Aerin returned to classes two days after the ranking matches.
The ranking board in the main courtyard showed the results in glowing letters for everyone to see:
S-CLASS RANKINGS
1. Seren Moonveil
2. Prince Theron Valdris
3. Helena Stross
...
28. Kael Verin
...
37. Aerin Arclight
38. Marcus Delvine
39. Nina Cors
40. Ren Tallis
Three spots from the bottom. One more serious loss and he'd be kicked down to A-Class.
Students walked past all morning. Some pointed. Most whispered just loud enough for him to hear.
"Thirty-seventh? How is he even in S-Class?"
"Heard he almost died fighting Theron. Completely outmatched."
"His family name probably got him in. Pity admission."
Aerin kept his head down and walked to his first class.
In Grimoire Studies, the professor had everyone compare their grimoires' progress. Students around him showed pages filled with spells—complex diagrams, incantations, lists of techniques they'd already mastered.
Aerin opened his grimoire. Four techniques written in fading text:
- Crimson Edge - Coat blade in hardened blood
- Crimson Threads - Manipulate blood externally
- Blood Binding - Restrain through blood contact
- Crimson Trail- Sense through blood underground
That was all. Everyone else had ten, fifteen, even twenty spells already. The girl next to him glanced over at his nearly-empty pages and quickly looked away, like his grimoire might be contagious.
At lunch, Aerin took his tray to a back corner table. Alone.
Kael found him within minutes.
"There you are!" Kael dropped his tray down with a loud clatter and sat across from him. "Been looking everywhere. How're you feeling?"
"Fine."
"You're a terrible liar." Kael pushed half his food toward Aerin's nearly-empty tray. "Eat. You look a zombie."
"I have my own—"
"One piece of bread isn't lunch. Eat."
Aerin ate. The food helped. His stomach had been a tight knot since the ranking matches, but having something warm in it loosened it slightly.
"So," Kael said around a mouthful of meat, "I've been thinking."
"About?"
"Training. We should train together. Every day."
Aerin looked up. "Why would you want to do that?"
"Because I'm ranked twenty-eighth and you're thirty-seventh, which means we're both in the 'probably going to get destroyed by top students' category." Kael grinned. "Might as well suffer together. Plus—hear me out—I'm a fire mage, you do blood magic stuff. Different elements. We could figure out combinations. Cover each other's weaknesses."
"You could train with anyone. People actually like you."
"Yeah, but they're boring." Kael leaned forward, serious now. "Look, everyone else is treating you like you're cursed or dangerous or whatever. I don't care about that. You're strong. You work hard. You didn't give up even when Theron was beating you into the ground. That's the kind of person I want to train with."
Something warm settled in Aerin's chest. "Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Let's do it."
Kael's grin came back full force. "Excellent! We start tomorrow. Dawn. I know a spot—old practice yard behind the armory. No one uses it."
"Dawn?"
"Winners don't sleep in, Aerin. Winners train before breakfast and suffer appropriately." Kael stood up, grabbed his tray. "Don't be late. And get some rest—you'll need it."
Despite everything, Aerin almost smiled. "You're insane."
"Probably. But I'm your friend now, so you're stuck with me."
---
Dawn came cold and grey.
Aerin made his way to the old practice yard behind the armory. The grass was overgrown, the training dummies worn and weathered from years of neglect. But it was private. Quiet. Perfect for training.
Kael was already there, stretching. "You actually came! Half thought you'd sleep through it."
"I don't sleep much anyway."
"Nightmares?"
Aerin didn't answer. Kael nodded like he understood and didn't push.
"Alright. Let's start simple. Show me that technique you used against Theron. The one with the red veins."
Aerin drew Sangreal. The black blade caught the early morning light. He cut his palm—quick, clean—and pressed it against the blade.
Blood flowed over the metal. The sword drank it down eagerly.
Crimson veins erupted from the hilt, racing up Aerin's arm like living things. They spread across his skin, burning and painful. His heartbeat synchronized with the sword's pulse.
THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP.
Power flooded through him. The exhaustion from yesterday faded. Everything became sharper, faster.
"Okay, that's terrifying," Kael said, eyes wide. "How long can you hold it?"
Aerin counted in his head. Fifteen seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.
At forty-five seconds, the drain hit hard. His vision blurred. Heart stuttered. He released the connection quickly.
The crimson veins faded. Aerin staggered.
Kael caught him before he fell. "Forty-five seconds. Not bad for a start. What happens if you push longer?"
"I pass out. Or worse."
"Then we work on extending that. Gradually. A few seconds more each day." Kael helped him sit. "What else can you do?"
Aerin showed him the basics. Crimson Edge—coating the blade in hardened blood for enhanced cutting. Crimson Threads—manipulating his blood into wires for grappling or binding.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Kael was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then he grinned. "Okay. So we make those techniques better. Stronger. More efficient. And we figure out combos—my fire plus your blood magic. Ready?"
They trained for two hours.
Kael threw fireballs. Aerin dodged, using short bursts of Crimson Pulse* to enhance his speed. When he got close enough, he'd strike with Crimson Edge, the blood-coated blade cutting through Kael's fire constructs.
It was exhausting. Brutal. By the end, both were covered in sweat, minor burns, and bruises.
But it felt good. Like progress.
"Same time tomorrow?" Kael asked as they headed back.
"Yeah."
"Good. And hey—you lasted two full seconds longer that last time. That's progress!"
Aerin realized he was smiling. Actually smiling. When was the last time that happened?
---
They trained every morning that week.
Day three: Aerin could hold Crimson Pulse for fifty seconds before the dangerous drain hit.
Day five: They developed their first combination attack. Kael would create a ball of fire, and Aerin would use Crimson Threads to grab and redirect it at targets. Fire manipulated by blood. It was crude, but it worked.
Day seven: Aerin won a sparring match without using Crimson Pulse at all. Just Crimson Edge, Crimson Threads, and strategy.
"You're getting scary good," Kael said, breathing hard after the match. "Like, actually scary. Still nowhere near Theron's level, but—"
"But I'm improving."
"Exactly. Give it time. Keep training like this, and next time you face him, it'll be different."
On day eight, after an especially brutal training session, they both collapsed in the grass, too tired to move.
"Why are you really doing this?" Aerin asked quietly. "Helping me. Being my friend. You could train with anyone. People like you."
Kael was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You ever hear me talk about my little sister?"
"The one who can make ice?"
"Yeah. She's..." Kael's voice got softer. "She's sick. Has been for years. Some kind of magic illness the healers can't fix. Gets worse every month. That's why I'm here at this academy. Learning to be the best fire mage I can be. Because somewhere out there is a cure, and I need to be strong enough to find it. Strong enough to save her."
"I'm sorry." Aerin said softly intending to calm him.
"Don't be. Point is—I know what it's like to feel helpless. To feel like you're not strong enough to protect the people who matter." Kael looked over at him. "When I saw you fighting Theron, even when you were losing badly, you kept getting back up. You didn't quit. That reminded me why I'm here. Why I can't quit either."
He sat up. "So yeah, I'm helping you train. Because you remind me that strength isn't about being the best from the start. It's about getting back up when you fall. And because..." He grinned. "You're my friend. That's what friends do—we help each other get stronger."
Aerin felt something burn behind his eyes. He blinked hard. "Your sister's lucky to have you."
" we're all in this together." Kael said.
They sat in comfortable silence as the sun rose higher, warming the practice yard.
For the first time since waking up in this world, Aerin felt like he belonged somewhere. Like he had something worth fighting for beyond just survival.
---
That night, Aerin found a note slipped under his door.
He almost missed it—a small piece of yellowed paper, so old it looked like it might crumble at a touch. He picked it up carefully.
The writing was done in dried blood. The letters were elegant but menacing:
The Ashen Hand remembers.
The Crimson Emperor's heir will fall.
Just like his family did.
Aerin's blood ran cold.
Just like his family did.
The massacre three months ago. The fire that killed everyone. The original Aerin dying alone in the ruins, clutching this grimoire.
This wasn't just a threat.
This was a confession too.
The Ashen Hand had killed his family. Murdered them all. And now they were coming for him.
Aerin's hands shook as he held the note. Rage burned in his chest, hot and fierce. But beneath it was something colder. Fear.
If they'd killed his entire family—trained mages, all of them—what chance did he have?
He looked at Sangreal, leaning against his bed. The sword's faint heartbeat pulsed in the quiet room.
Thump-thump.
Whatever was coming, he'd face it.
But first, he needed answers.
Aerin grabbed his cloak and headed for the door. The Headmaster's tower was on the opposite side of campus, but he didn't care. Headmaster Arvell had known his grandmother-Atleast that was what the memories said,
He would have answers.
And Aerin wouldn't leave until he got them.