The bell rang at the edge of Blackthorn's training zone.
A flat clang, sharp and slow, meant to signal the end of morning drills.
Arin walked alone toward the east wing, where cleanup squads met before assignments.
His chest still ached from Kai's strikes. Nothing broken.
Just sore.
Deep tissue soreness that didn't come from surface bruises, but from something inside stretching too far.
But he didn't limp.
Didn't show it.
The others didn't wait for him.
Most of them had already swapped into fresh gear and moved toward the mess hall, laughing about new formations or trash-talking the next match rotation.
Arin headed the opposite way, down the old hall.
The one with the cracked walls and broken lights. The hall where they sent students like him the "non-combat prospects."
Basically, kids they didn't think would survive the year.
He passed a window.
Saw the sky through dust-stained glass.
Pale and flat.
Outside, a few students were lined up near the public access node, where Talent readings could be re-scanned for error reports.
Arin didn't bother. He knew what it would say.
F-Rank. Physical. Cradle Spark. Useless.
He stepped into the back hall, quiet now.
This part of the academy was always quiet.
Too far from the core building.
Too close to the service tunnels and supply yard.
Two voices echoed ahead.
He stopped, just out of sight.
One was male. The other female. Both older students.
"…I'm just saying, it makes no sense they let him in," the girl was saying. "Why waste resources?"
"You saw what they marked him as," the boy replied. "F-Rank physical. There's like five of those in the whole damn city."
"He's not just F-Rank. He's that kid. You know. The Wall's brat."
Silence. Then a soft laugh.
"Right. Korran's failure."
Arin didn't move.
"I thought Korran died."
"He did. Or disappeared. Who knows. After Thirros, they wiped him from the archives."
"Good. He was a walking embarrassment."
"You're too young to remember, but when I was five, my dad showed me a vid of him fighting. Said he was strong. Said he saved people."
"Sure. Strong. But stupid. No element, no weapon. Just fists and yelling. Like a cave beast."
"Didn't he kill a Tier 4 by himself?"
"Yeah. Took six minutes and a shattered rib cage. Meanwhile, someone with Flame Tracer could do it in half that time with no injuries."
Another pause. Then quieter.
"They say he went crazy in the last year. Stopped speaking. Just stood on the wall waiting. Like he wanted to die."
"You think his son's the same?"
"Worse. At least Korran was respected before he failed. This one never had anything."
They laughed again.
The footsteps moved off.
Arin stepped forward, slow.
The corridor was empty now.
He walked past the lockers toward the back stairwell, fists curled at his sides.
It didn't make him angry.
Not really.
It made him aware.
Of how they talked.
Of how deep the lie had spread.
He had pieces of the truth, now.
From the memories, from Rusk, from the Talent files that still had half-scrubbed records if you looked hard enough.
Korran wasn't a failure.
He was just… left behind.
When the world got new powers, they wanted new heroes.
Ones who glowed.
Who summoned beasts and danced through the sky.
Not men who punched until their arms broke.
Not men who bled on the front line because no one else would.
The stairs creaked as Arin climbed to the second floor.
Dust drifted down from above.
He pushed the door open into the storage loft.
It was empty, except for old mats, unused weights, and stacks of bent training dummies.
And in the corner, sweeping near the broken window, was Rusk.
The old janitor looked up without surprise.
"Back already?"
Arin nodded.
"They tell you you're worthless yet?"
"They didn't have to," Arin said. "They just talked about my father."
Rusk's mouth twitched.
He leaned the broom against the wall and stretched his back.
"I heard 'em," he said. "Kids these days. No filter. No facts either."
"They said he failed. That he fought like a beast."
Rusk walked to a small metal box and sat on it.
"He did fight like a beast. Because he had to. Because no one else would. Because he wasn't born to shine he was born to hold the damn gate."
Arin looked out the window.
"They erased him," Arin said quietly. "From the archives. From the Talent rolls."
Rusk nodded. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"Why?"
"Because they couldn't control him. He didn't join a guild. Didn't wear a badge. Didn't smile for interviews. He just fought. And when people like that get too strong, they stop being useful. They start being dangerous."
Arin sat on the mat, legs crossed.
"You were there," he said. "Weren't you? At Thirros?"
Rusk didn't answer right away.
Then he nodded once.
"I saw him punch through a tunnel crawler the size of a train. Watched him take a tail spike through the gut and still kill the bastard with one arm."
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"I did. No one listened. No one wanted a story that didn't fit their Talent charts."
Arin picked up a piece of metal from the floor. It was shaped like a broken badge.
The edges were smooth, like it had been melted.
"I felt something yesterday," he said. "When Kai hit me. Like my body remembered. Like it was learning."
Rusk raised one eyebrow.
"Cradle Spark?"
Arin nodded. "It's not just a boost. It's something else. It doesn't glow. It doesn't shout. But it moves. Quietly."
Rusk leaned forward.
"I've seen that before," he said. "Just once. Your father… toward the end, he started changing. Not just stronger. Smarter. Faster. Like the more they hit him, the more precise he got."
"Why did he stop?"
Rusk looked down.
"Because by then, no one believed in him. Not even himself."
Silence settled in the room.
Arin stood.
"Then maybe it's my turn."
Rusk gave him a tired smile.
"You want to fix his name?"
"No," Arin said. "I want to finish what he started."