"You've improved a lot in the past few days, Rhea." Karl's voice carried a hint of surprise, but more than that—it carried respect. He stood a few feet away, his arms crossed, watching the girl in front of him practically collapse from exhaustion, her chest rising and falling like a bellows running on fumes.
Rhea had been pushing herself to the edge with every swing, every parry, every breath that threatened to give out. The bags under her eyes weren't just proof of hard work; they were a declaration of obsession—an obsession to stand beside him, not behind him.
"Th-thank you... Sir Karl," she huffed, trying to catch her breath without looking like she was about to pass out. "I... I'm glad you helped me reach this point."
Karl's lips curled into a rare smile, one softened by pride and years of silent understanding. "If the young master saw you now," he said, chuckling as he picked up his sword and sheathed it with a clean motion, "he might not even recognize you."
At that, Rhea's face flushed, and she quickly looked away. She had been so consumed by the need to grow stronger, to become more than a background shadow, that the thought of Nyx actually seeing her now hadn't crossed her mind. And when it did, it hit like a wave of embarrassment she couldn't shake off.
Karl didn't press the moment, but his eyes said enough. He saw the way her hands clenched. The way her lips tightened. The way she carried both admiration and something deeper—something unspoken.
He adjusted his cloak, giving a small nod toward the training gear scattered around them. "It's time we start moving too. This place won't wait forever."
The seriousness in his tone cut through the warmth like a blade. Rhea straightened herself, forcing her sore legs to obey, and nodded. There was still a long road ahead. But she was done standing still.
---
Meanwhile, back at the academy—
At the same inn they'd used the other day, the group sat in silence. The table was full, but the air felt empty.
Samantha sat at the table with her head buried beneath her arms, her face hidden but her trembling shoulders giving everything away. The rest of the group was there, but no one dared to speak. Even Valon, usually the first to fill the silence with some dumb comment or biting sarcasm, sat completely still.
Inside Samantha's mind, the past played like a twisted theatre. Not a memory. A wound.
"She's a murderer!"
"She was plotting this all along!"
"She should be hanged—like a traitor!"
The voices blended together in a spiral of rage and betrayal, each one more venomous than the last. And at the center of it all—her. A younger Samantha. Kneeling. Trembling. Surrounded by shadows she once called home.
"Please... I didn't... I didn't do anything. I swear... Father, please, believe me—"
Her voice had cracked, raw and desperate, as she crawled across the floor toward the one man whose approval used to mean everything.
The man didn't even flinch.
He didn't shout. He didn't ask. He just looked down at her like she was something he stepped on.
"Take this criminal away from me," he'd said, voice colder than any prison cell.
Then came the kick. The rejection. The chains on her wrists.
"NO! PLEASE! BELIEVE ME—FATHER!"
The scream that came out of her then didn't sound human. It sounded like something breaking.
In the inn, Samantha shivered beneath her arms.
Then—
A gentle hand touched the back of her head, fingers brushing through her hair with care only someone close could offer.
"Samantha," Ruby's voice was soft, steady, the anchor to a storm. "You're okay. Calm down."
It wasn't over. Not even close.
But in that moment, with Ruby beside her, Samantha didn't have to pretend to be strong. The walls cracked. The pain poured out. And the tears came—silent but endless—as she buried herself into Ruby's arms like a lifeline she couldn't afford to lose again.
Across from them, Valon gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. His hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, and his nails were digging into his palms.
He'd been there when it happened. Powerless. A witness to her fall. And now, years later, he was still powerless to change what had already been carved into her soul.
He hated that. Hated the weakness in himself. Hated how even now, he couldn't protect her from the ghosts that dragged her down.
But he made himself a quiet vow, right there, watching her break down—
'I won't stay weak. Not again. I'll become stronger than anyone standing in her way. Even if I have to burn down the world to do it.'
---
Meanwhile, far from the Academy walls and their quiet grief, Nyx lay stretched across something far more grotesque than a bed—
A mountain of corpses.
Monster after monster, torn apart, gutted, burned, shattered, reduced to nothing more than trophies in a senseless game. What started as a simple distraction had turned into a blood-soaked spree. At first, he hunted because he was bored. Then because it was fun. Then... because he couldn't stop.
He didn't know when he'd lost count—maybe somewhere after the fiftieth kill. Maybe sooner. It didn't matter. There was no challenge anymore. No thrill. Just noise. Just movement. Just... emptiness.
Now, he lay there atop the carnage, arms folded behind his head, eyes staring up at a sky that refused to answer. The world above was still. The stars didn't judge. The moon didn't blink.
His breath was calm, almost too calm for someone surrounded by steaming, twitching bodies. His mind, though? That was a storm barely kept in check.
'Why am I even doing this?'
A simple question. Too simple.
But it dug deep. Deeper than his blades ever had.
[Ding! Phase-2 initiation started.]
The familiar chime echoed inside Nyx's mind, but this time, it didn't feel like a notification. It felt like a sentence being passed.
Before he could even process the words, his body gave out—not from exhaustion, not from pain, but as if something far greater than his own will had yanked the soul straight out of his flesh. His vision blurred, and then everything faded into nothingness.
When he finally came to, there was no ground beneath his feet. No wind brushing against his skin. No sounds. No smells. Nothing.
He was just floating.
Suspended in a void so vast and absolute that it made death feel crowded in comparison. The darkness wasn't just around him—it was inside him, creeping through every inch of his being like cold ink in water. He couldn't move. Couldn't even tell if he was breathing. It felt like he didn't exist—like he'd been unmade.
"What the hell is going on...?" he whispered, though the words seemed to vanish the moment they left his lips.
And then, without warning, a searing light split the void apart.
It wasn't gentle, or guiding, or holy—it was brutal. A merciless glare that stabbed into his skull and forced his eyes shut. It burned like truth, like something trying to dig into the parts of him that were never meant to be touched.
He winced, struggling to open his eyes again. But when he did, the breath caught in his throat.
The scene in front of him wasn't unfamiliar. It wasn't some dream, or illusion, or abstract representation of trauma.
No, this was something else entirely.
This was a memory.
His memory.
And not just any one. It was the one—etched into his mind like a scar carved into bone. The room, the air, the smell, the subtle tension in the walls... every detail slammed into him like a tidal wave of nausea and rage.
"Oii, System... wh–what the hell is happening right now?" Nyx asked, his voice cracking under a pressure he hadn't felt in years, a weight that came not from battle or blood, but from something deeper. Something older. Something buried.
But there was no answer. Just the silence of the past—screaming louder than any voice ever could.