The dust still hadn't settled.
Stone fragments lay scattered across the courtyard, some still vibrating faintly from residual force. The air carried the smell of scorched earth and iron—blood that had already evaporated from existence under Azelar's control.
Nyk stood upright, shoulders rising and falling slowly, breath steadying. His regeneration had finished its work, but the impact of the lesson lingered far deeper than any wound.
Christine remained silent.
That alone was unusual.
Azelar turned his back to both of them and walked to the edge of the courtyard, gazing out over the vast land of Isola Krein. The continent stretched endlessly—mountains like teeth on the horizon, rivers cutting scars through ancient plains.
Only after a long pause did he speak.
"Power," Azelar said calmly, "is not strength."
Nyk blinked.
Christine straightened.
Azelar did not turn around.
"Power is excess," he continued. "It's abundance. Potential. But without restraint, power becomes panic."
He glanced over his shoulder.
"And panic," he said, eyes sharp, "is fear wearing armor."
Nyk frowned slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Christine's grip tightened around her manifested gun.
Azelar finally faced them.
This time, there was no warmth in his expression.
"This is my first rule," he said.
'Power without restraint is just another form of fear.'
Silence followed.
Not the awkward kind.
The heavy kind.
Azelar motioned for them to follow.
They walked beyond the courtyard, down a worn stone path that led into a natural basin carved into the land. The earth here was darker, denser—an old place, shaped by battles that history no longer remembered.
At the basin's center stood a single stone pillar.
No inscriptions.
No energy.
No aura.
Just stone.
"Christine," Azelar said.
She stepped forward immediately.
"Yes?"
"Shoot it."
She raised her gun without hesitation.
The weapon was not ordinary—it was an extension of her will, a manifestation refined through countless battles. The barrel hummed faintly as resonance aligned.
She fired.
The bullet struck the pillar and exploded into fragments of compressed force.
The stone cracked—but did not fall.
Azelar nodded.
"Nyk."
Nyk stepped up, cracking his knuckles.
He didn't punch.
He erased.
Ruin activated—not violently, not recklessly, but precisely. The concept of the stone's durability fractured. The pillar collapsed into dust as if it had never learned how to stand.
Christine stared.
Azelar exhaled.
"Both impressive," he said. "Both wrong."
They looked at him.
He stepped between them and placed his hand on the remnants of the pillar.
Then he pressed.
No technique.
No power surge.
The ground around the pillar compacted—aligned. The broken stone reassembled, cracks sealing as if time itself had been told to behave.
The pillar stood again.
"Christine," Azelar said, "you rely on execution."
She stiffened slightly.
"Nyk," he continued, "you rely on erasure."
Nyk tilted his head, unbothered. "That bad?"
Azelar met his gaze.
"It's lazy."
That landed.
"For the next two weeks," Azelar said, "neither of you will fight."
Christine's eyes widened slightly.
Nyk frowned. "Say what?"
"You will not spar. You will not hunt. You will not destroy."
Azelar's voice hardened.
"You will learn intent."
Christine was taken to the eastern cliffs.
No targets.
No enemies.
No threats.
Just wind.
Azelar stood beside her as she looked out over the drop—hundreds of meters down, waves crashing far below.
"You draw too fast," he said.
She didn't deny it.
"Speed keeps me alive."
"So does silence," Azelar replied. "But you don't hear yourself think."
He gestured to her gun.
"That weapon listens to your heart before it listens to your aim."
Christine frowned. "That's not—"
"—literal," Azelar cut in. "But it might as well be."
He stepped back.
"For the next fourteen days," he said, "you will draw your weapon a thousand times a day."
Christine blinked. "And fire?"
"No."
She stared at him.
"You will draw," Azelar continued, "and you will not pull the trigger."
Her jaw tightened.
"Why?"
Azelar's gaze softened—not weak, but old.
"Because when the moment comes," he said quietly, "you won't need to ask yourself whether you should."
Christine said nothing.
That night, her arms trembled.
By the third day, her shoulders burned.
By the sixth, frustration crept in.
By the tenth, something changed.
She began to feel the pause.
The breath between decision and action.
And for the first time, she realized—
She had been firing not because she needed to…
But because she was afraid of waiting.
Nyk's training was worse.
Azelar led him deep into the mountains, to a plateau where gravity felt… wrong.
Not heavier.
More honest.
"You destroy concepts," Azelar said. "That means you bypass consequence."
Nyk shrugged. "Works fine for me."
Azelar nodded.
"Until it doesn't."
He snapped his fingers.
The weight hit Nyk instantly.
Not physical gravity—but existential. The pressure of reality asserting itself, refusing to be erased.
Nyk dropped to one knee.
"Your task," Azelar said calmly, "is to walk from here to the end of this plateau."
Nyk looked up.
The distance wasn't far.
He took one step.
His body screamed.
Ruin surged instinctively—trying to erase the pressure.
It failed.
Azelar watched.
"You cannot destroy what you don't understand," he said. "And you cannot lead what you refuse to carry."
Day after day, Nyk walked.
Sometimes he collapsed.
Sometimes he laughed through the pain.
Sometimes—rarely—he got angry.
But slowly, something changed.
He stopped trying to erase the weight.
He started bearing it.
And Ruin—true Ruin—responded.
Not louder.
Sharper.
At night, they sat together.
No training.
No lessons.
Just firelight.
Christine cleaned her gun in silence.
Nyk smoked, staring at the stars.
Azelar brewed tea.
"You miss him," Christine said suddenly.
Nyk glanced at her. "Rayon?"
She nodded.
Nyk exhaled smoke. "Yeah."
A pause.
"But he's where he needs to be," Nyk added. "Same as us."
Christine looked down at her hands.
"I've never trained like this," she admitted quietly. "No enemy. No urgency."
Azelar poured tea.
"That's why it matters."
He handed her a cup.
"When fear disappears," he said, "what remains is who you really are."
Christine took the tea.
Nyk smiled faintly.
Somewhere far beyond Isola Krein—
Darkness breathed.
And in the Endless Abyss, a throne remained occupied.
Nine months had begun.
And none of them would leave the same.