The early morning sun had yet to burn off the mist curling low around the stone stands, and the sand beneath the trainees’ boots still held the breath of dawn. They stood in formation, all eight of them, ringed by the curved wall of the training pit.

  Captain Shen paced before them, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Just a reminder. This is the final test before skill stones are awarded.” he said flatly.

  He stopped at the edge of the sand, where a small iron crate sat pulsing faintly with Qi. Inside, something shifted with an angry rustle.

  “You’ll fight an Ember Wasp,” Shen continued. “Fifty centimeters of wings and poison. Barely a beast, but fast. Cruel. And clever enough to hurt you if you get sloppy.”

  He turned to face them fully now.

  “Each squad will choose one combatant. You may bring your support. If the fighter is hit three times, you fail. If the support is touched even once, you also fail.”

  Nozomi didn’t hesitate.

  “Xo,” she said, glancing sideways. “And Lei.”

  Xo cracked his neck and rolled his shoulder once. “All right.” Lei stepped forward without being asked.

  Captain Shen nodded. “Pandas first then.”

  The crate was opened with a snap of Huo’s fingers without ceremony, and the wasp burst out in a blur of fire-colored wings. It hovered midair for a second—mandibles clicking, wings thrumming so fast they blurred. Then it darted toward them like a spark from a struck flint.

  Xo moved into a low stance, guandao angled to guard. Lei circled left, keeping distance, bow already drawn. His eyes never left the creature.

  “Watch its wings,” he said. “It shifts direction on the fourth beat.”

  Xo didn’t answer. He’d already seen it too.

  The wasp darted, swerved, lunged—faster than it had any right to be. Its stinger flashed as it buzzed past Xo’s shoulder. The impact seared—hot, sharp—and he staggered half a step, teeth clenched.

  “Stung once,” Lei called. “Poison.”

  “I noticed,” Xo growled.

  He stepped forward, slashing—too slow. The blade cut air. The wasp zipped higher.

  It wheeled in the air, banking for another strike.

  Lei moved.

  His arrow flew like a breath—clean, arcing—and punched through the creature’s left wing with a satisfying crack of chitin. The wasp spasmed in the air, spiraling downward in a sharp loop—but not falling.

  “Now!” Lei shouted.

  Xo didn’t hesitate. He charged forward in two long strides, guandao already spinning into motion. The blade cleaved through the wasp’s middle with a sound like wet kindling snapping in half. Two halves fell to the sand, wings twitching once… then still.

  Silence. Followed by a single clap from the Captain.

  “Well done,” he said. “That’s a kill.”

  Xo lowered the guandao. His shoulder still burned, the heat radiating in pulses from where the stinger had struck. Lei stepped forward, already channeling Qi through his hands, preparing a basic cleanse and mending for the venom’s residue and the burned skin.

  It wouldn’t kill—but it would scar if left alone.

  They stepped back to the squad together, wordless but steady.

  The Tigers entered the ring next. Kiri gave Jin a nod, but it was Bao who moved into position—massive, silent, his axe resting across his shoulder.

  The wasp shot from the second crate in a blaze of speed towards the mountain that is Bao. Jin was already moving, shadow trailing behind her like smoke. She clapped her hands and the insect twitched in midair, its momentum briefly stalled, turning towards the sound.

  Bao didn’t miss.

  His strike landed like a hammer into stone, splitting the creature in a second.

  “Never seen a boulder move that fast.” muttered Xo.

  Bao didn’t flinch when the wasp ichor splashed against his armor.

  “Efficient,” Shen said.

  And with that, the test was over.

  — Shen—

  I stood still at the edge of the arena, the wind curling faintly at my coat, the scent of ash and sweat thick in the air.

  The wasps were dead. The poison still hung in some of their blood, but none of them were twitching. That was something.

  Two fights. Eight recruits. Two squads trying to claw their way into something that might one day resemble competence.

  I watched them—Pandas on one side, Tigers on the other—breathing hard, bruised, dust-coated, waiting for the next order. None of them spoke. That was a small victory in itself.

  Xo, the quiet one, stood with his arms crossed, jaw tight. He bled a little from the sting on his shoulder, but he hadn’t flinched when it happened. He hadn’t even slowed down. He was the kind of fighter who didn’t roar when he hurt—he just got heavier. That kind of weight wins battles. Or buries you.

  Lei Shui stood nearby, posture straight as a banner. Not stiff anymore—grounded. His shot to the wing was clean. Calculated. When he first arrived, he was a walking noble’s sigh in silk shoes. Now? Still polished, still carrying too many ghosts, but he was learning where to put them.

  Then there was Nozomi. I hadn’t figured her out yet. She moved like someone who learned to survive by listening for footsteps outside the door. There’s steel in that kind of silence. She didn’t try to impress anyone. I liked that.

  Liu Shen, though… Strong and disciplined, but still too soft. But fire doesn’t care how patient you are. It burns anyway. And if he doesn’t start meeting it where it lives, it’ll burn him from the inside out. The forge he came from made tools. This place? We make weapons. And weapons don’t get to hesitate.

  My gaze shifted to the Tigers.

  Kiri was stone-cut perfect. Every move a textbook. Every breath aligned with his sense of entitlement. He reminded me of young officers who get polished too early—sharp until the first real crack. And when that crack comes, it’s never in the blade. It’s in the handle. We'll see how he breaks.

  Miri—faster than her brother, smarter than she lets on, and still mad about the guandao to the ribs. That’ll serve her well or ruin her. Depends on how much pride she brings into her next failure.

  Bao was steady. Bao was simple. I liked Bao. Every competent team needs a Bao. I didn’t hear him much, but enough to see that he will be their moral compass and light in the dark.

  Jin was the one I watched most.

  She didn’t look dangerous. Didn’t move with flash. But her timing with Bao? Her placement? Perfect. She had the instincts of a battlefield medic before ever stepping foot on one. Quiet strength is still strength. And she understood the stakes better than her squadmates did. That kind of mind matters.

  I turned toward them and spoke—not loudly, just firmly. The way stone cracks under pressure, not because it’s shouted at, but because the weight becomes undeniable.

  “You all did well. Better than I expected.”

  A beat passed.

  “Two for each squad.” I said. “Your performance was close.”

  I let my eyes sweep over them.

  “Too close.”

  Another pause. I made them sit in it.

  “So I’ll leave it up to you.”

  I stepped forward once, just enough to feel the sand shift under my heel.

  “You can split the prize. Two and two.”

  “Or.”

  The word landed like a thrown dagger.

  “You can challenge each other. One last match. One last test. Winner takes all. Loser walks with nothing.”

  I met each pair of eyes in turn.

  Xo. Nozomi. Lei. Liu. Kiri. Miri. Bao. Jin.

  Some held my gaze. Some looked down. It didn’t matter.

  What mattered was what they saw in each other now. And what they chose to do with it.

  Kiri’s pulse was already picking up.

  Not from the fight. Not from the wasp. That had been easy—expected. Bao had crushed it, Jin had supported perfectly. Efficient, clean. Like always.

  But this? This offer? A final match. Winner takes all.

  He felt the Qi in his blood stir. Hunger. For something more than even the stones. For proof. Proof that they were better. That the Tiger Squad deserved the edge. He looked across the arena. Lei Shui stood with his arms folded, trying to look calm but still dusted with tension. Xo, steady as ever. Nozomi, unreadable. And Liu…

  Liu Shen, of all people.

  The naive boy from the village. The one who didn’t talk. Who moved like a log left in the river too long. Who still hesitated when his blade should already be in motion.

  They’d earned their two, sure. But a tie? After today?

  No.

  We’re better than that, Kiri thought. Stronger. Sharper. Cleaner.

  He inhaled, already lifting his chin, ready to step forward. Then Liu spoke.

  “I think we should split it.”

  Kiri blinked. So did half the courtyard. Liu’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.

  He felt his blood ready to explode.

  Split?” Kiri echoed, louder than intended, the word cutting through the air before he could leash it.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, looking toward both squads. “We all fought hard. We all want something to show for it.”

  “But we’ve been training for months. Side by side. Shoulder to shoulder. We’ve taken hits. Bled. Learned together.”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  He let that settle for a breath, then added:

  “A fifth stone’s going to the best trainee anyway, isn’t it?”

  A few of the others shifted slightly—small glances, not quite nods, but not resistance either.

  Liu took a step forward now.

  “I don’t want to win against anyone here. Not like this. Not for something that was already earned.”

  He exhaled through his nose and finished simply:

  “Split the stones. Let the rest be earned the right way.”

  Silence followed.

  Even Captain Shen said nothing, though the corner of his mouth twitched—just slightly. He expected a fight, maybe, Lou thought. There had been a kind of certainty in everyone a moment ago. A clean edge to the win they would have been preparing to seize.

  And now, that edge was dulled—not broken, but changed.

  Kiri wanted to say something.

  Bao looked at him and said “Skill stones are too important to gamble. He is right, we will be able to carry ourselves with two in the wild. But we won’t with none. There’s a possibility to lose, it’s not worth it.”

  He glanced at Jin. She gave the smallest nod, her arms folded. Miri gave a half-shrug, head tilted just enough to say: “your call.” Then, finally, Kiri let out a slow breath.

  He stepped back, greeting his teeth.

  — Shen —

  They made their choice.

  Good. Maybe they weren’t so green after all.

  I let the silence hang, long enough for the moment to settle deep in the lungs.

  “Accepted.”

  They straightened slightly at that. Some of them relaxed. Others—Kiri—did not.

  I turned to Instructor Huo. He nodded once and moved off toward the administrative wing. The skill stones would be brought from the quartermaster’s vault—they were attuned, after all. Rare. Specific. No one with sense kept something that valuable in their pocket.

  Especially not around this many kids pretending to be warriors.

  “They’ll be distributed to you by the quartermaster this evening, choose who will get them” I said. “Two per squad.”

  No cheers. No fist pumps. Just a few glances between squadmates. A few nods. A little pride, earned instead of declared.

  I let my gaze sweep across them, then returned it to the center. To the last question still unspoken.

  “The fifth,” I said. “Goes to the one among you who showed the most in these weeks—not raw strength, not speed, but control. Insight. Precision and dedication.”

  I paused, and for a moment, I saw Kiri’s chin lift a fraction higher. Waiting. Expecting.

  Then I looked at her.

  “Nozomi.”

  She didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just stepped forward, spine straight, hands behind her back like a soldier already used to silence as armor.

  “When the stones arrive, you’ll choose first,” I said. “You earned that right.”

  She gave the smallest nod. “Understood.”

  Behind her, Kiri shifted his weight. Just enough to be felt. Just enough for me to see it and pretend I didn’t. His jaw was tight, his pride even tighter—but he didn’t speak. That showed restraint. Or calculation. I wasn’t sure which, but either one meant he was still worth watching.

  The Tigers would grumble about it later. I was counting on it.

  But the Pandas?

  I watched them as they broke formation—Xo quiet and unreadable, Lei walking tall but thoughtful, Liu trailing slightly behind, scratching at his forearm like he was still turning the whole thing over in his head.

  They would need those stones sooner than they thought.

  Their next test was already waiting—sealed in an envelope in my desk, marked for urgent deployment.

  They didn’t know it yet. But the world wasn’t going to wait for them to be ready.

  And neither was I.

  — Nozomi —

  The light in the barracks was soft—early evening haze slipping through slatted windows, casting long shadows across the floorboards and over our gear. My hand rested against the edge of my cot, fingers tracing the grain of the wood. Steady. Measured. A habit I’d never outgrown.

  The others talked in low voices around the room—nothing loud. The kind of talk that hummed in the background, easy to ignore when you didn’t feel like answering. I should have joined them.

  Instead, I kept turning the same thought over in my head.

  The fifth stone.

  I didn’t even know what the vault held. Shadow affinity stones were rare, harder to manufacture, harder to bind. I'd heard once they had to be forged under no moon, sealed with silence. Maybe it was superstition. Maybe it was just something someone said to make the element sound mysterious.

  Didn’t matter. Whatever it was, I’d take it. And I’d use it.

  A clatter broke the rhythm of my thoughts. Xo had dropped a boot beside his cot, and the others laughed lightly. I exhaled, stood, and crossed the room.

  “Decided who’s getting what?” I asked, voice low, folding my arms as I leaned against the post near Liu’s bed.

  Lei looked up first. “We were about to. Figured we’d wait for the heiress of the shadow to rejoin the world.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re lucky I like you.”

  “Only a little,” he said, smiling faintly.

  Xo leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “We’ve got three,” he said. “Yours is yours. No debate. That leaves two.”

  Liu shrugged. “One should go to Lei.”

  “No objection here,” I said.

  Lei looked uncomfortable for half a second. “I’d use it for support. Something healing, or a buff maybe. It’d help us all.”

  “Exactly why you’re getting it,” Xo said. “You touch everyone with it. No one else can do that.”

  I saw a flicker in Liu’s expression. Something like hesitation, but not shame.

  “We could make the second one yours,” I offered.

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I’m not… tuned right. Not to fire. Not the way it’s meant to be. I’m not wasting something that rare on a maybe.”

  There was no self-pity in it. Just a quiet conviction.

  “Then the last one is for Xo.” I said.

  “Agreed” Lei said after a moment.

  Xo nodded, then laid back against the wall.

  “We’ll ask Quartermaster Zhao tomorrow,” Lei said. “See what’s available in my affinity. Maybe water, maybe healing-specific.”

  “You’ll get something good,” Liu said. “You always do.”

  Lei snorted. “Says the guy who could probably bench a warhorse.”

  I smiled. Just a little.

  I watched the three of them for a moment—Lei’s furrowed brow, Liu’s calm acceptance, Xo’s certainty. A few weeks ago, I didn’t trust anyone in this room.

  Now, somehow, we were making decisions like a squad.

  This evening, we gathered inside instructor Huo's office. There, there was a the list of skills noted on different scrolls. Huo unrolled them in front of us on a flat lacquered board propped over a his desk. The air still smelled of morning oil and half-burnt incense from the training yard, and above that, the sharper scent of parchment and dried ink.

  “Read carefully,” he muttered. “Don’t rush.”

  He didn’t need to tell me twice.

  I leaned over the first scroll—one inked in dark strokes that bled slightly into the parchment. At the top, in broad script, was the marking for Shadow. My breath slowed as I read, eyes scanning each line.

  Shadow Strike

  “Strike from behind. Let silence speak in your place.”

  Simple. Brutal. Better if I hit while hidden. Classic, probably what a scout or assassin would pick. But it felt loud, in a strange way. Obvious.

  Night Piercer

  “Darkness breaks what light protects. Let your blade slip past the false and the proud.”

  Probably a bypassing technique. Situational. More useful in ambushes or dark environments… and hard to test in the open. I imagined piercing through armor while cloaked in night. There was something poetic about it. But uncertain. Too much guessing.

  Phantom Edge

  “The blade that is half-real leaves a wound that never quite heals.”

  I paused.

  Phantom Edge. The phrase lingered in my head. The description meant almost nothing—what did “half-real” even mean? But I felt something stir. Not excitement. Not fear.

  This was the kind of blade you didn’t need to show. It didn’t leave scars for others to admire. Just... silence. And consequence.

  Lei leaned in beside me, scanning the same list. “Shadow Strike’s the obvious one,” he said. “A clean bonus in stealth i would guess.”

  “I don’t like obvious,” I replied, quietly.

  He glanced sideways at me, as if trying to read more than the words. “Night Piercer looks clever.”

  “Maybe. But how often are we going to fight in the dark?”

  “Fair point.”

  Xo grunted from the other side. “You’re overthinking it. Pick the one that you think fits how you fight.”

  That made me pause. How do I fight? I don’t. I react. I listen. I strike where they’re not expecting it.

  Shadow Strike is what they expect someone like me to use. Phantom Edge is what they won’t see coming.

  “I’ll take Phantom Edge,” I said, tapping the name with my index finger.

  Huo didn’t blink. “Noted.” He drew a faint circle around the script with the back of his fingernail.

  He didn’t smile. But I thought I saw his head dip—slightly. Almost approving.

  “Still sounds like a cursed dagger from a romance scroll,” Lei muttered, half-grinning.

  “Maybe it is,” I said. “Good thing I like cursed things.”

  We stepped back to let Xo and Lei make their picks.

  But I kept my eyes on the scroll for a moment longer.

  The blade that is half-real leaves a wound that never quite heals.

  There was something about that line. Something I didn’t like.

  Which meant it was probably meant for me.

  — Lei —

  I watched Nozomi trace her finger over the ink as if it mattered. As if one curve of brushstroke could change the way a skill felt in the body. Maybe it could.

  When she picked Phantom Edge, her voice didn’t waver. Of course it didn’t.

  Instructor Huo shifted the scrolls—carefully, as if they were relics, not tools—and unrolled the next bundle with a faint crinkle. The ink here was blue-black, darker than water, lighter than shadow. Affinity: Water.

  My fingers hovered over the page before I let them rest gently on the wood beside it. Three options. One decision. My heart beat once, slow and hollow.

  Aqua Veil

  “Wrap them in calm. Let harm slide off like rain on tile.”

  A defense buff. Elegant. Predictable. A lesser form of protection, maybe useful if someone couldn’t dodge or didn’t wear armor. It made sense. Clean. I’ve seen techniques like that before, in the sparring room back home. It felt... small, though. A patch, not a solution.

  Cleansing Waters

  “Wash away what festers. Leave no wound to rot.”

  The most direct healing technique on the list. One I would’ve expected. Gentle. Straightforward. Efficient in the way doctors are supposed to be. I read the line again. Wash away what festers. Not just wounds, then. But other things—burns, poison, taint or infections. That made it useful. Practical.

  My eyes drifted to the third.

  Riptide Pull

  “Call them back. Friend or foe. The tide doesn’t ask.”

  The line stuck.

  A pulling technique. Supportive, technically, but aggressive in its structure. You could drag an ally out of danger… or drag an enemy in.

  It didn’t protect, didn’t heal. But it changed the flow of a fight.

  And I couldn’t stop staring at that last sentence.

  The tide doesn’t ask.

  It reminded me of home. Of the way my father spoke, when he thought power should be obeyed without question. Of how he expected me to shape the world by will alone—like a river carves stone, given time and pressure.

  I didn’t want that. Not really. Or maybe I did, and the perspective of becoming someone like my father scared me. I chased the thought away.

  The skill sounded interesting, useful. Sometimes pulling someone from the brink is worth more than shielding them from it.

  Nozomi leaned toward me. “Healing’s the obvious one,” she said, almost teasing.

  I nodded. “It is, but I can already heal you when someone will kick you in the face. Even if it’s inefficient.”

  Her expression softened, just barely.

  Xo grunted behind me. “Pulling enemies into your range sounds more useful than healing bruises.”

  “Assuming I can control it,” I said.

  “You can,” Liu added. “You’re the only one of us that thinks about movement before damage.”

  I looked at the three of them. Healing was safe. Expected. Reassuring.

  But the field wasn’t safe. And I wasn’t here to reassure anyone.

  I tapped the scroll.

  “Riptide Pull.”

  Instructor Huo didn’t react beyond a quiet “Understood.” His finger brushed a circle around the name. As if it had already belonged to me before I touched it.

  The tide doesn’t ask. It just moves. And maybe power won't necessarely mean I'll become like him. Something stired inside me at that thought.

  The tide doesn't ask, and I’m tired of waiting for permission.

  — Xo —

  By the time the last scroll was opened, the sun had shifted over the barracks wall, casting longer shadows across the lacquered board.

  I didn’t step forward right away. Didn’t reach. Just watched.

  The lines of calligraphy were thick on this set—bolder strokes, like whoever wrote them had too much ink and not enough patience. The parchment smelled faintly like clay left to dry in the sun. Like the bricks my mother used to scrub with river water. Dry, brittle, holding heat

  Earth Affinity.

  I already knew what I wanted.

  Didn’t mean I wasn’t going to read.

  Stone Slam

  “Strike deep. Shake their balance. Let them feel the ground like it wants them.”

  Straightforward. I asked myself if the scrolls were made by the same person that filled the skill stone. Simple. Almost boring. It sounded like something a soldier would shout mid-charge. The kind of technique that didn’t ask for timing, just commitment. I’d seen Lei knock people off their feet with a sharp sentence. This felt like the physical version of that.

  Stone Rend

  “Crack what guards them. Make them feel it.”

  Better suited for heavy-armored enemies. Less dramatic. More surgical. The sort of thing you use when you’ve already planned how they’re going to fall. Maybe Kiri would take this one if he had earth. Too clean. Too polite. I didn’t need finesse—I needed certainty.

  Seismic Slam

  “Let the ground speak for you.”

  And that stopped me.

  It was the only one with no direct mention of an enemy. No talk of blood or pain. Just… presence.

  I ran a thumb along the edge of the scroll, the texture rough like stone dust. Area effect, the instructor had once called it. Strike hard enough, the shockwave follows. I grinned. You don’t need to chase people down when the ground does it for you.

  I could already picture the way it might feel.

  Step forward. Anchor. Swing low. Let the blade, or the foot, hit the dirt, not the body—and still make the body fall. Control through force. Control through weight.

  That’s how I survived before this place. That’s how I’ll survive after it.

  Nozomi murmured something behind me, but I didn’t catch the words.

  I tapped the third one.

  “Seismic Slam.”

  Huo marked the choice. Barely glanced up.

  “Good. I'll brought them to you later. Dismissed.”

  I stepped back as the others shifted. Lei nodded slightly. Nozomi gave me the kind of look that didn’t mean anything to most people—just a flicker of trust, wordless, shared through glances. Liu smiled, quiet and easy.