I stopped reporting to rotations on the fourth day.
Not because I forgot.
Not because I overslept.
Because I was done letting the Academy decide when I was allowed to exist.
They'd been careful with their cruelty. Clean. Administrative. Quiet enough that nobody could point at it and call it violence. They didn't chain my wrists. They didn't throw me into a cell. They didn't scream.
They just made me smaller on paper until the world treated me like I was already gone.
Conditional Knight.
A title that followed me like a collar.
And the worst part was that they expected me to accept it politely—like I should be grateful I was still allowed to breathe their air.
I'd listened. I'd endured. I'd tried to hold myself steady through the squeeze, thinking if I stayed calm, the pressure would pass.
It didn't.
It tightened.
So I stopped playing their game.
I walked out of my assigned drill block while the instructor's voice was still echoing off the stone.
"Rain," he called.
I didn't turn.
He started to repeat it, sharper this time, like volume could restore authority.
I kept walking.
The corridor swallowed the sound behind me.
I didn't feel triumphant. I didn't feel rebellious.
I felt… quiet.
Like a door finally closing in my mind.
They could keep their schedules. Their slates. Their classifications.
I wasn't going to let them reshape my spine into something that bowed on command.
I wasn't a doctrine.
I wasn't their cautionary mark burned into steel.
I was just—
A boy.
That was the simplest truth I'd ever carried, and the most difficult for them to accept.
Because a boy could refuse.
A tool couldn't.
I didn't storm into the administration wing.
I didn't kick doors open or make declarations in front of crowds.
I did something worse.
I became ungovernable in small ways.
I moved through the Academy during active blocks. Past training yards. Past lecture halls. Past formation grounds where other students stood in lines like they were trying not to draw attention.
I skipped every assigned rotation they gave me.
Not to hide.
To be seen.
To prove I wasn't going to vanish quietly into their paperwork.
An instructor spotted me near the east stairwell and raised a hand.
"Rain—your rotation is—"
"I know," I said, voice flat.
I didn't slow down.
He stared like he'd expected the world to snap back into place the moment he spoke.
It didn't.
I heard him take a step after me.
Then stop.
Because what do you do with someone who refuses to acknowledge the script?
Punishment required a stage.
They'd built mine out of silence.
At first, I didn't realize it was happening.
I just felt… wrong.
Like my skin didn't fit right. Like my breath had weight.
Aura wasn't flaring. Not consciously. Not the way it did in battle, not the way it answered when I called.
It was leaking.
Not in bright waves, not dramatic.
More like breath in winter—thin, steady, unavoidable.
A faint sheen of water clung along my forearms, evaporating and reforming in a loop I wasn't controlling. White thunder didn't crack outward; it whispered inside the air, tiny static pricks crawling along the corridor stones.
And beneath it—
Will.
Not the stabbing pressure from the sparring ring.
Something softer.
Denser.
Like the presence of a deep ocean behind a thin wall.
It wasn't crushing anyone.
But it changed the air.
Students began moving aside without thinking.
Not running.
Not panicking.
Just instinctively stepping away as if their bodies recognized a boundary before their minds did.
A pair of first-years turned a corner, saw me, and froze.
One of them swallowed hard, eyes wide.
I stopped walking for a moment, confused, and the aura—my aura—rolled forward another inch like it had its own tide.
They stepped back.
I hated that.
Not because it made me look strong.
Because it made me feel like something other.
I didn't want fear.
I didn't want reverence.
I wanted to be left alone to make my own choices.
And yet—
My presence already felt like a decision.
That realization turned cold in my stomach.
"So this is what they meant," I thought, staring at the empty stretch of hallway in front of me.
"I don't have to claim authority. It leaks out anyway."
And the scariest part was this:
It wasn't intentional.
If I wasn't trying and it still happened—
What would I become when I did?
I felt eyes on me near the western archway.
Not the tower-watchers.
Not the knights posted like statues.
Someone closer.
I turned my head slightly.
Varein stood by a column, half-shadowed, spear resting against the stone like he'd been there longer than he wanted anyone to know. His expression wasn't wary.
It wasn't guilty.
It wasn't even concerned.
He just watched me like he was reading a familiar page in a book he'd thought had been torn out.
Then—barely—he smiled.
Not admiration.
Not amusement.
Recognition.
It was small, but it hit harder than any speech could've.
This is the Rain I know.
He didn't say it.
He didn't need to.
For the first time in days, something in my chest loosened—not comfort, not warmth.
Just the knowledge that someone saw me as a person, not a designation.
I didn't nod back. I didn't wave.
I kept walking.
Because this wasn't a moment I wanted to romanticize.
It was just truth, passing between us like a blade flashed once and then sheathed.
The air shifted before I saw them.
Not aura.
Not wind.
Authority.
A presence that didn't belong to any student corridor.
Footsteps approached from ahead, steady and calm.
A figure emerged from the bend in the hall.
Masked.
Not a theatrical mask—no decoration, no intimidation design. A smooth, pale surface with no expression carved into it. Their clothing was simple, dark, fitted for movement. No insignia. No rank.
A correction, walking toward me.
They didn't rush. They didn't hesitate.
They stopped ten paces away.
"Rain," they said.
My name sounded wrong in their voice. Too clean. Like it had been read off a slate.
"Come with me."
Not now.
Not please.
Just expectation.
Like my legs should obey without my mind being consulted.
I stood still.
The faint water sheen along my forearms trembled.
White static pricked the air.
I didn't let it flare.
I didn't let it become a spectacle.
I looked at the mask and felt something settle inside me—hard, quiet, final.
"No," I said.
One word.
That's all it took.
The corridor seemed to hold its breath.
The masked figure didn't react like an instructor.
No anger.
No barked command.
Just a slight tilt of the head, as if recalculating.
"Rain," they said again, softer, as if gentleness was another lever. "This is not optional."
I stared at them.
I felt the cut on my cheek from that earlier sparring—old enough to be scabbed, new enough to still sting when I remembered it. I felt the weight of being logged. Being marked. Being separated. Being forced to fail. Being told my instinct to save was a liability.
I exhaled.
"Enough," I said. My voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.
The masked figure paused.
I could almost see the moment they realized persuasion wouldn't work.
They hadn't come for cooperation.
They'd come to restore the story.
To put me back where I was supposed to stand.
"Fine," the figure said.
They took a step back.
Then another.
As if they were leaving.
A deliberate show of control.
They turned away, walking down the hall like this had ended.
My instincts didn't relax.
Something about the way their shoulders sat—too balanced, too ready—made my spine tighten.
I didn't move.
I watched.
The figure took three steps.
Then—
They pivoted.
Fast.
No aura flare. No warning pressure. No dramatic build.
Just clean violence.
A lunge straight down the line of my center, blade flashing from beneath their cloak like it had been waiting there the whole time.
Professional.
Efficient.
A strike designed to end conversation.
I barely reacted.
My body moved before thought caught up.
I twisted aside and brought my sword up—
Too late to block fully.
Steel whispered past my face.
A swallow cut kissed my cheek.
Warmth.
Not pain at first.
Just the sudden slick reality of blood.
I felt the line open and it sharpened my focus into something cold.
"That's it," I thought. "That's what they do when words fail."
This wasn't a lesson.
This was enforcement.
I didn't retreat.
That was the difference.
Old me—trained under instructors, framed under doctrine—would've stepped back, re-centered, re-evaluated.
But I wasn't playing their structure anymore.
I stepped in.
I closed distance like a decision.
My sword came up not in a flourish but in a hard, direct line meant to deny their space. The masked figure adjusted instantly, blade meeting mine with a sharp ring that echoed down the hall.
They were fast.
Not student fast.
Not even captain-drill fast.
This was someone who'd cut down problems quietly before.
Their footwork was minimal, efficient. Every movement conserved energy like they'd been trained to survive long engagements.
I felt the gap in experience immediately.
And I didn't care.
Because I wasn't trying to be better than them.
I was trying to make them stop trying to own me.
They slashed again—low, tight, aimed for my thigh.
I twisted and dropped my weight, steel barely grazing fabric instead of flesh. My heel scraped the stone. Water slicked under my boot unintentionally, and my pivot became smoother than it should've.
The masked figure noticed.
Their blade came up in a feint toward my shoulder.
I didn't bite.
I drove my pommel toward their wrist, forcing their blade line to lift, then cut under it with a short arc—meant to nick, not kill.
They stepped away, cloak fluttering.
I chased one step and stopped.
I didn't want to chase into a trap.
I wanted to control the corridor.
Control the presence.
My cheek burned now. Blood ran warm along my jaw, slipping toward my collar.
It didn't make me angry.
It made me precise.
"You get one surprise," I thought. "You already spent it."
The fight pressed me toward the edge of instinct.
The kind that doesn't ask permission.
My aura answered.
Not exploding outward—no dramatic wave, no arena flare.
It clung.
Water gathered along my blade like it belonged there, a thin sheen that didn't drip so much as adhere. The air around me thickened, humidity rising in a narrow pocket, like the corridor had become deeper.
White thunder didn't crackle around my body like lightning showmanship.
It threaded through movement.
Inside the water film, faint white veins sparked and vanished, quick as thought—like nerve impulses.
The masked figure paused half a beat.
That was all I needed to know.
They felt it.
Not as raw power.
As density.
As something heavy behind my strikes, like each motion carried the weight of an ocean's pressure rather than a boy's arm.
I moved.
A clean diagonal cut meant to force a parry.
They met it.
Steel screamed.
The water on my blade snapped outward in a thin arc, not as a wave but as a lash—light enough to avoid drenched spectacle, heavy enough to sting the air. White thunder traveled along that lash and popped like a silent flash in the masked figure's peripheral space.
They flinched—just slightly.
The first imperfection.
I pressed.
Not wildly. Not desperately.
Deliberately.
Two cuts. One low, one high. A step-in. A step-out.
They parried the high cut and tried to counter with a tight thrust to my ribs.
I shifted my torso and let the thrust slide past, water clinging to my side like a shield for an instant—thin, momentary, but real.
Then I brought my blade down on theirs, pinning it for a heartbeat.
White thunder snapped inside the contact point.
Not loud.
But sharp.
The masked figure's weapon jolted like it had been bitten.
They wrenched free.
Backpedaled.
For the first time, they weren't controlling tempo.
They were responding.
The corridor was long.
Straight.
No cover.
A perfect place for someone trained to contain a target.
And yet, with every step, I made it less theirs.
I didn't just strike.
I occupied.
I advanced into the spaces where their technique expected me to hesitate. I placed my feet where their lines wanted to pass through. I made my movements ugly on purpose—slightly off rhythm—so their instincts couldn't predict the cadence.
The masked figure adjusted.
They began to circle.
I didn't let them.
I angled my body to keep them pinned to the corridor's center, forcing them to either retreat or risk crossing my blade line.
They slashed at my shoulder again.
I met it with steel and water, the impact sending a faint spray across the stone.
Their blade slid, not cutting deep, because the water film disrupted friction in the smallest possible way—just enough.
I felt the edge graze fabric.
Not flesh.
My counter was immediate: a short thrust to the sternum line, pulled an inch short of actual contact—warning without murder.
The masked figure shifted back, cloak snapping.
They tried to reset.
I didn't allow it.
"You came to move me,"
I thought, cutting again, forcing another parry.
"Now… you're the one backing up."
The fight was brutal in its simplicity.
No speeches.
No cheering.
Just steel, breath, and the sound of someone realizing they couldn't enforce the narrative as easily as they'd planned.
Near the end, something changed.
Not in their technique.
In their intent.
The masked figure stopped trying to win cleanly.
They went for a finishing line again—fast, low, aimed for my knee.
I barely avoided it, blade skimming stone, sparks flashing.
My aura surged for a moment—water pooling, white thunder whispering sharp.
I could have exploded outward.
I could have drowned the corridor in force.
I didn't.
Instead, I stopped.
Not retreating.
Not collapsing.
Just… still.
The masked figure hesitated, confused by the sudden lack of motion.
I lifted my head.
And looked at them.
Will leaked.
Not stabbing like it had with Kai.
Not crushing.
Just undeniable.
A pressure like standing at the edge of deep water and realizing the depth doesn't care what you call yourself.
The air thickened.
The corridor felt smaller.
The masked figure's posture shifted—not fear, not panic.
Uncertainty.
Their blade trembled for the first time.
And I knew—
They weren't frightened of pain.
They were frightened of what I was.
In the fraction of a second where they paused, I felt their thought like a ripple through tension.
"This isn't the pressure of a mere second year… this is more…!!"
I didn't smile.
I didn't threaten.
I spoke quietly.
"Move," I said. "Or keep testing how much I'm willing to take."
The words weren't dramatic.
They were a fact.
The masked figure disengaged.
Fast.
Controlled.
They didn't stumble. They didn't show weakness. They didn't drop their blade.
But something had shifted behind the mask—something that hadn't been there when they first arrived: doubt.
"Enough," they said.
Not like a command.
Like an assessment.
Then they stepped back, weapon lowering slightly.
They turned away—not because they couldn't continue, but because continuing would require acknowledging that this had stopped being containment.
This had become risk.
They walked down the corridor the same way they'd arrived.
Calm.
Measured.
But the rhythm was different.
Not confident.
Calculated.
As they reached the bend, they paused and glanced back—just a fraction.
As if they wanted to memorize the shape of the problem.
Then they vanished around the corner.
Only then did I notice the students.
Not a crowd.
Not an audience.
Just enough.
Two near the stairwell. One frozen near a column. A pair at the far end, half-hidden behind a doorway.
And Varein.
Still by the arch.
Still watching.
The students didn't look awed.
They didn't look excited.
They looked… shaken.
Like they'd just seen something they weren't supposed to see:
A second-year refusing to be handled.
Not attacking authority for pride.
Not rebelling for drama.
Rejecting subjugation with nothing but presence and steel.
The difference mattered.
I saw guilt too—in the way their eyes flickered, in the way their mouths tightened.
Because they'd watched me get squeezed for days.
They'd stepped aside when the Academy shifted me out of their world.
And now they'd watched what happened when I stopped stepping aside in return.
That would spread.
Not as rumor.
As understanding.
When the hall cleared, I stood alone in the silence that followed violence.
My cheek still bled, slow now.
I lifted a hand and wiped it, watching the red smear across my palm like it was proof of something I couldn't name.
I wasn't special.
I didn't want to be special.
I'd never looked at myself and thought destiny.
I'd thought survive.
I'd thought help.
I'd thought move before it's too late.
But the Academy had tried to turn those instincts into a problem to be solved.
A liability to be logged.
A condition to be contained.
I stared down the corridor where the masked figure had disappeared.
Then I spoke into the empty air—not a vow, not a proclamation.
Just the truth.
"I'm not a doctrine," I said.
"I'm not a liability."
"I'm not your tool."
My voice stayed level.
"I'm a boy," I added, quieter. "And I'm done disappearing politely."
The aura around me eased, like it had been waiting for permission to settle.
The corridor's air lightened just a fraction.
But the density remained—quiet, present, unavoidable.
Because some things, once acknowledged, don't go back into the box.
I turned and walked.
My footsteps were heavy.
Not because I wanted them to be.
Because I finally meant every step.
And somewhere behind the walls of the Academy, I could feel it—
The system didn't know what to do with a person who stopped asking to be treated like one.