Later that day, something shifted. Not in the sky. In the silence.
Kaelen sat on the edge of his bed, still bare-chested, the taste of blood long gone from his mouth but not from his mind. The arena's noise had faded. The looks, the whispers, the stares—none of it stayed with him.
What lingered was the feeling. That rush.
The moment he'd taken that firebolt to the ribs—he hadn't flinched. He'd laughed. Not at his opponent. Not out of pride. But at the way the pain turned to heat. The way that heat became power. The way every part of him demanded more.
He clenched his fists slowly, staring at the white bandages wrapped around his arms. Faint pulses of strength still hummed under his skin like distant thunder.
If this is what it feels like to take real hits—then I want more.
He lay down but didn't sleep. Not really. His body rested, but his mind was reliving each movement. Every step, every blow, every fracture that only made him feel more alive.
At one point, in the silence, his hand trembled. Just once.
Fingers tightened, then stilled.
He stared at the ceiling.
This isn't weakness. It's cost. And I'm willing to pay.
The following days passed in a blur of discipline and whispers.
Wherever Kaelen walked, conversations hushed. People stared. Some respectfully. Some warily. A few with fear. There were no more jokes. No more challenges. Just distance.
Instructors began referring to him less as "that one kid" and more often as the solo freak. Not in ridicule. In awareness.
Every training block followed the same brutal routine:
06:00 - Physical Training 08:00 - Combat Theory 10:00 - Simulation Scenarios 13:30 - Weapon Drills 15:30 - Free Training or Assigned Duties
And Kaelen never missed a beat.
Rain or shine, he ran, fought, trained—alone if he could, alongside others if he had to. But he never joined anyone. Never asked. The others quickly learned he preferred silence.
But they still watched him.
The upperclassmen who once laughed now gave him a nod of recognition when they passed. Some even whispered about recruiting him into their parties. No one asked yet. No one dared.
One of the instructors, Brax, once muttered while watching him spar:
"Tight strikes. Hunter's eyes—"
He stopped, voice caught.
His fingers curled slightly around the railing.
Ten years ago. Tier-three clearance. Squad of five. Only two made it out.
Me and Veren. And we were lucky. We didn't fight like him.
He watched Kaelen drive his opponent into the mat.
"—If I'd had you then—"
But he didn't finish the thought.
On Friday evening, Professor Caldera appeared at the entrance to the training hall, her silhouette sharp in the fading light.
"Kaelen."
He turned. Didn't speak. Just waited.
"You're on the roster for tomorrow," she said plainly. "Real dungeon. Tier One. Evaluation team will be watching. You'll be solo. Like you asked."
A flicker of something lit behind his eyes.
She watched him carefully, arms crossed. Then—her hand moved slightly—like she might place it on his shoulder.
She stopped.
Pulled it back.
Not yet.
Don't break the distance. He's not ready to be seen as someone's.
"Make it out alive," she said instead. "And maybe they'll finally shut up about how impossible soloing is."
Kaelen didn't smile.
He just nodded.
He'd waited his whole life for this.
Tomorrow wasn't training.
Tomorrow wasn't theory.
Tomorrow was blood.
No simulations. No do-overs. No ceiling.
Just Kaelen.
And whatever waited in the dark.