Pressure from Without
Training Ground Beta - Afternoon
Carsel was practicing basic sword forms alone when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps from behind. Multiple footsteps, deliberate and coordinated—not the sound of a casual approach.
He turned and saw Vincent Ashworth walking towards him, accompanied by four 7th and 8th-grade students who clearly came as backup. Vincent still walked with a slight limp from the injuries Carsel inflicted, and the expression on his face was a mixture of fear, anger, and grim determination.
"Nightshade," Vincent called out in a voice that trembled slightly but carried forced confidence. "We need to talk."
Carsel put down his sword with careful deliberation, his mind racing through options. The old him—the predator drunk on the power of dire wolf essence—would have smiled with anticipation. Easy targets, isolated location, perfect opportunity to demonstrate dominance.
But the current him, still reeling from withdrawal symptoms and a recent moral crisis, felt only weary resignation.
So it comes to this. Vincent wants revenge, and he brought friends to even the odds.
"Talk about what?" Carsel asked in a tone that was neutral, neither aggressive nor apologetic.
"About what you did to me," Vincent replied, his hand moving to rest on the pommel of his sword. "About the justice the academy failed to deliver."
The Confrontation Builds
Vincent's companions spread out in a loose semicircle, clearly positioning themselves to prevent escape routes. Their movements were practiced, suggesting this wasn't a spontaneous encounter but a planned ambush.
"You crippled me," Vincent continued with growing anger. "You tortured me in front of the entire academy for your entertainment. And the academy's response was to promote you."
"You challenged me to a duel," Carsel pointed out in a factual tone. "I won."
"That wasn't a duel—that was sadistic torture!" Vincent's voice cracked with emotion. "You could have stopped after first blood, after I yielded, but you kept going. You enjoyed my pain."
The truth of the accusation hit Carsel like a physical blow. Because Vincent was right—he had enjoyed it. In that moment, inflicting suffering on someone helpless had felt like reclaiming power, like proving his worth to everyone who had humiliated him.
And now I have to face the consequences of that choice.
"You're right," Carsel said quietly, surprising everyone including himself. "I went too far. What I did to you was wrong."
Vincent blinked, clearly not expecting an acknowledgment or anything resembling an apology.
"Don't think saying sorry gets you off the hook," one of Vincent's friends snarled—Marcus, a boy with a noble bearing and expensive equipment. "Vincent spent weeks in the medical wing because of you. His family wants blood."
"My family sent funds to hire professional healers," Vincent added with a bitter smile. "Cost them a fortune to repair the damage you caused. And they want... compensation."
"What kind of compensation?" Carsel asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"The same kind you gave me," Vincent replied in a voice that carried an edge of steel. "Pain. Humiliation. Understanding what it feels like to be helpless."
Carsel looked at the five opponents arrayed against him and felt the familiar stirrings from his Soul Devourer addiction. Whispers in his mind suggesting easy solutions: Feed on them. Take their essence. Show them what real power looks like.
They want to hurt you, the addiction reasoned. They came here for violence. Defending yourself by any means necessary is justified.
Besides, Vincent deserves what he gets for challenging you in the first place. If he couldn't handle the consequences, he shouldn't have picked a fight.
But alongside those dark whispers, a newer voice spoke with quiet conviction:
This is a test. This is a chance to prove that I can be better than what I was.
Vincent has a right to be angry. What I did to him was excessive and cruel. If I respond to his anger with more violence, I'm proving that I haven't learned anything.
Maybe there's a way to resolve this without anyone getting seriously hurt.
"Vincent," Carsel said with care, "I understand why you're angry. What I did was wrong, and I... I regret it."
"Regret doesn't heal broken bones," Marcus sneered. "Regret doesn't erase trauma."
"No, it doesn't," Carsel agreed. "But more violence won't either."
"You think you can talk your way out of this?" another boy demanded. "You think we're afraid of you?"
Actually, yes, Carsel thought with sad clarity. You are afraid. That's why there are five of you and only one of me. You remember what I did to Vincent, and you're terrified that I'll do the same to you.
And part of me wants to prove that fear justified.
The decision was taken out of Carsel's hands when Marcus drew his sword and lunged forward in an attack that was clearly meant to cripple rather than kill.
So much for talking, Carsel thought as he drew his own blade and parried the strike with muscle memory born from years of training.
But instead of counter-attacking with dark enhancement and predatory instincts, he found himself fighting with a different philosophy. Defense rather than offense. Deflection rather than destruction.
I don't want to hurt them, he realized with surprise. I want to survive this encounter, but I don't want to cause suffering.
When did that change?
Marcus pressed the attack with skill that was decent but not exceptional. Behind him, Vincent and the others began to circle closer, preparing to join the fight once Carsel was committed to a single opponent.
Five against one, Carsel assessed with a tactical mind that still retained dire wolf hunting instincts. They have numbers, I have superior individual capability. In normal circumstances, I could defeat them all with dark enhancement and a willingness to inflict serious injury.
But I don't want to be the person who does that anymore.
So what are my options?
What followed was the strangest combat experience of Carsel's life. Instead of overwhelming his opponents with superior power, he found himself fighting with a restraint that was both tactical and moral.
Disarm rather than disable. Trip rather than slice. Use the flat of the blade to bruise rather than the edge to cut.
When a second attacker joined Marcus, Carsel used footwork to keep them in each other's way rather than enhancement to overpower them directly. When a third came at him from the flank, he grabbed the weapon hand and used leverage to throw the boy aside rather than break bones.
This is harder, he realized as he ducked beneath Vincent's desperate swing. Much harder than just overwhelming them with power.
But it's also... better. I'm proving to myself that I can win without becoming a monster.
The fight continued for several minutes, with Carsel giving ground gradually but methodically dismantling his opponents' coordination through superior technique and tactical thinking rather than brute force.
None of the attackers were seriously injured, though several were disarmed and breathing hard from exertion.
I can end this whenever I want, Carsel understood with crystal clarity. But ending it will require either running away—which would prove nothing—or escalating to a level of violence that would defeat the purpose of fighting with restraint.
Unless...
Instead of pressing his advantage when all five opponents were winded and partially disarmed, Carsel stepped back and lowered his sword.
"Stop," he called out in a voice that carried authority but not threat. "This is enough."
"What?" Vincent gasped, leaning heavily on his sword and favoring his injured leg.
"I said stop. I don't want to fight you anymore."
"You don't get to decide when this ends!" Marcus snarled, reaching for a dropped weapon.
"Actually, I do," Carsel replied with calm confidence. "Because I could have seriously hurt all of you in the first thirty seconds of this fight. Instead, I chose to show restraint."
He gestured to the scattered weapons and winded opponents. "You wanted to prove that I'm a monster who enjoys causing pain? Well, here's your proof that I'm not. I had the opportunity to cripple all of you, and I chose not to take it."
"That doesn't make up for what you did to me," Vincent said, but his anger seemed to have diminished slightly.
"No, it doesn't," Carsel agreed. "Nothing can make up for that. But maybe it proves that I can learn from mistakes."
"How touching," a new voice interrupted from the edge of the training ground. "Personal growth through combat. Very... educational."
Everyone turned to see three figures emerging from the shadows where they had apparently been watching the entire confrontation. They wore dark robes that obscured their features, and their presence carried an aura of barely contained power.
Mysterious organization, Carsel realized with a sinking heart. They chose the perfect moment to reappear.
"Who are you?" Vincent demanded, but his voice carried a nervousness that suggested he sensed danger from the newcomers.
"Observers," replied the central figure in a voice that was cultured but cold. "Interested parties who have been... monitoring young Nightshade's development."
"This is a private matter," Marcus tried to assert, but even his noble authority seemed diminished in the face of these strangers.
"Actually," the second figure said with amusement, "nothing about Carsel Nightshade is a private matter for us. We have... an investment in his future."
Carsel felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. These people had been watching him, studying him, waiting for a moment of vulnerability or opportunity.
And now, weakened from withdrawal and philosophical crisis, I'm facing both Vincent's revenge and whatever these people want.
The Recruitment Pitch
"Leave," Carsel ordered Vincent and his friends in a tone that brooked no argument. "This doesn't concern you anymore."
Surprisingly, Vincent nodded. Whatever these newcomers represented, his survival instincts were telling him to be elsewhere.
"This isn't over," Vincent warned as he and the others retreated. "But... maybe next time we talk instead of fight."
After the students departed, the central figure stepped closer to Carsel with movements that suggested a predator approaching prey.
"Impressive display," the figure said with approval. "Fighting with restraint when you could have dominated completely. Very... mature."
"What do you want?" Carsel asked bluntly.
"The same thing we wanted last time we spoke. Your talents, properly directed."
"And I told you—I don't follow. I lead."
"Ah yes, your... ambitious demands." The third figure laughed with a sound that held no warmth. "You wanted to become a leader from the beginning, with no experience or understanding of our organization."
"Has anything changed your perspective?" the central figure asked in a tone that suggested genuine curiosity. "Recent experiences might have shown you the value of... guidance."
They know about the Revan fight, Carsel realized. They know about the withdrawal symptoms, about the crisis I've been facing. They're offering help at exactly the moment when I'm most vulnerable.
"What kind of guidance?" he asked carefully.
"Training to develop your abilities properly. Resources to manage... side effects of your power. Protection from enemies who would see you destroyed."
"And in exchange?"
"Service. Loyalty. Commitment to our vision of the world's future."
The offer was tempting. Carsel could feel his Soul Devourer addiction stirring, whispering that these people could provide access to power that would solve all his problems.
But they want loyalty. They want me to become their weapon, their tool.
And I've already decided that I won't let anyone else control my destiny.
The Refusal
"No," Carsel said with finality.
"No?" The central figure's tone carried surprise. "You're refusing aid when you clearly need it?"
"I'm refusing to trade one form of servitude for another," Carsel clarified. "You want to use me. Vincent wants to punish me. The academy wants to control me. Everyone wants to decide who I should be and what I should do."
"And what do you want?" the second figure asked with what might have been genuine interest.
"To decide for myself," Carsel replied with a conviction that surprised him. "To find a way to be stronger without becoming a monster. To fix the mistakes I've made without making worse ones."
"Noble sentiments," the third figure said with mockery. "But sentiment doesn't protect you from enemies or feed your... appetites."
"Maybe not," Carsel acknowledged. "But at least they're my sentiments, not someone else's agenda."
The central figure was silent for a long moment, seeming to weigh options. When he spoke again, his voice carried an undertone of threat that was subtle but unmistakable.
"You realize, of course, that protection cuts both ways. An organization that protects valuable assets also... removes threats to those assets."
"Are you threatening me?" Carsel asked in a tone that was more curious than afraid.
"Stating reality. A young man with your abilities, uncontrolled and unaligned, represents a potential threat to many interests. Better to have you as an ally than an enemy."
"Or a neutral party who minds his own business," Carsel suggested.
"Neutrality is a luxury that few can afford in the coming conflicts," the second figure warned. "Changes are coming to this world. A war between forces that you cannot imagine. When that time arrives, everyone will be forced to choose sides."
"Then I'll choose when that time comes," Carsel replied with steadiness. "Based on my values, not your recruitment pitch."
The third figure stepped forward with a movement that carried implicit menace. "And if your... dietary requirements... become overwhelming in the meantime? If withdrawal symptoms prove fatal?"
They know about the addiction, Carsel realized. They've been studying the Soul Devourer ability, probably waiting for the moment when hunger would make me desperate enough to accept any offer.
"Then I'll find a solution that doesn't involve becoming anyone's tool," he said with more confidence than he felt.
The central figure nodded slowly, seeming to accept the refusal at face value. But something in his posture suggested this was not a final answer.
"As you wish," the figure said with formal politeness. "But remember—offers can expire. Protection can be withdrawn. And enemies... enemies are patient."
"I'll keep that in mind," Carsel replied with equal formality.
"I'm sure you will." The central figure turned to leave, pausing to add over his shoulder: "Oh, and Carsel? Next time we meet, circumstances may be quite different. Do try to survive until then."
With that ominous farewell, the three figures melted back into the shadows with supernatural grace, leaving Carsel alone in the training ground with a racing mind and a growing certainty that his problems were far from over.
Standing alone as the afternoon sun began to set, Carsel reflected on the events of the past hour with a mind that felt clearer than it had in days.
Vincent wanted revenge, and I chose restraint over violence.
The organization wanted loyalty, and I chose independence over protection.
Both choices probably made my life more dangerous, more difficult.
But they were my choices, based on my values, not reactions driven by fear or addiction.
Maybe that's what growth actually looks like—not becoming more powerful, but becoming more selective about how power is used.
Maybe Elena, Gareth, and Sage would be proud that I'm finally learning to think before I act.
Withdrawal symptoms still pulsed in the background of his consciousness, the Soul Devourer addiction still whispered promises of easy power. But for the first time since gaining the ability, Carsel felt like he had some measure of control over his responses.
I'm not cured, he admitted to himself. The addiction is still there, enemies are still circling, and I'm still facing challenges that I'm not sure I can handle.
But I'm making better choices. And maybe that's enough to start.
Maybe that's how redemption actually works—not a dramatic transformation, but a series of small decisions to be better than you were yesterday.
With that fragile comfort providing him, Carsel began walking back toward the dormitory. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new temptations, new opportunities to prove whether his newfound principles were genuine or just a temporary weakness.
But tonight, he could rest knowing that when tested, he had chosen mercy over cruelty, independence over servitude.
It was a small victory, but it was his.
And for now, that was enough.
To be continued...