Rhyka took one unsteady step after another, each movement stiff and deliberate, like every joint had to be negotiated with. His body wasn't cooperating torn between the lingering damage and the cruel efficiency of the karmic flower. His bones ached. His tendons felt too tight, like his body had been stitched back together wrong. Every muscle screamed in dull protest.
The hallway outside the infirmary stretched before him like a tunnel, lined with old stone and cold echoes. Light slanted in from the tall, narrow windows, but none of it felt warm. Everything was distant. Blurred. Like he was walking through a dream he wanted no part of.
His breath was shallow, uneven. His left leg dragged slightly behind the right. His shoulder hung low and stiff. It was taking everything he had just to keep himself upright.
And even then, he knew he wasn't going to last.
The pain wasn't the worst part.
It was the uncertainty. That voice in his head gnawing louder than the pain ever could: What are you doing? Where are you even going?
He didn't know.
A part of him—a small, bitter part—was already screaming to turn around. To limp back through the infirmary doors. Apologize to Emmet. Say he'd been rash, say he'd let his anger get the better of him. Try to salvage what little was left.
It would've been the rational thing to do.
But another part of him—sharp, stubborn, damaged—refused.
That part dug in its heels. It told him turning back meant surrender. It meant everything he'd suffered through—the injuries, the humiliation, the sheer grind—had meant nothing. That if he bowed now, it'd be the end. Not just of his pride, but of him. He'd be another failed name on a roster, a ghost in a school full of sparks.
So he kept moving.
Until his body reminded him of reality.
His knee gave out first.
There was no dramatic collapse—just a subtle buckling, like his leg had forgotten what it was doing. His body twisted awkwardly, shoulder scraping the stone wall as he lost control. His vision swam with black spots, blooming like bruises at the corners of his sight.
The floor rushed up to meet him.
But it didn't.
An arm caught him, firm and steady.
A hand grabbed his bicep and stopped his fall before it happened. He blinked, confused, heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to make up for his legs.
The boy beside him had short, messy brown hair and the kind of clear blue eyes that always seemed vaguely tired. His uniform was worn but neat. His grip was strong.
Rinnte.
He didn't say anything at first—just shifted Rhyka's arm over his shoulders and pulled him up, steadying him with practiced ease.
They moved in silence, the kind of silence that made the air feel heavy. It wasn't awkward because of unfamiliarity—it was awkward because neither of them wanted to be there. But Rhyka leaned into him anyway. He didn't have a choice.
"...Thanks—" Rhyka muttered, still breathless, still dazed.
"No need," Rinnte cut in, voice flat. "I was simply following the human moral code of decency."
Rhyka blinked, processing. "...Right. Well. Thanks for following basic decency, I guess."
Rinnte gave a stiff nod, like he didn't know how else to respond. His posture remained rigid, almost uncomfortable. Then he stopped walking, forcing Rhyka to halt with him.
"I have to say something," Rinnte said.
Rhyka turned his head slowly, his balance still shaky. "From me?"
"Yes," Rinnte replied, eyes steady. "Watching you these past months has been… educational."
Rhyka felt his stomach twist. The way Rinnte said it it didn't sound like a compliment. It was clinical. Distant. As if he were describing an experiment.
"You've worked hard. That much is clear. You train every day. You push through injuries. You show up when others don't. Some of us noticed. I noticed."
Rhyka didn't respond, but his jaw clenched.
"But," Rinnte said, and the word felt like a trapdoor opening beneath him, "it hasn't been enough."
He didn't say it cruelly. That almost made it worse.
"It's not even close. You're still struggling to compete with people who haven't tried half as hard. You're still finishing near the middle or worse. Not because you're lazy. Not because you're weak-willed. But because you've hit your ceiling."
The words sliced deeper than any magic could.
"You've built up your body. You've outpaced some of us physically. But this isn't a soldier's academy. This is a school for mages."
Rhyka's breath caught in his throat.
"And in a world where magic determines everything," Rinnte continued, eyes cool, "you're always going to be behind. You're chasing people who are climbing mountains while you're dragging weights uphill with your teeth."
Rhyka wanted to interrupt. Wanted to lash out. But he couldn't move. Could barely breathe.
"That's what I've learned from you," Rinnte said, as calm as ever. "You showed me the difference between drive and potential. The limits of hard work. You made it clear how far ahead I can go."
He paused again.
Rhyka could feel his fingers twitching. Not from pain now but from rage From shame
Rinnte looked away. "Still," he said, voice quieter, "you should keep trying."
Rhyka stared.
"What?"
"You should keep going," Rinnte said. "Push yourself. Try harder. Even if it means nothing in the end. Even if you never catch up. That's what someone like you has to do. That's all there is."
Then, just like that, he let go.
Rhyka stumbled, catching himself against the stone wall with a grunt. His entire left side felt numb. His legs barely held.
Rinnte took a few steps back, straightened his collar, and gave one final nod.
Then he turned and walked away.
No apology. No insult. No expression of guilt.
He left Rhyka standing alone, breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead as the silence closed in again.
The hallway had never felt so vast.
Rhyka stared at the floor, his hands trembling.
Everything Rinnte had said—he already knew. He lived it. Every step, every bruise, every failed attempt. But hearing it said aloud, with such conviction, such truth...
It burned.
And worse than that—
It echoed.
Rhyka clenched his jaw until it hurt.
He hated Rinnte.
Not because he'd been cruel.
But because he'd been honest.
Because deep down, Rhyka had already said it all to himself. A hundred times.
And now, he couldn't pretend he hadn't.
Fucking bastard!
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