Twelve hours. The number seared itself into Miroslav’s mind, a countdown to oblivion. He stood amidst the skeletal remains of what might have once been grand arches, now choked with rust-colored dust and fragmented bone-like protrusions from the dead god’s anatomy. The air, heavy and still, tasted of metallic decay and something else – a faint, persistent hum that vibrated in his teeth. He took a hesitant step, then another. The ground crunched under his boots, a sound that seemed deafening in the profound silence.
[Aura: 12]
Just walking. He let out a low whistle, a habit from his days of trying to appear nonchalant. This place was truly absurd. He picked up an iridescent mineral sliver, examining its pale inner glow before letting it fall. The tiny impact echoed, a hollow clang.
[Aura: 13]
“Right,” Miro muttered, his voice raspy in the dry air. “A walking simulator, then.” He forced himself to scan the fractured landscape, his gaze tracking the thin crystalline veins running through petrified bone. He tried to remember Master Vodyan’s droning lectures on environmental awareness, on ‘communing with the life force of the earth.’ Pure drivel, he’d always thought. Yet here, simply *looking* seemed to spark something.
[Aura: 15]
He moved with more purpose now, navigating the uneven terrain, jumping over a collapsed section of a wall, his movements precise, focused. He pictured Zorya, her perfect form, the way she flowed through her drills. He imagined her sneering at his clumsy attempts, and a surge of defiant energy, pure spite, ignited within him.
[Aura: 21]
Beyond a jagged spine of rock, he heard it – a soft, ragged sob. He froze, his earlier bravado faltering. He wasn’t alone. He crept forward, using the petrified ribs as cover. The sound led him to a small, relatively sheltered alcove where three figures huddled together, their faces pale and streaked with dirt. Two were senior initiates, easily recognizable as the kind of blustering oafs who barely scraped by in the lower ranks. The third was a tiny first-year, her hair a tangled mess, her tunic torn. Anca, he vaguely recalled, a timid girl from a minor merchant house, known for flinching at loud noises.
She was clutching a broken piece of what looked like a food ration bar, her eyes wide with terror. The older boys, burly brawlers named Jarek and Kaelan, slumped against the wall, their faces dull with defeat.
“There’s… there’s nothing,” Jarek whimpered, his voice barely a whisper. “No way out. No instructors. Just… this.” He gestured vaguely at the decaying prison.
Anca sobbed harder, a broken sound. “I don’t want to be here. I want my mother.”
Miro watched them with detached calculation. They were already broken. He, on the other hand, had a timer ticking. He needed to *do* something. He thought of his own sister, Alina, her frail hand in his. He couldn’t afford to break.
He stepped out from behind the rib-bone, his shadow falling over them. All three jolted, their heads snapping up. Anca let out a small shriek.
“Bogdanov?” Kaelan grunted, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here? Did they finally kick you out too?”
Miro ignored him, his gaze fixed on Anca. She was shivering, her small frame convulsing. Panic was a poison. It would eat away at her, at any chance of survival. He remembered the basic Aura-calming posture, a technique so laughably simple, so devoid of practical application, that instructors relegated it to the first week of introductory drills and then ignored it. It involved regulating breath and holding a specific posture to ‘center’ one’s Aura.
“Hey,” Miro said, his voice surprisingly gentle. Anca flinched. “Look at me. Breathe.”
She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t. I can’t breathe.”
“Yes, you can.” He knelt, mirroring her eye level. “Put your feet flat, shoulder-width apart. Hands at your sides, palms open, facing forward.” He demonstrated, a mockery of the stance he’d perfected out of boredom during Vodyan’s interminable lectures. “Focus on the breath, deep into your belly. Imagine your Aura settling, like dust.”
Jarek scoffed. “What in the Abyss is he doing? That useless old woman’s drill?”
Miro didn’t look away from Anca. “Just try it. It won’t fix anything, but it’ll make the terror a little quieter.” He hoped. He needed to test a theory, one he dared not voice.
Anca, desperate, slowly mimicked his posture. Her hands trembled, her ribs shuddering on a shallow inhale, but she tried. She closed her eyes, trying to follow his instructions, to calm the storm inside her.
Then, it happened. A silent explosion of numbers in Miro’s vision.
[Teaching Multiplier Activated]
[Aura: 50]
[Aura: 120]
[Aura: 300]
[Aura: 750]
[Aura: 1,800]
[Aura: 4,500]
[Aura: 11,000]
Miro blinked. His jaw didn’t drop, but his internal composure certainly did. The numbers flashed so quickly he could barely track them. Eleven thousand? That was higher than Zorya Morozova’s recorded Aura at the end of last year’s trials! He, Miroslav ‘Talentless’ Bogdanov, had just surpassed the academy’s prodigy in a matter of seconds, by teaching a terrified first-year a mocked stance.
A harsh, simmering heat bloomed in his chest, then spread through his limbs, a current of raw, unrefined power. It felt like his veins were full of molten light, thrumming with untold energy.
Anca, holding the posture, seemed to steady, her breathing evening out. The effect on her was minimal, but the recoil into his own spirit was apocalyptic.
“What’s going on?” Jarek asked, looking at Miro with a new, uneasy suspicion. “You’re… glowing.”
Miro glanced down. A faint, almost imperceptible silver sheen seemed to cling to his skin, a shimmering effect that quickly faded. He dismissed it with a casual flick of his wrist, and the motion sheared through the still air, sending bone flakes swirling.
Before he could process the sheer absurdity of the numbers, a shadow cut across the alcove. A hulking youth, twice Anca’s size, blocked the glow from the ceiling fissure. Radomir—the brute who had swept Miro’s leg during yesterday’s sparring.
His face, already brutish, was contorted with a vicious hunger. He held a jagged shard of rock, sharp as a knife. “Well, well, well,” the newcomer sneered, his gaze sweeping over the huddle. “Looks like I found the supply cache. Hand over those rations, little rats, or I’ll smash your teeth in.” His eyes lingered on Anca’s small, still-clutched piece of ration bar.
Jarek and his partner immediately shrank back, pressing themselves against the wall. Anca whimpered, shrinking further into herself.
Miro felt a cold calm settle behind his ribs. The dense energy coursing through his limbs rendered the brute's snarls harmless as cricket chirps. He had watched the thug fight: all mass and no finesse, fueled by crude force.
“Now, now, Radomir,” Miro said, stepping forward. His voice was light, almost playful, yet it carried an edge that made the air itself seem to hum. “Is that any way to treat your fellow condemned? There’s plenty of nothing to go around.”
The attacker stopped, momentarily confused by Miro’s sudden confidence. “Bogdanov? What are you babbling about? Get out of my way before I flatten you.” He raised the rock shard, a genuinely menacing glint in his eye. “Or maybe I’ll start with the little one.” He moved towards Anca.
Miro didn’t think. He reacted. It was the same basic ‘Iron Guard’ block he’d been taught on the very first day of combat training, a simple forearm deflection meant to turn aside a glancing blow. Any instructor would have laughed at the thought of using it against a charging brute with a weapon. But Miro wasn’t just Miro anymore. He was a vessel for an absurd, terrifying amount of raw power.
The brute swung the rock, aiming for Anca’s temple. Miro’s forearm snapped up, intercepting the blow clean. There was no pain, no give. Just a dry, splintering crack that reverberated through the silent vault. The attacker stared in stunned agony at his own limb; the forearm hung bent sideways, bone splintered beneath the skin as the shard clattered down.
A guttural scream ripped from the thug's throat. He stumbled back, clutching his shattered arm, his face ashen. Jarek and Kaelan stared, their mouths agape, their terror momentarily replaced by stunned incomprehension. Anca, peeking through her fingers, let out a tiny gasp.
Miro looked at his hand, then at Radomir, then back at his hand. He’d simply… *blocked* it. A basic block. He hadn’t even put much effort into it. The power was simply there, waiting. He looked at the cowering figures behind him. Failures, castaways, just like him. They were useless, yes. But if he could turn them into conduits, into a source of this impossible growth…
A predatory, exhilarating thought solidified in his mind. He didn’t just need to escape. He needed an army. An army of absolute failures, taught the most basic, 'useless' techniques, feeding him unimaginable power. He looked down at the whimpering brute, and a slow, dangerous smile spread across Miro’s face. This was going to be fun.