Rian and Kaito approached Zeke carefully. He sat slouched against a crooked tree trunk, a bloodied jacket draped over his lap. Cuts marred his arms and face, stinging faintly in the cool morning air, as his chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths.
Rian crouched down first, eyes scanning Zeke's condition. "Still breathing, huh?"
Kaito snorted, arms crossed. "That was the dumbest smart fight I've ever seen."
Zeke chuckled dryly, the sound raspy. "You're welcome."
Rian extended a hand. "Come on. Let's get you patched up before you pass out."
Zeke accepted, and with their help, made it to his feet. Each step felt like dragging a mountain behind him, but he stayed upright.
Meanwhile, the rest of the students had managed to capture the remaining shadows. Their weapons discarded and auras depleted, the defeated executioners were bound with mana-infused rope and held in a makeshift holding area surrounded by vigilance spells. No one moved without Zeke's word.
Night crept in slowly, painting the horizon in hues of deep violet and soft indigo. Smoke curled gently from rekindled campfires, the soft crackling of flame mixing with the hum of quiet conversations and rustling leaves.
The battered camp had been restored, as best as the students could manage. Tents were re-pitched, wards reinforced, and injured patched up with what little healing supplies they had on hand.
As night deepened, the students huddled close to the fires. Laughter, hesitant at first, began to rise in quiet ripples. They shared stories, passed around dry rations, and even sang a song or two under the stars. Fear still lingered in their hearts, but the camaraderie and quiet warmth of the camp gave them a fragile sense of peace. For the first time in what felt like days, they slept.
When morning came, a pale golden light spread across the clearing, and the students stirred slowly. Zeke was already gone from the camp center.
He sat cross-legged atop a small hill not far away, his silhouette outlined by the breaking dawn. Eyes closed. Still.
Rian spotted him first and called out to the others. "Pack up. Let him be."
They obeyed. As tents were dismantled and campfires extinguished, a silence hovered among them. Not fear, but respect. They moved with more purpose, more cohesion than before. They had changed.
Zeke remained unmoving. But within, his mind was ablaze.
He replayed every moment of the battle, every step, feint, pivot, and slash. The spinning arc of the blonde man's sword, the weight behind each attack, and the flaws hidden behind flashy power. He analyzed it again and again.
"First Lesson," he thought. That's what he had called the technique. It was more than a name. It was the foundation of his own path, swordsmanship not passed down from a master, but carved through battle, blood, and pain. It was uniquely his. A blade born from necessity and self-reinvention.
His mana flowed steadily now, no longer erratic or storm-like. It curled around him, a gentle breeze brushing the grass, responding to his breathing. The power no longer felt foreign, it felt like a second skin. He could feel the weight of his blade more clearly. Feel the balance of his own body. He wasn't just stronger, he was becoming a true swordsman.
He opened his eyes at last as the students finished packing. The barrier glimmered faintly in the far distance, a shimmer of twisted light that stretched along the tree line.
Kaito stepped up beside him, stretching with a groan. "Time to move?"
Zeke stood slowly, each movement deliberate, as if testing every tendon and muscle, still sore from the fight.
He rolled his shoulders once.
He looked out over the group gathered below him, the students he had fought beside, commanded and protected. Their faces were a mixture of fatigue, curiosity, and cautious resolve.
"There could be more executioners out there," he said quietly, but his voice carried with weight, threading through the camp like steel wrapped in silk.
"There may even be some among us."
That hit harder than expected. Several students straightened. A few glanced sideways at each other, uncertain. A murmur rippled through the group like wind disturbing tall grass, subtle and tense.
Kaito's brows furrowed, his hand resting near the hilt of his blade. Rian crossed his arms, lips pressed thin. Even the younger students looked around uneasily, their expressions troubled.
But Zeke didn't waver. He met their gazes one by one, his own eyes calm yet piercing, cutting through uncertainty with unwavering clarity.
"But remember…" he said, and now his voice deepened, quiet fury laced beneath the surface, "We're fighting against is the academy. They're the ones who made this whole game. They're the ones who tossed us in here like pawns on a board."
His eyes drifted toward the shimmering distortion in the distance, the barrier, pulsing faintly with arcane energy, a curtain between safety and the unknown.
"They played us like pieces on a chess board, expecting us to follow the script and die."
He took a breath, grounding himself.
"But we're still standing."
Zeke's hand dropped to his sword at his hip, not to draw it, but to feel the weight, the reality of it. His own technique. His own path.
"We survived the first lesson. And now… we move on our terms."
He stepped forward, boots crunching softly over the packed forest earth.
"All right," he said, a final steel-threaded command.
"Move out."