The aches from the beating were gone by nightfall, smoothed away by the insidious, healing power of the stolen mana. It was a perk of the curse Eric hadn't fully appreciated—his body was becoming resilient, quick to mend. The bruises Styles had painted on his ribs were only faint shadows. The real damage was deeper, quieter.
Lying in the dark dormitory, listening to the symphony of his roommates' sleep, Eric felt a new kind of hunger. It wasn't the ravenous, hollow void that demanded mana. This was sharper, more focused. A thirst for competence. Styles had danced around him like he was a training dummy. Eric's survival instincts and stolen strength were useless if he couldn't channel them into something that looked like skill. He couldn't rely on playing the weakling forever. Eventually, someone would hit him hard enough that pretending to fall would turn into actually breaking.
