They pushed.
And pushed.
And pushed.
Until something inside him cracked.
Not like a twig.
Like a damn faultline under pressure for years.
<hr>
The Academy was supposed to be sacred.
An elite sanctum. A place to rise above.
But for Caelan?
It was a coliseum of quiet cruelty.
Each day, whispers chased him.
Each drill, smirks followed his every move.
Not because he was weak.
Because he shouldn’t exist.
Slum-born. No crest. No surname worth ink.
But worst of all?
He made them bleed.
And nobles don’t forget humiliation.
<hr>
The Bastard That Lit the Match
His name was Revik Talmar.
Son of House Talmar.
Refined Class-2 Aura. Fire-style user.
Weak in real battle.
Strong only when surrounded by friends, law, or walls.
He never fought Caelan directly.
He just used words.
And on that day, after drills—
As Caelan walked past in silence, bruised but composed—
Revik spoke.
Loudly.
“Your mother opened her legs for coppers, didn’t she, Slumrat?”
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Caelan didn’t turn.
So Revik doubled down.
“Bet your sisters are rotting in brothels too. Your whole bloodline smells like sewer wine. I heard your father drowned in his own piss—”
He never finished the sentence.
<hr>
The Snap
There wasn’t a scream.
There wasn’t a war cry.
Just steel.
Cold, jagged steel flying like it wanted blood.
Virael howled as it carved through the wind.
And Revik’s arm flew—severed at the bicep.
Blood sprayed across the marble tiles like cursed ink.
A heartbeat later—
His right leg was gone.
Cleaved from thigh to floor.
He didn’t even scream at first. Just collapsed, twitching, mouth wide open in shock.
Then the shrieking started.
<hr>
The Instructors Intervened
Two of them.
Level C combat certified.
Aura casters with years of battlefield record.
They leapt in—one from the side, one from behind.
Should’ve been enough.
But it wasn’t.
Caelan moved like a revenant possessed.
He didn’t dodge. He just tanked the first strike, his own Aura flaring to madness.
His foot shattered the ground beneath him.
Virael clanged off an instructor’s blade, spinning once—then buried itself into his shoulder.
Second instructor cast a stun glyph mid-air—
Didn’t matter.
Caelan caught the man''s wrist, ripped it sideways, and headbutted him hard enough to crack his jaw.
Blood. Screams. Chaos.
And then—
<hr>
Lucan Dras Varro Walked In
He didn’t shout.
Didn’t draw steel.
Just walked.
Eyes like burning iron. Voice like dragging chains.
“That’s enough, Caelan.”
But Caelan didn’t hear it.
Or maybe he did.
Didn’t matter.
Because the next second, Lucan was in front of him.
And Caelan swung.
A downward arc. Berserker strength.
And Lucan—
Blocked it with one hand.
Aura surged up his forearm like lightning chained in skin.
The force split the ground between them.
Lucan didn’t budge.
“You want to fight something real?” he whispered.
“Then look me in the eyes, Ghost.”
Caelan froze.
That name—
Not Caelan.
Not Slumrat.
Ghost.
Lucan knew.
<hr>
The Aftermath
The medics couldn’t save Revik’s leg.
His arm got reattached, but barely functional. He’d never walk or fight the same again.
The instructors healed up.
But their pride? Still bleeding.
Caelan?
Detained.
No visitors.
Isolated dorm.
No expulsion.
No trial.
Just… silence.
And behind it all, Eryx.
No words from him either.
But Caelan saw it in his eyes when he passed the hall:
Approval.
Not praise.
But something like: Finally.