After the tea meeting, Ignis's days changed completely.
Training became harsher — not only longer, but heavier, sharper, and merciless. More professional instructors were assigned to him, each one trying a different method… but the result never changed. Ignis still failed to draw out his true power.
Sometimes Clement lost his temper at him. "You can't defeat a hellborne like this," he would shout — words that struck deeper than any wound.
And yet… it wasn't Ignis's lack of effort. He pushed himself until his legs trembled and his muscles screamed, but the power inside him remained sealed, unreachable.
Meanwhile, the others grew stronger.
Erina rose to the rank of Swordsking, a title granted only to the most gifted sword users. Her strength had sharpened, her speed honed to a blinding edge.
Butch's improvement was slower, but steady. He sculpted his body through martial discipline, gaining both strength and presence — and, beyond everyone's expectation… he had even begun studying magic.
Most surprising of all, Swarts was promoted to General after slaying three Class-2 hellbornes. He no longer served as a permanent instructor, yet he still visited the camp just to train Ignis personally.
Ignis himself had grown tougher — his endurance, his reflexes, even his appearance — no longer a boy of seventeen, but something closer to a soldier. Yet inside, the core problem remained unchanged: his ability simply would not awaken.
A new commander soon replaced Swarts at the camp — Miss Sumaya. Unlike him, she did not rule with strictness but with calm, composed authority. The cadets liked her… except when she decided on punishments like "two hundred kilometres in a week."
And so the camp moved forward — everyone evolving, everyone rising.
Everyone… except Ignis, who still stood at the threshold of himself, unable to cross it.
But something unusual had happened during those three months — something that no one in the camp forgot.
It was lunchtime, and Ignis and Butch were sitting side by side as always. They had the usual rations: sandwiches and a small chicken dish.
But the leg piece — that was rare. With hundreds of cadets in one camp, only a few ever got it. That day, Ignis was the lucky one.
And Butch was a known foodie.
He finished his plate quickly, glanced once at Ignis's leg piece… and then, without warning, snatched it straight from Ignis's plate and bit into it.
For a moment Ignis didn't move —
then fury flashed through him.
His hand clenched on instinct, and a sharp click-click-click erupted from his Enometer.
The reading jumped — 132ac.
But Ignis didn't notice.
Anger clouded his thoughts. He rose to his feet and punched Butch in the face with all the strength his rage could channel.
But Butch didn't hit back.
He only grinned — a teasing, wicked grin — and ran off deliberately, provoking him further.
The enometer clicked again.
189ac.
Still, Ignis didn't see it.
He only chased after Butch, unaware that for the first time… his aura had begun to leak through.
Currently, their training was set to finish in two months. After that, each cadet would be given a mission — the final test that decided who would earn the title of Lumo.
But even as time passed, Ava still hadn't woken up. Ignis visited her whenever he could. Some days he sat beside her and spoke softly, hoping she could hear him. Other days he left silently, eyes heavy and red from tears no one else saw. Even so, he held onto one promise to himself — she will wake up.
That morning began like any other. Ignis woke early, brushed, dressed, and stepped out for routine training. But today Swarts was waiting for him — unusually early. Without a word, he motioned Ignis to follow.
Ignis walked beside him, curious, but before he could ask anything Swarts said,
"I don't think traditional training will ever work on you. So… I'm trying a different approach."
They kept walking until the ground became rough and broken. The normal camp surroundings faded behind them. Swarts finally stopped, turning to face Ignis. In front of them lay a shattered landscape — fragments of stone, broken walls, and scorched earth: a ruin that seemed frozen in time.
"Your energy doesn't come from muscle or technique," Swarts said. "It comes from your soul. During your fight with Nocturo, you weren't just fighting — you were collapsing. He cut your hand at the very beginning, remember?"
Ignis stayed silent, listening.
"At first, the gap between your strength and his was enormous. But the moment your sister fell, fear and anger surged together inside you. That emotion — that negative surge — is what forced your true power out."
Ignis looked stunned. Swarts wasn't even there that day… yet he described it as if he had witnessed everything.
Swarts lifted his hand and pointed toward the ruins.
"If I'm right, the raw state of your power can harm anyone nearby. That's why I chose this place."
A faint wind moved through the rubble as he spoke.
"This is called the Ruins of Enzaco."
"Now… your task is simple," Swarts said, adjusting his glasses. "You have to force your soul to release its true energy."
He paused for a moment, then continued:
"Think of your soul as a deep well. The water isn't gone — it's just far below the surface. Normally you draw only what rises on its own… but if you want what lies at the bottom, you have to pull with everything you have. You must drag it upward, even if the rope cuts your hands."
Ignis listened, breath steady but eyes tense.
"In your case," Swarts said softly, "negative emotions are the rope. They pull the deepest layers of your power into the world."
"Before proceeding, warm yourself up. I'll return in an hour."
Swarts turned away and disappeared between the broken pillars of the ruin.
Ignis nodded… but his curiosity refused to.
The silence of the place tugged him deeper than any command could stop.
He stepped into the ruins.
The farther he walked, the heavier the air became. It wasn't just dark — it felt abandoned, like the place itself remembered something terrible. His boots crushed fragments of broken tiles, and the metallic scent of old rust wrapped around him.
Something brushed across his foot.
Ignis froze—pulse sharp—
until he saw the small, grey body scurrying past.
"A rat…" he exhaled, but his shoulders remained tense.
He switched on his flashlight and climbed an old staircase where vines and cracked walls swallowed the path. At the top, he pushed open a half-broken door.
Inside — untouched silence.
Spider webs curled down from the ceiling like hanging threads of silver. Dust floated through the narrow beam of light. And then… his flashlight drifted to the wall.
A photograph.
His heart lurched.
A man he knew… smiling gently in the picture — with two children and a woman beside him. The warmth in the photo clashed with the cold emptiness of the ruined room around him.
Ignis's throat dried. Sweat slid down the edge of his jaw.
He lowered the light — and at the center of the room, a strange circular pattern was carved into the floor, unnatural and faded with time. Beside it were burnt pages… scraps of diaries… torn clothing left to rot.
And a small notebook.
The script inside was unlike anything he had seen — symbols instead of letters, sharp and unsettling. He didn't know why, but his instincts told him to keep it. He slipped it quietly into his pocket.
Then his enometer flashed.
One hour. Almost gone.
Ignis's breath hitched. He bolted out of the room, down the stairs, and back into the open. Outside, he dropped to the ground and started push-ups, sweat still rolling down — not from training, but from dread clinging to his spine like ice.
To anyone watching…
it looked like he was simply warming up.
But Ignis knew —
fear was still sitting in his chest like a weight.
He planned to return later and explore everything properly — the room, the diary pages, even that strange pattern on the floor. But for now, he stepped out of the ruins, mind still lingering inside that broken house…
Ignis went back outside and began doing push-ups, trying to burn away the heaviness inside his chest. He didn't know how long he kept going until Swarts finally arrived. Seeing him like that, Swarts gave a faint smile — the kind that said he understood everything without needing to ask.
"We can continue, right?" Swarts said calmly.
"Yes… we can," Ignis replied.
Swarts stood beside him and began explaining, "First, take a deep breath. Quiet your mind. Feel the air passing through you… let your heart become calm. And then — remember every pain you've endured."
Ignis tried to follow his instructions. He thought of Ava, of her suffering, of every helpless moment — but no matter how deeply he focused, nothing happened.
Swarts's expression dulled a little, though he didn't comment on it. "Again," he said simply. "Keep trying."
Ignis tried — again, and again, and again. Dozens of times, until the sun dipped toward the horizon and the sky turned amber. Sweat dripped from his face, his breathing turned harsh, and frustration began eating its way into his chest.
"I think… there's nothing inside me…" Ignis muttered under his breath, his voice shaking. "I'm useless. I can't do anything…"
The last word escaped him in a shout, bouncing off the stone ruins and echoing back at him — like the world itself was repeating his despair.
"No problem. We'll try again. You have the potential — we just need to find the way to release it," Swarts said, his voice steady and motivating.
Ignis pushed his exhausted body forward, ready to return to the camp. But suddenly, his foot caught on a fragment of rusted metal, and he fell hard onto the ground. Sharp shards embedded themselves in his arms and legs, and blood welled from the cuts, soaking his sleeves.
Then… It happened.
A surge of power erupted from within him. His aura shot up violently, the Enometer flashing 241 AC. Swarts's eyes widened as the faint glow of energy radiated around Ignis. In that instant, a fragment of memory pierced his mind — a shadowy image of a person, blurred and incomplete. A single tear slid down Ignis's cheek as his vision briefly turned a burning red.
He rose to his feet, shaking, and Swarts noticed the faint crimson in his right eye. A cold, metallic presence brushed against his senses — like the weight of chains.
But just as suddenly as it appeared, the sensation vanished. His aura settled back to normal, leaving him trembling, the surge lasting only three to four fleeting seconds.
"It's a success!" Swarts's voice rang through the ruins, sharp yet full of pride. "Yes… pain, pain is the key. It triggers the negative emotions, and that is what fuels your true power. But call it a day. Rest now." His words carried the weight of a father encouraging his son, firm yet gentle.
Ignis's wounds had already begun to heal, the cuts closing as if his body knew what had just happened. Swarts's eyes widened in surprise, admiration flickering across his face. He stepped forward, gave Ignis a light, approving push on the shoulder, and said, "Good job."
Then, without another word, he turned and left, leaving Ignis standing there — exhausted, yet filled with a new sense of purpose and the faint spark of triumph.
Ignis didn't linger. A rare sense of peace filled his mind as he left the ruins behind, the cool night air brushing against his skin. He made his way back to the camp, each step lighter than before. Once there, he ate quickly, changed into fresh clothes, and entered his room. Turning on the lights, he retrieved the notebook he had tucked away.
As he flipped it open and began to examine its contents, a delicate necklace slipped from between the pages. Its orange gem caught the light, glinting like a small sun. Ignis's gaze fell upon it, and a memory from the photograph surged into his mind. Without thinking, he fastened the necklace around his neck and, compelled by curiosity, dove into deciphering the mysterious language of the notebook. Hours slipped by unnoticed, the world outside fading, until exhaustion finally claimed him and he fell into a deep sleep.