The air felt heavy inside the barracks. After the brief confrontation, everyone was silent, and the sound of the defeated young man's ragged breathing echoed as if it filled the entire hall. The boy tried to compose himself, rising with visible effort. His knees trembled, his face still scarred by the shrapnel and mana burns Strax had left.
But as he staggered to his feet, a faint light began to pulse on his skin. Superficial wounds slowly healed, burns faded, and color returned to his cheeks. He possessed some regenerative ability, a rare but not impossible gift among warriors of noble blood.
Strax simply watched him, motionless. His golden gaze was cold, detached, as if assessing an insect trying to take flight with broken wings. A soft sigh escaped the corner of his lips, thick with disdain.
