The wheel's warning still rang in Tawan’s ears. Murmurs rippled across the sand as novices traded uneasy glances. Niran, the institute's resident laggard, had just effortlessly outpaced everyone, yet wore the expression of a monk caught napping during morning prayers. Mali, her face a storm of conflicting emotions, was still frozen, her gaze drilling into him. Krit knelt to scoop up his beast-companion, a sleepy ball of keratin plates wheezing softly in the dirt. He looked like a discarded pinecone. Then, a shadow fell over them, not from the towering canopy of the Naga-Spire’s central courtyard, but from a figure that seemed to emit its own oppressive confidence. A newcomer in crisp white silk stepped into the clearing. His hair, a carefully styled cascade of midnight black, gleamed under the tropical sun. A smirk, perfectly sculpted to convey both superiority and casual indifference, graced his lips. This had to be Arthit—the regressor. The newcomer strutted forward, sweeping cool green eyes across the crowd before lingering on Mali. “Well, well,” Arthit’s voice cut through the lingering buzz, smooth as oiled jade. “What a quaint little exhibition. Is this what passes for effort these days?” He paused, allowing his words to hang heavy. “Such… lethargy. No wonder the Yaksha-fiends are growing bolder.” As if on cue, a shrill, chittering sound erupted from the dense jungle foliage bordering the courtyard. A tangle of thorny, animated vines, thick as a man’s forearm and tipped with wickedly barbed tendrils, burst forth. A Lesser Kroot-Vine snaked out, notorious for snatching melon rinds from unwary initiates. It slithered toward the cluster of initiates, its fibrous maw baring needle thorns. Cadets stumbled back, gasping. Krit instinctively turned his back to shield his curled familiar. Even Mali tightened her fists, her expression hardening. Arthit, however, merely raised an eyebrow. “Oh, please. This old trick again?” He didn’t even bother to draw a full breath, let alone chant a mantra. Instead, a searing beam of amber energy erupted from his open palm. It wasn’t a flash, but a concentrated beam, a spear of pure, unadulterated solar fire. The Kroot-Vine, caught mid-lunge, shrieked as the energy incinerated it, turning its woody form to ash and dissipating its noxious chittering in a puff of acrid smoke. Stunned silence fell. Such raw output was obscene for an entry-rank initiate. Arthit’s smirk widened, his gaze sweeping over the impressed faces before settling on Mali’s stunned features. “You see, classmates,” Arthit proclaimed, voice soaring across the tiers, “I know how this timeline unfolds. I am here to correct its shortcomings. My foresight is your shield, my power your salvation. Consider me the true protagonist of this era.” [“Arrogance is a poor substitute for wisdom. A full cup holds no more.”] Quiet, nuisance, Tawan thought. Arthit's public declaration confirmed the worst: an arrogant timeline-hopper loose in the ranks. Arthit's gaze drifted toward Krit, who was clutching his slumbering critter. A cold, calculating glint entered his gaze. “Some among you,” Arthit continued, his voice dropping to a subtly condescending tone, “are… dead weight. Hindrances. They cling to the past, to useless companions.” Solar mana crackled over Arthit's knuckles again, narrowing directly toward Krit's chest. Krit blanched. “Hey! What are you doing? He isn’t hurting anyone!” “An example,” Arthit stated, a predatory smile stretching his lips. “Of what happens to the weak and the… unnecessary. It’s for the greater good, you understand. A protagonist must make difficult choices.” “Don’t you dare!” Mali’s voice cracked with fury, her hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of the ornamental dagger at her belt. But Arthit was already unleashing the blast. A focused bolt of searing mantra leapt straight toward the sleeping creature. Tawan moved without thought. Time, that most malleable of fabrics, obeyed his will. Everything—Krit's lunge, Mali's cry, the blazing streak of Arthit's ray—stalled into rigid glass. The world became a monochrome tableau, silent and still. He was a ghost in a frozen moment. Tawan sprinted into the stillness. He lifted the snoring bundle of plates from Krit's grip and slid it behind a stone planter. Then, his eyes scanning, he spotted it – a discarded training dummy, still humming with residual explosive mana from a previous exercise, propped against a wall awaiting disposal. Perfect. It even had a vaguely pangolin-like silhouette from this angle. He hauled the heavy dummy into place, wedging its straw torso where the beast had rested. The amber lance hung suspended an inch from the straw breastplate. He took a single, deep breath, and then time resumed. Reality snapped back into focus with a jarring lurch. Arthit's lance slammed into the stuffed target. The dummy, charged with its own unstable mana, didn’t just absorb the hit; it detonated. *BOOM!* A concussive wave ripped through the courtyard. Wood splinters and burning straw sprayed the plaza, bouncing harmlessly off Arthit's warding sigil. Krit tumbled backward, arms grasping at empty air. A soft wheeze drifted from behind the palm. Uncurled by the noise, the little burrower yawned once, then tucked its snout beneath its tail to resume sleeping. Arthit, however, was no longer smirking. His perfectly styled hair was disheveled by the blast, and a faint plume of smoke curled from his singed robes. His meticulously planned display of ruthless efficiency had just… exploded in his face. He recovered quickly, though. “Ah, yes!” he declared, a forced, booming laugh. “A tactical detonation! I knew that dummy was unstable! Merely… clearing the debris! My foresight, you see, extends to even the most… volatile of training aids!” He swept his gaze over the now-confused students, desperately trying to reclaim his air of control. “Proof of my adaptability! Always prepared for contingencies!” [“A liar’s breath often stinks of desperation. The truth needs no perfume.”] Tawan suppressed a grin. The chime was right for once. Arthit looked utterly foolish, his grand pronouncement of being the ‘true protagonist’ undermined by a simple, explosive dummy. Mali, her initial shock giving way to bewildered relief, stared at the smoking remnants of the dummy. Then, her eyes narrowed. She turned, her gaze piercing, and walked straight towards Niran. “Niran,” she said, her voice low, dangerous. “Your hands aren’t shaking.” She paused, her eyes like twin obsidian shards. “How did you know that dummy would detonate?”

Collateral Damage in the Courtyard