had sharpened drastically. The dragon's mana wasn't just a random, destructive force—it was actively rewiring his body from the inside out, fortifying his muscle fibers to handle its immense output. Lyra noticed it too, keeping a greedy smirk entirely to herself.
By midday, the dense tree line abruptly broke, revealing the edge of a towering cliff overlooking the void.
The trio stopped, and the breathtaking sight stole the air from Kael's lungs. Even Faren lifted his head to gaze through tear-filled eyes. Before them stretched a bottomless chasm, choked with slowly swirling, deep white and gray clouds. Above those clouds, massive islands of rock and earth floated majestically, suspended in the sky by ancient, gravity-defying magic. On the highest and largest peak, pristine white stone towers and colossal fortresses gleamed under the sparse sunlight.
"Cloud Peak Academy..." Faren whispered, his voice trembling. "We finally made it."
But Lyra's gaze was fixed lower, locked onto the colossal, suspended stone bridge—the single pathway connecting the cliff's edge to the base of the floating islands. "We're not there yet, old man."
Kael narrowed his eyes to follow her gaze. At the entrance of the bridge stood carefully pitched black tents, and dozens of heavily armed guards clad in silver armor. They bore a familiar, terrifying crest: a black sun eclipsing the moon.
"The Eclipse Cult," Kael said, his hand involuntarily tightening around the hilt of his battered sword as his heart began to race. "They're blocking the only entrance to the Academy. They're inspecting everyone who crosses."
Kael gently rested his master against a nearby rock and turned toward Lyra. Her silver eyes were as cold as death, and she drew her black dagger with a slow deliberation that reflects years of killing.
"Your second lesson begins now, blacksmith," Lyra said in a hushed voice devoid of a single ounce of mercy. "How to kill in silence."