The clearing was quiet now, save for the slow groan of settling metal and the occasional hiss from smoldering wreckage. Twisted limbs of felled trees framed the battlefield like the ribs of a broken creature. Thin smoke coiled between the branches, catching light from the canopy gaps above, where the afternoon sun pushed through in dappled beams. The air smelled of scorched bark, ozone, and the faint, earthy tang of disturbed soil.
Haaskin lay still in the midst of it. His body was half-buried beneath charred undergrowth and fragments of broken droids. Parts of his tunic were scorched through to the skin. The jagged armor he had conjured through mana had long since flaked away, leaving behind only brittle remnants and the lines of darkened blood that tracked along his arms and chest.
From the edge of the trees, the girl emerged. She moved without hurry, her small frame barely disturbing the ashes underfoot. Leaves rustled overhead in a faint breeze, the only sound as she approached. Her green eyes, wide but steady, took in the wreckage around her without fear or confusion. There was no rush in her steps—only the quiet assurance of purpose.
Kneeling beside Haaskin, she reached out with slender hands. Dirt clung to her skin. Her fingers hovered a few inches above the torn flesh along his arm. There was no chant, no dramatic gesture—just a slow unfolding of light. A faint glow gathered at her fingertips, cool and blue like moonlight reflected on water. The light unfurled in thin strands, almost like smoke in reverse, weaving together and drifting gently toward the wound.
The glow didn't blaze—it pulsed softly, rhythmically, as if breathing with the earth. A low hum followed, barely audible at first, like the vibration of stone under pressure. The sound didn't come from her, but seemed to vibrate in the space around them, in the air, in the ground. The light touched the injury and began to sink in, leaving behind cleaned skin and closed tissue, as if undoing the damage strand by strand.
Haaskin stirred. A breath hitched in his throat. His eyes flickered open briefly—disoriented, alert. Not in fear, exactly, but in the tense, reactive way of someone who had never known help to arrive without cost. His muscles twitched, instinctively ready to rise or strike.
But he didn't move. The warmth spreading through him was unlike anything from battle. It wasn't adrenaline, or the burn of overdrawn mana. It was quiet. Gentle. Restorative.
And unfamiliar.
He exhaled slowly, his body still worn, but his mind drifting. Not into sleep—into memory.
The memory came clearly, sharp and grounded. A cold training hall. Mana-chalk symbols etched into the floor. The sterile tang of ozone lingering in the air from recent drills. Oligar stood before him, arms crossed, expression unreadable but focused.
"Haaskin," he had said, voice even, "promotion to Grade Five is not a ceremony. It's a line drawn through failure and mastery."
Haaskin had stood there, shoulders stiff, trying not to fidget as his evaluation was recited. Oligar had continued, his tone not cruel, but precise. "Your close-quarters technique is exceptional. Unmatched, even. You move like you were born for it."
A pause.
Then the words that always came after the praise: "But at range, your presence collapses. You leave yourself open. You don't command space—you survive it. That is not enough."
The words returned now, not as accusations, but as facts. Haaskin's fingers curled slightly in the dirt as the memory faded. The cerulean threads of healing light continued their work, and the hum lingered like a distant echo in the trees.
The girl remained beside him, quiet and focused. Her face was unreadable, calm, but not cold. She worked with the quiet diligence of someone mending something important, even if no one else understood it. Around them, the forest slowly settled back into place—branches creaking in the breeze, birds cautiously resuming their calls in the distance.
The battle had passed. But something older had awakened.
Not in fire or force—but in the quiet.
The unfairness still lingered in Haaskin's mind. He could remember the sidelong glances from the others—students who followed the old paths, whose mana flowed in rehearsed patterns. Their muttered doubts had always echoed Oligar's verdict. Grade Five was supposed to mark the transition from brawler to tactician, from raw power to mastery. He had come close, but not close enough.
Even then, buried beneath the frustration, he'd understood why. His strength was focused, not broad. In tight spaces, in the chaos of melee, he thrived. But at a distance, he struggled—too direct, too exposed.
Across from him, the girl's expression shifted. Her brow knitted slightly, her eyes narrowing in quiet concentration. The glow at her fingertips faltered for a moment. A small breath escaped her—not pain, but surprise.
Her magic, subtle and rare, was reacting. This wasn't just healing in the physical sense. It connected deeper, brushing the edges of memory, stirring emotional residue like dust in still water.
Fragments passed between them. Not words but images, sensations.
She saw flashes: Haaskin's hands wrapped in energy, hammering against training dummies that sparked and buckled. The sharp bark of his instructors. The weight of waiting while scores were tallied, knowing the outcome before the verdict came. His strength was unquestioned—but it had limits, and in this world, limits cost rank.
She didn't flinch from it. The memories didn't frighten her. If anything, they felt familiar.
Her shoulders drew inward for a moment, a reaction more instinct than thought. Her own memories, long buried, surfaced in turn. She too remembered judgment. The long silence of her village's council hall, the way they avoided her gaze when they passed sentence. Not dangerous—just different. That had been enough.
Her eyes met Haaskin's. There was no pity in them, only a quiet recognition.
"You fought alone," she said softly. "Even when they tried to push you out."
He studied her face. Her voice wasn't accusing or soft. Just stating what she saw.
"You too?" he asked, his tone low, more curious than surprised.
She nodded once.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Around them, the wreckage cooled. The wind had picked up again, carrying the burnt scent of broken metal through the trees.
The healing light steadied.
A mechanical whirring and the crunch of metal on foliage announced the imminent arrival of more Authority automatons, their cold, unfeeling optics scanning the scene. The immediate danger tightened its grip, a stark contrast to the fragile connection forming between the warrior and the healer.
Haaskin flinched. A muscle jumped in his jaw. The rush of memories, dredged up by the girl's healing touch, felt like an unwanted intrusion. He wasn't used to being seen so closely—not like this. Vulnerability, even in the quiet moments, made him feel exposed in ways the battlefield never did.
The girl's hands trembled, but she didn't pull away. The light from her fingers dimmed slightly, struggling to stay steady as the energy fluxed with his inner conflict.
"You're fighting me," she said quietly, eyes not meeting his. "Not just me. Yourself."
"I didn't ask for your insight," Haaskin muttered, trying to sit up but failing to muster the strength.
"You didn't have to," she said. "You carry your story like armour. But it cracks the moment someone touches it."
Another metallic screech echoed from the tree line. Several bots stepped into view, their chassis battered but functional, optics glowing a dull red. Weapons rotated into position with mechanical finality.
She turned her head slightly, eyes scanning the perimeter. "They won't stop."
"I noticed," Haaskin grunted, dragging himself upright with effort.
Then, like a breath drawn from deep within the earth, a pulse of mana stirred the air. Leaves rustled, though there was no wind. The healer's eyes widened, shifting upward.
Oligar stood atop a jagged ridge, the faint blue glow of controlled mana wreathing his outstretched hand. His expression was unreadable, more stone than flesh.
"This represents a shortcoming in your approach to problem-solving, Haaskin." Oligar called out, voice carrying clearly across the clearing.
Haaskin stiffened.
"This is the issue with you, young one. You are predictable. You burn with intensity, deplete your energy, and then retreat into a state of sulking."
The girl inquires, "What is your relationship with that man?"
"That's Oligar," Haaskin said flatly. "My master."
Oligar's hand slowly rotated, mana condensing in a spiral around his arm. The air grew heavy with pressure.
"You've always had power," Oligar continued. "But strength isn't enough—not against someone like him."
"Purple Eyes," Haaskin muttered.
Oligar nodded. "You'll never beat him. Not like this. Not as you are."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Haaskin snapped. "I've trained harder than anyone. I've fought your battles."
"You've trained your body. But your mind? Your reach?" Oligar shook his head. "You react. You don't anticipate. You burst forward, but you never adapt."
"Then teach me," Haaskin challenged. "Unless you're just here to lecture."
Oligar said nothing at first.
"Advancement and improvement are not possible until one achieves proficiency in long-distance combat. that's the law for every mana-user in the academy."
The spiral with the use of mana around his arm thickened, the surrounding foliage beginning to bend toward him as if drawn by invisible force.
"I'm here," he said finally, "to clear the way."
With a sudden surge, Oligar launched the mana spiral skyward. It twisted violently, gathering wind, debris, and scattered light into a dense cyclone. The air roared. Trees cracked. The tornado barreled through the line of incoming automatons, tearing them apart like paper. Metal shrieked. Limbs and torsos spun into the treetops.
In seconds, the path was clear.
The wind settled. Leaves drifted gently to the ground.
Haaskin stared, sweat on his brow. "That was... excessive."
"Efficient," Oligar corrected. "Now, stand up. If you still wish to prove your critics wrong, you have to learn to see further than your fists."
The healer, quiet until now, whispered, "He's not wrong."
Haaskin cast a brief look at her before smiling.
Haaskin exhaled through his nose. The ache in his body still lingered, but something else stirred—a reluctant resolve.
"I'm listening."