A day had passed since the storm. Since the shadowed chaos that danced along the broken ruins of the outside world. Rael awoke to warmth—a strange comfort unfamiliar to him. Morning light filtered through cracked windows with gauzy curtains, casting long shadows over the wooden floorboards. The bed was soft, too soft. The air no longer smelled of ash or rusted metal. It smelled...clean.
He blinked slowly. His body ached in subtle places, but his thoughts were clear. Too clear. He rose and found himself in a room far gentler than the world he had known—a quiet sanctuary nestled between crumbling walls. He bathed in a small, rust-stained tub, steam curling like fingers around his limbs. When he emerged, wrapped in a gray towel, he found his clothes neatly folded on a chair. A simple black uniform with faint crimson etching at the collar, shaped like a flickering flame.
He dressed.
Down a crooked hall, past dim lanterns, he reached what looked like a classroom. Only it wasn't.
Graffiti covered the walls like an infection. Red ink, black paint, symbols he couldn't understand. Phrases etched by unsteady hands—warnings, madness, philosophies of forgotten gods. Some words bled over others like layers of a soul too fragmented to read. A cracked board at the front bore deep gashes, as though someone had tried to destroy it but failed. Desks were scattered, scorched, and mismatched. The scent of cigarette smoke and old metal clung to every surface.
It was a thug's den wearing a school's skin.
And only five students sat within it. Including him.
One of them, seated near the center, raised a hand and waved lazily. Seth. The boy who smiled in smoke and spoke like he didn't believe in tomorrows.
"You made it," Seth said with a smirk. "Thought you'd bolt in the night."
Rael raised a brow, folding his arms. "Wasn't in the mood to wander."
"Good choice. Wandering here gets you eaten." Seth's grin widened. "Or worse, recruited."
Before Rael could ask what that meant, the door creaked open. An old man limped in, hunched and thin, his cane clicking against the floor like a metronome of violence. He wore tattered black jeans, one side ripped to the knee, and a patched leather jacket stained with blood, oil, and age. A bandana hung loosely around his neck, printed with skulls. A silver ring pierced his brow, and his eyes were dark, sunken, feral.
A man who had never truly retired from the streets.
"Class!" the old man barked suddenly, voice gravel thick. "Stand your damn asses up! Today, we welcome the new brat—Mr. Eidolon Boy."
Rael stiffened. The air shifted. Eyes turned to him.
Eidolon Boy?
The old man ignored the tension and pointed with his cane.
"You're all defective little blades, but this one here? He's rusted metal polished with tragedy. Let's see if he shines."
Rael said nothing.
"Now then," the man continued, turning to the others. "First, the orange devil—Ari."
A girl leaned back in her chair, one leg kicked over the other. She wore a loose denim jacket with iron studs over a cropped orange top, cargo pants tucked into scuffed black boots. A pair of tinted orange shades rested atop her sleek black hair. Around her wrist, a bracelet glowed faintly—the color of embers.
She winked. "Yo."
"Then we got the meat mountain—Zeke. No brains, all brawl."
Zeke stood up with a chuckle. He was a wall. Towering at least 6'7", built like he could punch through walls and still ask for seconds. His jacket bore a bright red 'H' stitched over the heart.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll go easy on you, kid."
The old man snorted. "You better not. And finally, the silver mop—Ethan."
A pale boy with shoulder-length white hair and kind blue eyes nodded politely. He wore a simple gray coat and black gloves, looking like a ghost who had learned how to smile. Ethan shifted over and took the seat beside Rael.
"Ethan," he said, offering a hand. "Welcome, Rael."
Rael shook it, his voice quieter. "Thanks."
Before they could say more, the old man slammed his cane into the board.
"You!" he shouted at Rael. "You're late. Far behind. Everyone here's touched Myre already. You? You're a blindfolded bird trying to fly."
Rael frowned. "What... is Myre?"
The old man scoffed. "The air, the blood, the echo of your soul. Learn it, or die. That simple."
He turned his back and muttered something Rael couldn't catch.
Ethan leaned closer. "Don't worry. I can show you during break."
Rael tilted his head. "You'd help me?"
Ethan's voice was warm. But in his mind, a colder voice echoed.
He's not like us. He's... something else. I can feel it. He'll learn faster. Too fast.
The lecture began. It was chaos. The old man ranted and paced, sometimes shouting, sometimes cackling, sometimes scribbling words on the board in languages none of them could read. He threw chalk, he cursed, he told stories of battles no one could verify.
When the bell rang—a literal bell rung by Ari from her desk—Rael exhaled.
Break.
Seth and Ethan pulled him aside into a back corridor where broken windows overlooked the dead courtyard.
"Alright," Seth said, stretching. "Time for the crash course. Myre, huh?"
"It's like Shinsu," Ethan explained. "Or aura. Or blood flame. Different schools call it different things. Here, it's Myre. Your soul's intent made into force."
"How do I use it?" Rael asked.
Seth pointed at the air. "Start by breathing. Then imagine yourself doing something impossible. Like catching the wind with your fingers. Feel your heart push outward—not in, not up, out."
Rael closed his eyes.
He inhaled. Slowly.
The world quieted.
He imagined catching the wind.
He imagined a thread of light between his ribs, pulsing with memory. Pain, death, survival.
Then, it happened.
A faint shimmer clung to his fingers. Silver, flickering. Then it burst outward like static, spiraling across his hands.
Ethan's eyes widened.
Seth let out a low whistle. "Well, shit."
"That was fast," Ethan murmured. "Really fast."
Rael opened his eyes. "Is... this it?"
Seth grinned. "You've got the taste. Now you just have to sharpen it."
They returned to the vandalized classroom, where the old man stood like a scarecrow waiting for lightning.
"Everyone outside!" he barked. "Sparring grounds. Time to see if the boy bleeds well."
The "grounds" were a broken stone lot behind the building, littered with shattered pillars and faded bloodstains. The sun hung low, orange and tired.
Zeke cracked his neck and stepped forward. "Rael. Let's spar."
Rael blinked. "Now?"
"Best way to learn," Zeke said, grinning. "Experience makes Myre bleed stronger."
Rael nodded. "Alright."
He stepped onto the broken arena.
Ethan whispered behind him, "Don't break too many bones, Zeke."
Zeke laughed. "No promises."
Rael raised his hands. Myre flickered at his fingertips again—silver, unsure.
But he was ready.
Even if he didn't understand why… something inside him was already awake.