The sun hung low over Nova Sanctum's western edge, casting long shadows across the academy's open training fields. The air shimmered faintly with leftover energy from earlier sparring sessions, but most students had cleared out, retreating to their dorms for rest.
Sam remained.
His limbs were still sore from the incident in City A—bandages hidden under his sleeves, bruises fading slower than his thoughts. Yet something pulled him to the center of the stone arena.
He needed to test himself.
The fight with the ring leader's bodyguard—a B-rank Awakened—was still burned into his memory. Sam had barely won. And even now, thinking about it left a cold chill under his skin.
The academy wouldn't wait for him to recover.
And neither would Zeke.
Sam didn't know how the older boy always seemed to appear exactly when needed. But sure enough, the moment he stepped into the ring, he heard footsteps—measured, silent, absolute.
Zeke stood at the edge of the grounds, arms crossed, silver-trimmed academy jacket catching the wind.
"Still alive," Zeke muttered, his voice low, almost bored. "Thought that meathead in the ring would've flattened you."
Sam gave a tired smile. "He almost did." Sam wasn't confused of how he knew.
"Almost isn't good enough." Zeke stepped onto the stone. "Show me what you learned."
He didn't ask if Sam was ready.
Didn't need to.
Zeke simply raised his hand. A faint hum rippled through the air.
"Come."
Sam reacted instantly, pulling in Aether through his breath and flow points. He dropped into a stance, fists coiled, legs spread just enough for power.
Zeke moved before Sam could blink.
One step, and he was in range.
A sharp palm thrust snapped toward Sam's chest—he barely twisted out of the way, the force still grazing his ribs like a blunt hammer. Sam responded with a rising elbow aimed at Zeke's jaw.
Zeke caught it. Effortless.
Then launched a kick to Sam's midsection that sent him sliding backward, boots scraping against the stone.
Sam coughed, steadying himself.
He's faster than before.
He darted forward, launching a flurry of jabs and sharp Aether-enhanced punches, testing Zeke's guard. Each strike was calculated, honed from days of practice and nights replaying old fights in his head.
But Zeke wasn't testing. Zeke was a storm bottled inside a still frame.
He parried everything. And when he moved, he cut through Sam's rhythm like a blade.
A precise hook found Sam's shoulder. A sweep nearly knocked him off his feet. Zeke wasn't just stronger—he was cleaner. Sharper.
"You're hesitating," Zeke said flatly, blocking another desperate swing. "You think you're a fighter because you've bled once or twice. You're still clumsy."
Sam's fist sparked with Aether—he threw a wide punch, but Zeke ducked and countered with a blow to Sam's side that nearly knocked the wind out of him.
Pain flared.
He dropped to one knee, gasping.
Zeke stood over him, not out of breath. Not even flushed.
Then, he moved.
Faster than before.
One moment Sam was kneeling, the next he was airborne—Zeke's palm having struck him square in the chest. Sam crashed to the stone floor, skidding until he hit the edge of the arena.
His vision blurred. His heart pounded.
That… that was full power.
Zeke approached slowly, eyes calm but cutting. "You're still swinging fists like they're enough."
Sam pushed himself up, teeth clenched. "They got me this far."
Zeke tilted his head. "And they'll take you right into a grave."
He crouched slightly, meeting Sam's gaze level.
"Fists are fine for brawlers. But you want to face the real threats out there? You need reach. You need technique. You need edge."
Sam blinked, chest still heaving.
"You need a weapon."
There was a long silence. The wind rolled past the trees.
Zeke stood again. "Go to Ironhall. The forge in City A. Ask for 'Vann.' He's a grumpy old bastard, but he'll know what to make for you. Sword. Dagger. Whatever fits your flow. Tell him I sent you."
Sam wiped blood from his lip. "You're serious?"
Zeke didn't blink.
"The world won't wait for you to play catch-up. You want to survive the year, Switzer?"
"Get a blade. Learn how to use it. Or get buried trying."
With that, Zeke turned and walked off, hands in his pockets, already done with the conversation.
Sam remained kneeling, breathing heavy. His arms ached, his pride even more.
But somewhere in that pain… was clarity.
Fists were his start.
But maybe they weren't his future.
He looked down at his hands—scarred, bruised, clenched.
And slowly… he opened them.