It was the next day.
Silias had spent the previous night beside Sunny and Teacher Julius, learning how to swim… and how to build a boat. The lessons were strange, oddly peaceful—until the cold returned to his bones. He still felt weak.
Grabbing a steaming cup of bitter coffee, he made his way toward the combat training ground once more. Today, his wish was simple: to beat the legacy speedster… and Changing Star.
He wasn't arrogant—he just knew.
Beating an Awakened Tyrant out of nothing but spite and hollow hope had proven enough.
And yet…
He also knew that if not for the Thornpiercer, he would have died that day. No victory was truly his—not without cost. Not without consequence.
Beating twenty Sleepers today would be no small feat.
Still, it wasn't out of reach.
He had a steady streak. Five, maybe six wins on average—he just needed thrice that. Perhaps he'd manage.
"Ho… please have mercy on me, dead gods."
A quiet prayer escaped him as he sat in the classroom, the coffee warming his hands while the rest of the class murmured in anticipation.
Awakened Rock had yet to arrive.
But the dread had.
And so began what Silias liked to call the Ring Fight.
Not its official name — there wasn't one. But the rules were simple. Step into the ring, and you'd face everyone seated around it, one by one, with no rest and no rescue. Fall, and you'd be dragged out. Stand, and you'd earn something close to respect.
Awakened Rock stood at the side, his voice deep and clear as he reminded them of what was already etched in their bones:
"Step in on your own. Step out only if you can."
It wasn't a small decision. Entering the ring meant putting your body, pride, and place on the line. You had to be more than confident — you had to be desperate or sure. Both, maybe.
No movement.
No volunteers.
The silence thickened.
And then, to no one's surprise…
A Sleeper stood up, boots steady, and stepped into the ring.
He was small.
But Silias knew him.
Not by name—he doubted the guy even spoke much—but by presence. That Sleeper had become his frequent opponent, either by strange coincidence… or by Rock's silent design. Maybe the instructor saw something in the way they fought. Maybe he just liked watching them push each other.
Silias didn't care enough to guess.
He pushed the thought aside. It was easy. His mind had that uncanny, unnatural trick—when he willed it, everything slowed, narrowed, muted. Words, noise, thoughts… gone. All that remained was clarity. Cold, perfect clarity.
He could only call it one thing: robotic.
And so, as the small Sleeper stood under the harsh training lights, arms loose and head lowered—
Silias stepped into the ring.
If he fell, he was out. No excuses, no rematches.
But if he won? Then it would count—each fight, each fall, each strike—toward the twenty he needed. A small fraction of the storm ahead, yet still a step forward.
He didn't need to win them all. Just enough.
Just enough to make the ring remember his name.
He felt the sleeper charge.
Silias knew this one — all wild power and forward motion. Charges, punches, and kicks. Straightforward. Predictable.
Silias, on the other hand, was all about stillness. Counters, parries, and precise grabs. Maybe, if things got messy, an occasional slice and dice with his nails.
His bandaged arms loosened, fingers relaxing just enough. His shoulders dropped. It almost looked like he wasn't ready.
The Sleeper leapt, throwing a sharp punch toward Silias' head — fast, tight, and convincing.
Silias slid aside, a smooth sidestep.
But it was a feint.
The real attack came in the form of a whipping kick, coiled and waiting, now exploding from the ground in a sharp arc aimed for Silias' temple — brutal, elegant.
And it landed.
Sort of.
The kick landed—sort of.
The small Sleeper had thrown everything into it. His Aspect let him pour stamina into a single, overwhelming strike, and that's exactly what he did. One blow to end it clean. His foot connected with Silias' head—
—but it didn't feel like a hit.
It felt wrong. Like striking a wall of flesh wrapped in tension, a wire pulled taut, yet unbroken. A cold stillness hung in the air. And then came the silence.
The Sleeper blinked.
His leg wasn't free.
He looked down—Silias had caught it.
Not flinching, not reeling. Just... watching. Calm, terrifying stillness in his eyes. His bandages had slipped loose during the feint, his hands now bare, fingers curled into claw-like arcs. His body was arched forward like a beast preparing to strike, legs taut, balance flawless.
Before the Sleeper could react, Silias pulled.
Momentum shifted violently—the smaller Sleeper stumbled forward, and then it came: a brutal palm strike slammed into his abdomen with the force of a sledgehammer.
He flew back—not far, but far enough.
Because in that moment, size wasn't a disadvantage.
It was leverage.
And Silias had just made it his weapon.
Then came the maul — a brutal twist of the body as Silias dragged him sideways, momentum cracking the balance of the sleeper's stance.
And the slam. Bone and breath met the ring's hard surface with a dull, final thud.
It wasn't elegant. It was feral. Raw.
Silias huffed once, his breath controlled and shallow, eyes cold as he glanced down at the now-unconscious figure sprawled beneath him.
He bent down, lifted the small sleeper easily with one arm, and pushed him gently but firmly beneath the ropes — out of the ring.
Then, without a word, Silias turned and took his stance once more.
There was no pride in his expression. No arrogance.
Just space — cleared and waiting.
Let the next come.
As another stepped in… and then another… and yet another, Silias fought them one by one.
He moved like an echo of violence — sharp, instinctive, unhesitating. Parry, twist, strike, throw.
And then, as one more opponent fell, clarity slipped for just a moment.
A memory flickered through the cracks of his concentration —
Day 1.
The first day he stepped into the ring.
No stance.
No posture.
Just his eyes. Dull.
His arms, still wrapped in old bandages.
His nails — not fists, but claws.
Everyone else had hesitated that day.
Silias had not.
He didn't remember the name of the first person who stepped into the ring with him.
Only that they didn't walk out of it the same.
Since then, they'd called it feral.
He didn't argue.
The memory snapped away as the next sleeper came running —
and the blood in his body surged with a cold, ruthless beat.
Silias bared his teeth.
Let them come.
The first evaluation had been simple — strike a dummy and see how much strength you had. A basic gauge. A number on a screen.
Most sleepers had hit the reinforced target with a clenched fist, a kick, maybe a practiced blow from whatever martial art they remembered.
Of course, Silias knew about this;
He had stepped up, raised his hand…
And struck.
Not a punch. Not a claw.
A palm — flat, open, and precise.
The reinforced dummy shuddered. A quiet crack spiderwebbed from the center of impact, small but deep, almost unnoticeable to the untrained eye. The screen above glitched for a breath too long before flickering to life.
Not the highest number.
But enough.
Enough to make the instructors pause.
Enough to make the others stare.
It had been instinct.
Palm, nails, claws — brutality wrapped in silence.
Silias didn't fight before. Not in his first life. Not in the second.
But now, in the ring, something ancient stirred in his bones.
Like muscle memory from a forgotten lifetime, the violence bled from him naturally — savage, fluid, without hesitation.
He didn't think. He didn't need to.
His body remembered what his mind never learned.
He was made for this.
He had gotten a decent 17 with his palm strike.
Not a punch. Not a kick. A flat, open-handed blow — instinctual. Natural. His bandaged hand had cracked the dummy subtly, a clean line running through the core.
People whispered. Many scoffed.
To them, he was just another sidekick. The quiet one, always near the boy who'd lost his mind — Sunny, the self-proclaimed madman. If that guy was a lunatic, then what was his silent companion?
Weak, probably.
But 17 wasn't weak.
More than Changing Star.
That thought lingered a moment longer than it should have.
Still… she was different.
She would kill with a sword.
Precise. Efficient. Flawless.
She could slice through his feral claws before he even blinked.
A 17 wasn't good.
It was only decent.
And against people like her?
Decent got you dead.
Most people were getting numbers ranging from ten to fourteen. That was considered solid — respectable. Athletic even, by pre-Awakened standards.
Some Sleepers, especially those with strength-enhancing Aspects, managed to hit fifteen or sixteen.
Sunny stood somewhere near the back, quiet and still.
But Silias didn't look at him directly. He watched through shadows — his own, and Sunny's.
Not faces, not eyes. Just outlines. Movements. Weight.
And yet, even though silhouettes, Silias saw it clearly.
Changing Star — 16
Caster — 21
Sunny — 18...