Sergeant Vincent's voice cracked across the training grounds like a whip.
"Cadet Vex, how was your stay in the infirmary? I hear the nurses there are easy on the eyes."
Tarrin didn't miss a beat. "Indeed, sir," he replied, tone smooth as ever.
The Sergeant grunted approvingly and strode down the line.
The recruits stood in formation, waiting—some tense, some barely awake—as the morning sun began to rise behind them.
"Everyone left of Cadet Vex is number one. Everyone to the right, number two. Find a partner. We're sparring."
Great, Tarrin thought, dragging his feet to the right. Just what I needed. To get beaten again first thing in the morning.
He stepped up to Jayden, keeping his tone casual. "What do you say? Want to spar?"
Jayden looked at him for a beat, eyes unreadable, then gave a slow nod. "Okay. But go easy on me."
"Not a chance," Tarrin said, voice flat but with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm beating the softie out of you."
Jayden didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. He just smiled.
Tarrin glanced over at Riko, paired off with Lucas. He narrowed his eyes slightly, curious. 'Does Lucas have more bite than he lets on?'
Riko caught his gaze and threw him a wink. Tarrin smirked and winked back.
"Alright, spread out! Start at my command!" Sergeant Vincent barked.
The recruits shuffled quickly, spreading across the open training grounds, boots kicking up dust as they found space.
A brief pause. Tension hanging in the air.
"Begin!"
Tarrin and Jayden faced each other. Neither moved. For a moment, it was just silence between them, each waiting for the other to make the first mistake.
Tarrin cracked first. He lunged forward, feet kicking off the packed dirt. His shoulder still ached with a dull throb, but it moved well enough—and that was all he needed.
Jayden's guard was loose. Too slow.
Tarrin threw a heavy right, weight behind it, aiming for the collar. Jayden's eyes widened. Panic flashed across his face—but he ducked, just in time.
Tarrin's fist cut through empty air.
He didn't stop. He pressed in, steps fluid, throwing a feint and then another real strike—short, tight, aimed low.
But Jayden, awkward as he looked, had a strange rhythm. He swayed back again, stumbling off-balance but dodging all the same.
Tarrin narrowed his eyes. He kept swinging, testing angles, watching for cracks.
But Jayden—somehow—kept slipping away.
'What the hell… why can't I land a clean hit?'
Tarrin made a mistake—just a moment too slow to reset his guard.
Jayden's fist lashed out. Fast. Unexpected.
It cracked him clean across the face.
Tarrin stumbled back two full steps, blinking stars from his vision. His head rang, not from the force of the punch, but from the sheer audacity.
Jayden looked horrified. "Sorry!" he blurted, eyes wide.
Tarrin stared at him. 'Did this idiot just apologize in the middle of a fight?'
"Why are you apologizing?!" he barked, voice sharp as he surged forward.
He threw himself into a drop kick. No finesse. Just raw frustration.
Jayden was still frozen in guilt. Too late to react.
The kick slammed into his chest with a dull thud, sending him crashing onto his back.
Tarrin landed, springing up with a savage grin. "Get up and fight, Goldie!" he snarled, blood singing now. All the pent-up failure from yesterday was pouring out. He needed this.
Jayden groaned but rose. No more apologies. This time, he came in fast, throwing a clean hook—sharp and controlled.
Tarrin weaved under it, reading the rhythm now. He answered with a jab. Jayden dipped his head just enough, letting it glance off.
Not bad.
Tarrin followed with a right cross, blocked. He stepped in, pivoted low, and went for a sweeping kick to the shin—
But Jayden leapt over it, foot barely clearing the arc.
Tarrin narrowed his eyes, stance tightening. 'Maybe he's not as soft as he looks.'
"You sure you're okay to fight? You had a knife in your gut yesterday," Jayden said, breathless as he slipped past another jab.
"Never better," Tarrin shot back—though the throbbing in his shoulder screamed otherwise.
He ducked under a wild hook, pivoted in, and drove a hard shot into Jayden's side—just above the hip, close to the liver. Jayden staggered back, eyes wide as he exhaled sharply.
"Okay—what was that in the cafeteria, anyway?" Jayden gasped. "You had this… aura. Like a drill sergeant was breathing down my neck."
Tarrin's brows drew together. He'd felt it too—that strange pressure pouring out of him. Like something had snapped open inside. Cold. Wrong.
The kind of dread that coils in your gut when you realize rent's due and your account's empty.
'A new perk of my bloody useless gift, perhaps.'
He shoved the thought aside and shouldered into Jayden, knocking him off balance with a heavy body slam.
"Quite chatty, aren't you?" Tarrin muttered.
From there, they slipped into rhythm.
Jayden kept talking, distracted. And Tarrin? Tarrin kept hitting.
Punches flew. Dodges clipped close. But Tarrin stayed in control, his fists sharper now, his tempo brutal.
He wasn't just sparring—he was venting. Every jab was payback for yesterday's embarrassment. Every blow an echo of Celith's boot pressed into his pride.
Jayden was fast, but unfocused.
Tarrin was in pain, but dialed in.
Two hours. That's how long they went at it—punches, kicks, bruises, and regret. By the end, both were gasping for breath, their muscles screaming in protest.
Tarrin let out a long sigh. The real punishment was just beginning. Theory class.
As they limped off the training grounds, he glanced at Jayden, who looked like he'd been grounded, disowned, and slapped for hiding smokes under his mattress.
"What even were you doing yesterday?" Tarrin asked, sweat dripping from his brow.
"Not much," Jayden panted. "Didn't really pay attention. I already went through that lesson last week. But today's one's supposed to be about Scarred—like Gifts and stuff."
Tarrin gave a quiet nod, not really replying. His gaze flicked sideways—and found her.
Celith.
She didn't look like someone who'd wrecked him twenty-four hours ago. Not a bead of sweat, not a wrinkle in her posture.
She met his eyes and gave the faintest nod. So small it might've gone unnoticed. But Tarrin caught it.
And it lit something in his chest.
The next twenty minutes were spent navigating the compound with Jayden, searching for the lecture hall like two idiots who'd never read a map.
When they finally arrived, Tarrin took a deep breath. The building loomed over them—taller than the barracks, cleaner, almost clinical.
"You sure we're going the right way?" he asked.
Jayden nodded with blind confidence. "Yeah. Definitely somewhere around here."
Spoiler: It wasn't.
They ended up asking some bored-looking cadet who pointed them down the right corridor. Finally, they found the hall and slipped into their seats just as more recruits trickled in.
Tarrin scanned the crowd—faces from his own loop, familiar enough. 'So that's how it works, he thought. Week by week, class by class.'
He glanced at Jayden, puzzled.
"Wait—shouldn't you be in a second-level class or something?"
Jayden shrugged, still focused on the front board. "I had some... issues. Remember the trouble with other recruits? Couldn't focus. They let me retake the intro cycle."
"Huh. Makes sense." Tarrin leaned back in his seat, still catching his breath.
Then the room shifted.
Heavy footsteps thudded from the front. Every eye turned toward the source.
A man entered—mid-forties, combed-over hair so slick it might've been lacquered, and a gaze cold enough to freeze a Scarbane mid-charge.
He reached the center of the hall, spun on his heel, and began speaking like he didn't care whether anyone kept up.
"For those who don't know me, I'm Professor Walker. Today, we begin with the fundamentals of the Scarred."
No fluff. No warm-up. Just straight steel.
Tarrin sat a little straighter.
This was going to matter.
Professor Walker turned to the board and began writing, his hand moving with sharp, practiced speed.
Chalk scratched against the surface in rapid strokes, symbols forming in a language of power.
Tarrin leaned forward, eyes locked in, hungry to understand what he'd been thrown into.
A moment later, the professor stepped aside. The board now bore five words, written clean and bold:
Scarling. Scarbound. Scarforged. Scarwarden. Scarlord.
'Those are the stages, right?' Tarrin thought, recognizing the terms from late-night scrolls through public forums—half-baked theories and censored threads that barely scratched the truth.
Professor Walker's voice cut through the murmurs. "These," he said, gesturing to the board, "are the ranks of the Scarred. The path every Awakened must walk—if they live long enough."
He scanned the rows of cadets, eyes sharp and cold. "Let's start simple. Can anyone tell me what defines the Scarling stage?"
A hand shot up, fast and confident. A girl near the middle row. Walker gave her a nod. "Go on."
"It's... the Gift, isn't it?" she said, voice wavering slightly.
Walker didn't praise or correct—just gave a slight nod. "Correct. Can you explain further?"
The girl straightened in her seat, speaking quickly.
"The Gift is the first manifestation of a person's essence after Awakening. It's usually unique, tailored to the individual's nature."
"Genetic factors are believed to play a role, though the exact cause is still under debate. The Gift develops over time, growing stronger as the Scarred progresses through the ranks."
By the end, her words came out a little breathless, like she was reciting from a textbook she'd already memorized.
Tarrin narrowed his eyes. 'How the hell does she even know that?' he thought, dryly. 'Probably born in a tower with tutors and a bloodline to match.'
"Good," Professor Walker said, his voice flat. "Now, next question—how does an Awakened know what to do with their Gift?"
He let the silence settle before continuing.
"It's simple. Most of the time, the knowledge is instinctual. You'll know how to use it, or at least the basics. Like breathing—your body just knows."
He began pacing, slow and deliberate. "But there are exceptions. Some receive only fragments of understanding. Others? Nothing at all."
Pens scratched against paper. Dozens of cadets were scribbling in sync, their hands moving like synchronized machinery.
Tarrin glanced around, frowning. 'Where the hell did everyone get notebooks?'
Near the front, two students leaned in, whispering. Professor Walker didn't miss a beat. He shot them a single, icy glare. They fell silent immediately.
"These Gifts can manifest in countless ways," he said, turning his attention back to the class. "Some subtle—like emitting trace essence into the air. Think pheromones, but... refined."
His gaze locked onto Tarrin for a heartbeat too long. Tarrin caught it, and his frown twitched. What's with this guy?
On the outside, he gave a polite smile. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Others," Walker continued, turning toward the board, "are far more direct. Elemental control. Force projection. Physical augmentation. As you can see—" he motioned to the wall.
The projector hummed to life, casting flickering images across the front of the room—snapshots of Awakened in action.
Fire erupting from fists. Water forming weapons. Eyes glowing with raw power.
"And now," the professor said, voice sharpening again, "let's move on to the second defining trait of the Scarling stage: essence saturation."
He scanned the room like a predator. Eyes cold, calculating.
Then they landed on Tarrin.
'Oh, come on.'
"Cadet Vex," he said, smiling like he'd just stepped on something unpleasant. "Perhaps you can answer, even after your little absence yesterday?"
So that's what this is about, Tarrin thought. One day off and he's acting like I spit in his tea.
Still, he straightened up and held his composure. Wore that same confident mask he'd perfected over the years.
"If I remember correctly," he began, voice clear,
"essence saturation is the process of the human body gradually absorbing and holding essence. It starts at roughly fifteen percent and can rise all the way to a hundred."
Walker said nothing. Just a small nod—approval without praise.
Tarrin continued without missing a beat.
"As for how to increase it, physical exertion, mostly. Intense stress. Think of it like building muscle. And even without pushing it, saturation slowly rises with time."
He finished, letting his words settle in the air.
Walker didn't respond right away. Just kept watching him, unreadable.
Tarrin leaned back slightly in his seat, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 'Next time I skip class, I'm faking a coma.'
"Very good, Cadet Vex," Professor Walker said, his voice as smooth as polished steel. "It seems even missing a day hasn't dulled your edge. Now then, let's move on."
He turned back to the board, chalk in hand, the strokes crisp and confident.
"Next up—the Scarbound stage." His voice carried through the lecture hall like a command. "Can anyone tell me what it entails?"
The same girl from before raised her hand again, straight-backed and ready. The professor gave a small nod.
"The Scarbound stage," she said, her words spilling out a little too quickly, "occurs when a Scarling undergoes synchronization—a process where a Legacy chooses them, binding to their essence and granting access to its power."
She paused, almost out of breath.
"Nicely said," Professor Walker replied, tone even. "As Cadet Lee pointed out, on the Mainland, the only real path forward is through a Legacy. Without one, your growth ends where it begins. Now—can someone tell me what a Legacy is, and how we categorize them?"
This time, it was Jayden who raised his hand, practically bouncing in his seat like an overeager mutt waiting for a tossed stick.
Walker pointed. "Yes, Cadet Brooks?"
Jayden nodded, eyes lit up with something Tarrin hadn't seen before—raw focus, almost reverence.
"We believe that Legacies are remnants of the gods' power," he said, voice firm. "Fragments left behind after the fall of their armies. Scarred who find them—or are chosen by them—gain access to their strength."
Tarrin blinked. Where the hell was this Jayden hiding?
"And how do we distinguish them?" Jayden continued, fully in the zone. "First, by order. Higher-order Legacies allow for greater progression. A First-Order Legacy caps at Scarbound. A second-Order can take you to Scarforged, and so on."
The lecture hall had gone quiet. Even Professor Walker stood still, arms crossed.
Jayden wasn't done.
"Second, we sort them into five core categories: Body, Elemental, Weapon, Spirit, and Mixed. Most Legacies fall somewhere between those lines, with hybrid traits being more common than pure forms."
When he finally stopped, there was a moment when nobody spoke. Even the air seemed to pause.
Tarrin stared, slack-jawed. 'Did this kid just morph into a scholar mid-lecture? Does he follow Lucas into the damn library or something?'
"Very good, Cadet Brooks," Walker said, voice neutral, though his eyes lingered on the pair of them just a beat too long.
Tarrin didn't miss it.