Dravien's body was dragged away through the tall arching vines of the garden arena. The crimson stains he left behind shimmered unnaturally under the pale sapphire moons above, like the earth itself remembered his madness.
The crowd dispersed slowly, many whispering Nocth's name for the first time with awe, fear, or curiosity.
But Nocth himself sat on the edge of the cracked courtyard stone, eyes half-lidded, his hands open before him. The ache in his arms was deep, not painful, but vibrating. As if something inside him had stirred — not just his body, but some deeper rhythm.
> "What... was that feeling? Why do I want more?"
His thoughts tangled like windblown parchment.
"Was that your first taste?" a voice piped beside him.
He didn't need to look. The parasol twirled. Imius plopped beside him, legs crossed and mouth full of dried fruit.
"Taste?" Nocth asked quietly.
Imius raised a brow. "Of violence. Of joy in violence. You didn't flinch when he bled. You grinned when you bled."
Nocth said nothing. The feeling still throbbed in his chest, deep and strange. It wasn't the thrill of victory. It was the realization that some part of him wanted more of that primal contact — the chaos, the testing of limits.
"You know what they call that?" Imius added, nudging him with his shoulder.
"…What?"
"A seed of battle hunger. It doesn't bloom in everyone." He crunched on another fruit. "But when it does? Well, you'll understand why those at the top look down at peace like it's an inconvenience."
Nocth clenched his fingers. "I don't care about being at the top."
"Sure," Imius said, grinning. "But what if it cares about being in you?"
---
Later That Night…
In the eastern training tower, where old halls dripped with silence, something stirred.
A pair of mismatched footsteps echoed along the mossy corridor. One limped, dragging a splintered boot. The other was steady, elegant, cloaked in shadows.
Dravien sat on the edge of his bunk, bandaged head tilted, eyes swollen but burning. His room was silent—until the figure in black robes entered, face hidden beneath a silver-etched mask.
"You fought Nocth," the masked figure said. Not a question.
Dravien didn't rise. But his teeth showed. "He's not normal. He's like a hollow beast wearing a child's skin."
The masked figure chuckled.
"What do you want?" Dravien hissed, one eye fluttering with pain. "You're not an instructor. You smell like coins."
A gloved hand extended. Inside its palm: a single silver leaf coin etched with three arcs — the symbol of a merchant nobility.
"You'll cause him problems again. At the right time. I'll see to your recovery… and your rise."
"And what if I don't want your scraps?" Dravien asked with a snarl.
The masked figure leaned closer.
"Because… I can give you more fights like that. Opponents who bleed like him. And maybe, eventually, I'll give you another chance to kill him."
Dravien's heart skipped.
He took the coin.
Meanwhile…
In a secluded part of the dormitory garden, Nocth lay awake on the rooftop.
The stars swirled above him. The strange constellation shaped like a blooming eye flickered faintly. His fingers twitched, still remembering the tension of combat.
Then something shifted in him. A single vein inside his wrist pulsed… faintly glowing for a moment.
Vein Count: 134.
A voice inside him — not his own — whispered:
"Stronger… when it hurts."
Nocth's lips parted, not in fear, but wonder.
And hunger.