Amari looked at the heavy bag, then down at his own arms.

  They were trembling. The adrenaline from the Breath of Iron was fading, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache. His pectoral muscles felt like they had been shredded with a cheese grater. If he threw a punch right now, he wouldn't just miss; he would probably tear a ligament.

  Not today, Amari decided. I need protein and sleep. Not a brawl.

  He grabbed his towel and slowly wiped the bench down.

  "You're smart," the big student, Bronson, sneered, crossing his massive arms. "Save yourself the hospital bill. Run along to the playground, F-Class."

  Amari didn't respond. In his past life, he had killed Demon Kings who talked less trash than this cadet. He picked up his bag, wincing as the strap dug into his sore shoulder.

  He turned and walked toward the exit. He moved slowly, his legs feeling like lead.

  Bronson frowned. He didn't like being ignored. He wanted fear. He wanted to see the "Defective" beg.

  "Hey!" Bronson barked. "I didn't dismiss you."

  Amari kept walking. He was five steps from the door.

  Bronson's eyes glowed with a dull amber light. He stomped his foot on the ground.

  Mana surged through the rubber floor mats, traveling fast—a classic Earth Ripple spell designed to catch a retreating enemy's foot.

  Vibration, Amari thought.

  He didn't need eyes to see it. He felt it through the soles of his cheap sneakers. The floorboards shifted slightly to his left.

  Amateur, Amari analyzed instantly. He telegraphs his attacks too much.

  But noticing it and dodging it were two different things.

  Amari commanded his left leg to lift, but his quadricep seized up, exhausted from the squats.

  Move, he willed.

  He jerked his leg up just as the floor tile shot up two inches to snag his ankle.

  It wasn't graceful. The jagged edge of the tile grazed his heel, slicing through the rubber sole of his shoe. Amari stumbled, his balance wavering, but he caught himself before he fell.

  He didn't look back. He just regained his footing and kept walking.

  Bronson's jaw dropped. That spell was invisible under the mats. How did a mana-less cripple sense it? And how did he react fast enough to only graze it?

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Embarrassment flushed Bronson's face hot red. The other students in the gym were watching. He couldn't let "Trash" make him look stupid.

  "You little rat!" Bronson roared.

  The air in the gym grew heavy. Bronson pulled his fist back. Rock armor began to form over his knuckles, jagged and grey. He wasn't playing anymore. He was going to break Amari's spine.

  Amari gripped the strap of his bag. He calculated the distance, his mind automatically running combat simulations.

  In his past life, a simple front kick to the kneecap would have crumpled Bronson instantly.

  But now?

  Amari looked down at his own thin legs. If he kicked that rock armor now, his shin would snap like a dry twig. He had no mana to reinforce his bones. He had no muscle mass to absorb the impact.

  He was the Sovereign of Humanity trapped in a body made of glass.

  I can't fight him, Amari realized, a bitter taste filling his mouth. I can't even trade hits. If he touches me, I break.

  He braced himself, not to fight, but to endure.

  [Academy Alert: Unauthorized Mana Spike Detected.] [Zone Violation: Non-Combat Sector.]

  "At ease."

  The voice was sharp as a whip crack.

  Bronson froze mid-step. The rock armor on his hand crumbled into dust.

  Standing in the doorway, blocking Amari's path, was a woman. She was tall, wearing a black sleeveless tactical shirt that showed off scars on her arms. She had a patch over one eye and held a clipboard like a weapon.

  It was Instructor Silas. The Combat Teacher.

  She looked at Bronson, then down at the jagged floor tile sticking up from the mat.

  "Cadet Bronson," Silas said. Her voice was quiet, which made it terrifying. "Did you just attempt to cast an offensive spell in a Non-Combat Zone?"

  Bronson turned pale. "Ma'am! No, Ma'am! The floor... it just malfunctioned. I was just talking to the new cadet."

  Silas stared at him. She didn't blink.

  "Fix the floor," she ordered. "With your teeth if you have to. Then give me fifty laps."

  "Yes, Ma'am!" Bronson scrambled to his knees, terrified.

  Silas turned her single eye toward Amari. She looked him up and down, noting the sweat, the slight tremble in his arms, and the blood he had wiped from his lip.

  She sniffed the air.

  Amari tensed. He knew what she smelled. Iron. The scent of blood oxidation caused by the breathing technique. It was a scent that shouldn't exist in a mana-user.

  Silas's eye narrowed. She looked at the heavy bench press bar, then back at Amari's skinny frame. She didn't say anything, but the look on her face said: I see you.

  "You," Silas said. "F-Class?"

  "Yes, Ma'am," Amari said, keeping his posture straight despite the pain.

  "You're bleeding," she stated.

  "I bit my tongue," Amari lied.

  Silas stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. She scribbled something on her clipboard.

  "Get to the mess hall," she finally said, stepping aside. "They serve the protein synthesis slop in ten minutes. If you want to grow, you need to eat."

  "Thank you, Ma'am."

  Amari slipped past her. As he walked down the hallway, he didn't look back at Bronson, who was frantically trying to push the floor tile back down.

  He had survived Day One.

  But as he walked, Amari clenched his fist.

  Too close, he thought. If she hadn't walked in, I would be bleeding out in the hallway right now. I'm too weak.

  He needed to accelerate the process. He needed resources. The Academy food was free, but it was garbage processed for mana-users, not cultivators.

  To build a Void Body, he needed real fuel. Monster meat. Elixirs.

  And for that, he needed credits.

  Amari checked his pockets. Empty.

  I can't buy what I need, Amari realized, passing the loading docks where the kitchen staff dumped the day's "hazardous" waste.

  He looked at the massive bio-hazard dumpsters. A strange, pungent smell drifted from them—the smell of rejected magical ingredients.

  But maybe, Amari thought, a plan forming in his mind, I don't have to buy it.