Zylas reached the front of the Practice building. As he approached the massive structure the heavy door slid open automatically with a low, hydraulic hiss.
He stepped inside, but as the door sealed shut behind him, he was met with nothing. The interior was a hollow, black box of absolute silence. It felt like standing in a void, a stark contrast to the sprawling complexity of the Academy grounds outside.
Before he could even take a second step, a neutral, synthesized voice echoed through the chamber. "What would you like to do?"
Zylas paused, his eyes darting around the empty space. It sounded like a standard AI, but the lack of any physical console or interface made it feel like the building itself was alive. Confused and still mentally frayed from the events of the day, he could only offer a flat, "What?"
The voice responded immediately, its tone devoid of emotion. "The available options are: Physical Body Improvement, Ability Mastery, and Power Testing."
Zylas stood in the center of the dark hall, thinking about the importance of the ring on his finger. He needed to know where it stood in this hierarchy.
"Power Testing," he responded.
"Understood. Altering surroundings based on chosen training."
As soon as the AI spoke, the hollow box began to transform. The floor shifted, the dark alloy plates rising and falling to create a slightly uneven terrain. Within seconds, the flat room had become a miniature plateau, with jagged hills forming along the edges and open spaces in the center.
Then, disfigured, gray-skinned creatures began to manifest across the simulated landscape. They were projections of Drowned just like Zylas had faced in his entrance exam. Their empty eyes and sagging flesh looked disturbingly real.
Zylas instantly dropped into a fighting stance, his muscles tensing as he prepared for a hoard to rush him.
"All Drowned projections are set to Stagnant mode and Kindled level," the robotic voice announced. "Would you like to activate Hostile AI or increase their level?"
Zylas lowered his guard, feeling a brief surge of relief. They weren't going to tear him apart, not yet, at least. "No," he replied.
"Understood."
Zylas hesitated for a moment, staring at the motionless monsters. He took a breath and began walking toward the nearest projection. He stopped just inches away from the gray, rotting face of the Drowned.
He raised his right hand, the silver ring catching the artificial light.
"Activate, Ring of Eternity," he commanded.
Immediately, a sharp chill shot through his finger. Thick, black lines erupted from the Ring, racing across his skin like ink spilled into water. They looked like blackened nerves or veins, spreading rapidly up his arm and across his torso. Zylas recoiled, his heart racing as he watched the dark patterns map themselves over his body. He tried to shake his arm, desperate to fling the darkness off, but the lines seemed like they were one with his skin.
Then, as quickly as they appeared, the lines dissolved into a fine black dust that was carried away by an invisible wind. Zylas stood panting, waiting for a surge of power the world-breaking strength.
Instead, a different voice spoke. It wasn't the AI. It was the same ancient, gravelly voice he had heard in the ruined dimension.
"Unable to find the blood of a Paragon. All abilities restricted."
Zylas froze. He felt a cold pit form in his stomach. He was sure the Cosmic Entity had said it "took care" of the consciousness inside the ring. He tried talking to it, demanding an explanation, but the ring remained silent, a piece of dead metal once again.
Zylas felt cheated. He had been sent to a literal hellscape, watched someone break down in despair, and risked his life to snatch this relic, all because the Entity made it sound like his ultimate weapon.
Now, he found out it was a paperweight unless he had the blood of a Paragon, someone like Sylvia or Kai. It was useless to him.
A wave of bitter frustration washed over him. He needed to vent. He needed to feel something other than confusion and fear. He lifted his arm and swung a heavy, raw punch into the face of the Drowned projection.
Thud.
"Tch," Zylas grunted, pulling his hand back. His knuckles were already red and bruised. The Drowned projection hadn't even flinched. It stood there, a mere Kindled-level wall that his normal physical body couldn't hope to dent.
In that moment, the reality of his situation crashed down on him.
"I'm weak," Zylas said, looking up at the black ceiling. "And pathetically so. Why does the Universe give me hope only to strip it away moments after?"
He wasn't looking for an answer. He looked back at the gray face of the projection and hit it again. Harder.
Nothing happened.
He hit it again. The skin on his knuckles split. He didn't stop. He hit it a third time, a fourth, a fifth. He began to punch with a desperate ferocity. Minutes turned into hours. The plateau was silent except for the heavy sound of fist meeting simulated flesh.
Blood began to drip from Zylas's fist, staining the gray skin of the Drowned, but he didn't feel the pain anymore. He was too far gone. He punched faster. He punched until his vision blurred and his lungs screamed for air. He was pouring every ounce of his hatred for his "average" life into that single, stagnant target.
Then, he saw it. A dark, crimson drop leaked from the mouth of the Drowned projection. Zylas stopped. He took a stumbling step back. He stared at the blood on the projection's lip.
He put his bloodied hand over his face and began to laugh. It started as a low chuckle and spiraled into a hysterical sound that echoed off the metal walls.
"It can bleed!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "It can actually bleed!"
The exhaustion finally won. Between the dimensional travel, the time reversal, and hours of relentless physical trauma, Zylas's body gave out. His eyes rolled back, and he fell backward, his head hitting the floor with a dull thud as he slipped into unconsciousness.
When he finally opened his eyes, he was lying in the bed of the room Grant had provided for him. He tried to sit up, upon doing so he saw his right hand was heavily wrapped in a white bandage that felt tight and secure. When he tried to move his fingers, a lightning bolt of pain shot up his arm, making him flinch.
He didn't care. He forced himself out of bed, his movements stiff and slow. He exited the room and made his way downstairs, his feet heavy on the carpeted steps.
In the living room, he found Grant. The professor was sitting on the couch, casually reading something on WebNovel with his phone in his hand. He looked up as Zylas entered, his expression unreadable.
"Good evening," Grant said. "You've slept for quite a while. Your hand hasn't healed yet, obviously."
Zylas opened his mouth to speak, but Grant held up a hand, stopping him.
"I saw the logs in the Practice building. I saw the Drowned projection. It was a Kindled level. Were you perhaps punching it with nothing but brute force for three hours?"
Zylas looked down at his bandaged hand, unable to find the words.
"It's extremely impressive that you were actually able to damage it," Grant continued, his voice shifting from clinical to stern. "But you're not supposed to do it like that. You could have permanently damaged your tendons. Regardless, you should rest now. I was correct to assume you weren't ready for training. Go back to your room."
"That's not fair, you know?" Zylas snapped back, the frustration from the night before bubbling up. "I'm an adult. I can choose what I want to do with my time. You're not even my legal guardian."
Grant stood up, closing his phone. He walked over to Zylas, his presence filling the room. "Yeah, but you're on my property, and you'll have to stay here until the semester starts. That means you abide by my rules. Besides, you have to meet Sylvia Vingólf in a few hours. I can't let you meaninglessly harm yourself again before a meeting with a Paragon."
Zylas stared at him, wanting to argue, but the anger died in his throat. He saw the genuine concern in Grant's eyes. The way the older man was actually looking out for him, as a person.
It was a feeling Zylas had never really known. Growing up, no one had cared if he stayed up late or hurt himself, as long as he stayed out of the way. Seeing Grant scold him like this gave him a strange sense of fatherly warmth.
Zylas ducked his head, a small, barely visible smile touching his lips. He didn't want Grant to see it.
"Fine," Zylas mumbled.
He turned around and headed back upstairs, the pain in his hand feeling a little more bearable than it had a few minutes ago.