Chapter 17 – The Path Forward
The Citadel slept.
Beyond the crystal windows, Revenak's towers shimmered faintly, their light dimmed to soft embers that pulsed like a heartbeat in the dark.
Inside his room, John sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the faint glow of the Light veins running through the floor.
He'd been awake for hours.
Tomorrow, Leto would finally clear him to train again. His body had mostly healed—at least on the surface—but the weight in his chest hadn't. It pressed down like the ghost of that blast, a reminder that he'd survived through mercy, not mastery.
He reached for the small glass vials on his desk. Each potion glowed faintly—Focus Dew, Echoveil Essence, the healing tonics he'd learned to craft during recovery. His hands had steadied since that first disastrous night. His alchemy was cleaner, sharper. His control of Light had improved.
And yet—
"Still not enough," he muttered.
He turned the vial in his hand, watching the glow swirl like captured moonlight. "I've learned to make potions. I can control my fire better. But I'm still chasing everyone else's shadow."
Ember stirred on the rug nearby, golden fur dim in the half-light. The Lumibear blinked once, then padded closer, resting his head on John's knee with a soft rumble.
John smiled faintly and brushed a hand through the creature's fur. "You get it, don't you? If I can't keep up… next time, someone else pays for it."
The thought stuck like a knife.
He exhaled slowly and stood, joints protesting as he crossed to the center of the room. "One night won't kill me," he said under his breath. "I just need to feel the Light again."
Forbidden Cultivation
He lowered himself to the floor, closing his eyes. The Citadel's hum surrounded him—quiet, pulsing. His breathing steadied, his thoughts sinking into the rhythm.
The warmth of the Light responded instantly, rising in his chest like molten breath. It hurt—sharp, alive, hungry—but he didn't stop.
He let it burn, guiding it through his core, following the pathways Leto had taught him.
For a brief moment, he saw it—his Light Core, flickering gold and scarlet. The energy within was stronger than before, steadier, but unrefined. It wanted form. Purpose.
He pressed harder, trying to shape it.
The air shimmered. The Light veins along the walls brightened. Ember lifted his head and chirped softly, uneasy.
And then—
"John!"
His focus shattered. The Light recoiled in a flash of heat, dissipating as quickly as it had built.
Tamara stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her silver hair catching the faint glow.
He blinked. "Tamara? What are you doing up?"
"I could ask you the same thing," she said flatly. "You're supposed to rest. Leto's orders."
"It's just cultivation," he said. "Not combat. I'm fine."
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "You're not fine. You almost died a week ago. You think you can rush your way back to strength? That's how you get killed again."
John exhaled, frustrated. "I can't just sit here. Every time I close my eyes, I see that blast coming for you. I should've been stronger."
Tamara's voice softened, but her words cut deeper. "You were strong. You saved us, John. But strength doesn't mean burning yourself out to prove it."
He looked away, jaw tight. "If I don't push myself, I'll fall behind. Blake's already stronger. You're nearly high F-tier. I'm—"
"—Alive," she interrupted. "That's what matters right now."
The silence stretched between them. Her eyes held something quiet—fear she wouldn't say aloud.
Finally, she sighed. "You're impossible."
"Been told that before," he muttered, though the edge in his voice softened.
She shook her head. "Just… get back in bed. Tomorrow you can train as much as you want. Tonight, stop trying to fight ghosts."
He hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll rest."
Tamara gave a small, tired smile. "Good. Because if you collapse again, I'm not dragging you this time."
He smirked faintly. "Sure you wouldn't."
She turned for the door. "Try me."
The door closed behind her, leaving the faint echo of her footsteps and Ember's quiet breathing.
John sank back into bed, staring at the ceiling. The faint light above flickered softly, keeping rhythm with his thoughts.
"One more day," he whispered. "Then I move forward."
The Return to the Training Grounds
The next morning, Revenak was awake before the sun.
When John stepped out into the courtyard, the air felt alive—like the city itself had been holding its breath, waiting.
The Revenakians in the street paused as he passed, whispering softly. Their eyes lingered not just on him, but on the Lumibear walking proudly at his side.
Ember's golden fur reflected the morning light, his presence radiating quiet strength. John tried not to notice the way people bowed slightly as he went by. He didn't feel like a hero. Just someone trying to keep up.
Tamara met him near the outer path, her new sword strapped across her back, frost glinting along the blade's edge. She smiled faintly. "Good. You're not limping."
"Yet," he said.
"Leto's waiting for you. Try not to make him regret healing you."
"No promises," he said, but there was warmth in his tone.
Master and Disciple
The training grounds shimmered like glass under the morning sun. Leto stood in the center, spear resting against his shoulder, gaze distant.
"You're early," he said as John approached.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Good," Leto replied. "Sleep dulls the mind when left to linger. But discipline sharpens it again."
John stepped into the ring. "Then sharpen me."
The Guardian smiled faintly—barely there, but real. "As you wish."
He raised his spear, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
"Before we begin," Leto said, "tell me—what did you learn from almost dying?"
John hesitated, thinking. "That I wasn't ready."
"And now?"
He looked up, eyes steady. "Now I want to be."
Leto nodded once. "Then listen. You've grown stronger—but strength without direction is a flame without air. It burns bright, then dies. From this point on, we temper fire with Light."
He struck the ground with his spear. The training circle flared to life, lines of gold spreading in perfect symmetry. "Your Light must move with purpose. Feel it. Don't chase it."
John took a breath and stepped forward. The first clash was like a heartbeat—Leto's spear moving too fast to follow, his own weapon catching it by instinct alone. Sparks of Light danced between them.
Again. And again.
Every strike, every motion, every lesson burned itself into him.
And when his body gave out, Leto simply said, "Good. Now we begin."
One Week Before the Trial of Dawn
Time blurred after that. Days bled into nights, and weeks into something sharper, harder.
The trio trained until the courtyard stones cracked beneath their feet.
Tamara's Ice Light moved like a storm, cutting the air itself. Blake's poison techniques had grown into something terrifyingly precise. Ember's Light flared brighter each day, now strong enough to shake the ground when he roared.
And John—his fire no longer fought his Light. They pulsed as one.
He'd reached the peak of middle F-tier, his strikes sharper, his movements smoother, his alchemy refined beyond anything he'd thought possible.
But even then, he could feel it—the horizon calling, something vast and heavy waiting beyond.
Leto stood before him at the end of another long day, the last light of sunset burning through the crystal arches.
"Your time of rest is over," the Guardian said quietly. "The next stage begins soon."
John's fingers tightened around his spear. "The Trial?"
Leto's eyes glinted. "Soon," he said. "One week."