Ren was falling.
Not through space—through heat and pressure.
Heat pressed in from all sides, heavy and suffocating. His lungs burned as if he'd been holding his breath too long, chest tightening until the instinct to gasp clawed its way upward.
Light fractured around him.
Purple-white. Violent. Loud in his bones.
Something inside him strained—tightened—then shifted the wrong way, like a door being forced on a jammed hinge.
Ren tried to move. To scream.
His body wouldn't answer.
And then—
Cold air.
Ren sucked in a sharp, shallow breath as his eyes snapped open.
White stone blurred overhead, light too bright, too clean. For a moment, he didn't know where he was—only that something inside him felt wrong, like something inside him hadn't settled back where it belonged.
His limbs felt heavy.
Not numb.
Full of weight that didn't belong to him.
Pain hit in a rolling wave—first behind his eyes, then deeper, spreading down his throat and into his chest like a deep bruise heating from within. Ren's breath stuttered. His fingers curled hard into the bedding.
A sound tore out of him before he could stop it—half a gasp, half a broken groan—because his body finally remembered it was allowed to hurt.
"Easy," a calm voice said.
Ren turned his head an inch. That was all he could manage.
A woman stood beside the bed, dark robes marked with the academy's sigil stitched in silver thread. Her hands were steady as she adjusted a vial hanging from a thin crystal line.
"You've been unconscious for thirteen days," she said. "Don't try to sit yet."
Ren's breath caught.
Thirteen.
The word didn't land properly.
Lina's face flashed in his mind—wide-eyed, trusting. The promise tightened like a noose.
Ren tried to speak. The effort scraped his throat raw.
"The… arena," he forced out, the words barely sound. Pain spiked hard enough to make his eyes water. "Did I—"
"You survived," she said. "That's the relevant part."
"Did anyone… get hurt?"
"Your opponent suffered burns and shock. Nothing permanent."
Then, more flatly, "Trials aren't meant to be injury-free."
She watched him closely as his breathing fought to steady.
"You pushed your body far beyond safe limits," she continued. "There was severe meridian strain. Mana backlash. Temporary damage to your vocal cords." A pause. "You're fortunate you didn't tear something permanently."
Ren swallowed. Even that hurt.
Something shifted deep in his chest—not pain exactly. Pressure. Unfamiliar.
His vision swam. The white ceiling bent at the edges. The room felt too loud for how quiet it was.
The medic's voice softened, but stayed firm.
"Rest. Your body will take what it can. Don't force it."
Ren tried to nod. The motion made the ache behind his eyes flare.
He let out one shallow breath—then another—and the weight pulled him under again, sleep folding over him like a second collapse.
Ren woke again hours later, to dimmer light.
This time the pain didn't surprise him. It waited—present, steady—like his body had decided it would not let him forget what he'd done.
He managed small things. A few sips of water. A few slow breaths that didn't tear his throat open. The medic checked his eyes, his pulse, the faint lines of mana response along his wrists.
Ren drifted in and out for hours.
When footsteps approached, he felt the change in the room before he saw anyone—the subtle tightening of attention, the way the medic straightened without being told.
The headmaster entered the room.
He was older than Ren had expected, hair silvered but posture straight, presence firm without being oppressive. His gaze settled on Ren with something gentler than scrutiny—but sharper than sympathy.
"You're awake," he said. "Good."
Ren tried to push himself up. The room tilted.
The medic's hand pressed him back down. "Don't."
Ren exhaled and looked back at the man standing at the foot of his bed.
"I'm Alric Thorne," the headmaster said calmly. "Headmaster of the academy."
Ren swallowed. "Sir," he said hoarsely. The word came out thin. "The trials. The rest of the matches—"
"You missed them," Alric said.
Ren's chest tightened.
"So I failed."
"No," Alric replied.
"You were enrolled."
The word struck harder than any blow.
Ren blinked. "Enrolled?"
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
"But the second trial," Ren said. "I didn't finish. I didn't win three."
Alric regarded him carefully.
"I accepted you based on the incident," he said. "But do not misunderstand what that means."
Ren waited.
"You are not safe here," Alric continued, voice calm but unyielding. "Not from failing. Not from people. Not from what you are." His gaze didn't waver. "The academy does not shelter potential. It pressures it."
The weight of that settled heavily in Ren's chest.
"You will remain only if you break your own barriers," Alric said. "No one else will do it for you."
Behind him, another figure stepped forward.
A boy Ren's age stood near the doorway, posture relaxed, eyes sharp and attentive. He'd been there the entire time—silent, observing.
"This is my son," Alric said. "Lior."
Lior inclined his head slightly.
He looked like someone who'd never had to rush.
"You're the one who collapsed the ring."
Not praise.
Not accusation.
Just fact.
Ren didn't know how to respond.
"You look better than I expected," Lior added. "That's a compliment."
Alric turned to leave.
"I will check on your progress personally," he said. "Do not make me regret this decision."
Then he was gone.
The room felt quieter without him.
Lior lingered.
"When you're cleared to move," he said, "I'll give you a tour. Dorms, training halls. You missed orientation while you were unconscious, so you'll be catching up."
Ren nodded slowly.
Lior turned to go.
"Wait," Ren said.
Lior paused.
"Could I… have some paper?"
Lior didn't ask why.
He reached into his sleeve and produced a thin stack of paper and a pen. He set them on the bedside table with care.
"I thought you might," he said.
Then he left.
Ren waited until he was alone.
His hand shook as he picked up the pen.
The page stared back at him, blank and accusing.
He wrote carefully.
I'm alive.
I got in.
I'm staying at the academy.
Sorry it took me time to write.
He hesitated.
Then added:
I haven't forgotten what I promised.
I'll come home when I can.
Ren folded the letter carefully with his unsteady hand.
When the medic returned, Ren shifted carefully and cleared his throat, the movement sparking pain.
"Um—" The sound came out rough. He tried again, slower. "Miss…?"
She paused, looking at him.
Ren swallowed. "I didn't… get your name."
A beat. Then, "Maera," she said. Not unkindly. "Maera Lin."
Ren nodded faintly. "Maera… could you do me a favor?"
He lifted the folded letter with careful fingers. "Could you… send this? To my orphanage. To Elda."
Maera took it, eyes flicking over the neat fold.
"I can," she said. "When the messenger runs."
"Thank you," Ren managed. The words cost him.
Maera took the letter and tucked it away without comment.
Ren lay back against the pillows, chest aching, and stared at the ceiling.
He was alive.
He was here.
And now there was no turning back.