Alistare looked at Rivulet, observing the way talons extended from the boy’s fingers—a demonstration he considered successful.
Next, he glanced at Astafa, who was still panting heavily after exerting his Rage on that elemental attack.
Lastly, Alistare turned toward Kisatsu, whose concentration was focused entirely on simply manifesting his Rage.
“Kisatsu.” His voice, clipped yet authoritative, broke through the boy’s focus as Kisatsu loosened his clamped eyes.
Alistare walked over with deliberate, slow steps, reflection catching in the corner of Kisatsu’s vision.
“Need a hand?
You seem to be straining a fair bit just to get your Rage to come out.
When you think about it, are you actually trying to focus?”
Kisatsu didn’t answer, extending his hand even further, the tremor becoming more noticeable.
“Take a deep breath; relax your body.
Try this—instead of imagining something forming at your palms, visualize sending heat from the center of your chest to your fingertips.
Just heat, not the actual Rage.”
Alistare stepped back, observing the boy closely, arms clasped.
This should be a fair bit easier than having him attempt a mind-Rage connection.
Given that this may or may not be his first time manifesting it…
he certainly hasn’t established a solid connection yet.
He let out a deflated, quiet sigh, chest heaving.
I’d only be risking making him feel more discouraged if I tried to explain the mechanics now and he ended up not grasping it.
Kisatsu’s eyes softened, but his focus didn’t yield.
His vision shrank down to his own reflection—to the violet eyes staring back, to the boy who’d kept telling himself he had no other choice, that his path was linear and he could only advance or retreat.
He refused to blink, even when his eyes began to lose their dewiness.
His hand was now steady, beads of sweat gathering on his palm.
For a moment, the priest loomed before him, replacing the boy’s reflection in the mirror.
The sheer image evoked as much bloodlust as Kisatsu could muster, violet eyes intensifying.
The grooves on his palm started to radiate a faint violet hue, mirrored in the far glazed wall.
This is just the same process as when I fed my Rage into the manikin’s battery before…
The first drop of sweat spattered against the ground, surface tinted with a subtle violet sheen.
…Except there’s nothing I’m sending the Rage into.
Alistare detected the slight shift, watching the boy with heedful, keen eyes.
“If you still can’t conjure a ranged attack, try touching the target up close, eh?”
Kisatsu cleared his throat and strode toward the glass wall, pressing his palm against the glossy, smooth surface.
Heat radiated from his palm, causing the glass to mist in mere seconds, though it was not yet hot enough to fracture.
He tried to focus on channeling more Rage to his hand, squeezing it more firmly against the reflective, warm wall.
Alistare approached him, looking as if he’d finally identified the problem.
“So, what are you still struggling with, then?” He turned to the fogged glass, noticing the unmistakable warmth spreading from the boy’s hand.
“Am I still…
doing something wrong?” Kisatsu asked, voice thin with diffidence as he looked at the man.
“Hm, I see.” Alistare clicked his tongue, the pieces finally coming together.
“You’re channeling Rage to your hand, and you’ve certainly succeeded in doing so.
However, you’re only bringing the Rage to your hand, not beyond it.”
“…What does that mean?”
“When you cast a ranged attack, what is it you’re actually trying to do?
Channel Rage to your hand, or in front of it?
Like a fire ball, for instance?”
Kisatsu turned to his blurred reflection, brows knitting as he tried to untangle the puzzle.
“You’re trapping the Rage inside your hand—channeling more of it won’t do anything else of note,” Alistare added.
Kisatsu turned back to him, hand still pinned to the glass.
“Then what should I do?
Should I channel it outside my hand?”
Alistare stroked his beard, a small lapse in his focus.
“That won’t be necessary, unless you’re still a fair away from the target.
All you need to do is simply let it go.” He moved a few paces back.
Don’t worry—you won’t hurt yourself.
Just relax and think about releasing the leash.”
Kisatsu’s gaze dwelt on him a second longer before he turned forward once more.
He inhaled a deep breath—then released the concentrated Rage in his palm.
The glass wall shattered, but it didn’t fall apart immediately.
The spot where his hand had been left a small cavity, its contours jagged.
Cracks spidered across the wall, obscuring their reflections behind splintered, thick fissures.
Kisatsu jerked his hand away, checking for any cuts.
Alistare stared at the ruined glass, but instead of amusement, his eyes narrowed with an inexplicable, unfeigned curiosity.
Kisatsu spun on his toes, and though there was no smile on his face, he was trying his best to suppress a gleeful grin from contorting his lips.
Astafa turned to them, flat expression broken by the ghost of an impressed smile.
“Blimey,” he remarked, a silent huff escaping his lips.
Kisatsu swiveled back to Alistare, the smile he’d been hiding finally pulling his lips back.
“So, what’s my Rage type?” His voice bounced with a delighted lilt.
Alistare caressed his beard gently before turning to face the boy, expression unreadable.
“Still unidentified, I’m afraid.”
Kisatsu’s smile dropped, suddenly replaced by a slight frown.
“W—Wait, what?”
“What you’ve done is simply saturate your hand with Rage—anyone can manage that,” the man replied, voice clinical, stripped of bias.
“I’m not saying it isn’t impressive, but you’re merely performing one of the basics.
Therefore, you still haven’t identified your Rage type.”
He strolled past Kisatsu, hands resting at the small of his back again.
“If you truly want to know, focus on manifesting an actual ball of energy.
I only told you to touch the target to show you what the result should look like—but with a ranged attack, mind you.”
Kisatsu’s forehead creased, gaze absent.
The thrill he’d felt earlier slowly died in his chest, replaced by another complex puzzle he had to dismantle.
He’s right.
I’ve done this before—when I first fought the manikin.
It wasn’t hard to do, either—I did it right on the spot.
He looked down at his hands again, eyes reflecting a quiet recollection.
So that’s how I hit the manikin so hard before?
Alistare stopped behind him and glanced back, silver eyes settling on the boy’s back.
“Try summoning some sort of energy ball.
You needn’t release it—just show me.”
Kisatsu stared at his palm a second longer before lifting his gaze back to the ruined glass.
Outside the palm, not the palm itself, eh?
More easily than before, his palm found its soft violet glow again.
Channel it outside…
Over the next few seconds, the air over his palm began distorting like a heat haze.
A small, unstable orb of white-violet plasma materialized above his palm, swelling slowly until it was the size of a tangerine.
Kisatsu turned slowly toward Alistare, careful not to release it.
“Is this alright?
Have I done it right this time?” He proffered his hand to the man, the light dancing in their eyes.
Alistare’s gaze lingered on the orb for another heartbeat, noting its erratic movement before locking eyes with the boy.
“Can you try stabilising it?”
Kisatsu fixed his gaze on the volatile plasma, eyes pinching as he tried to concentrate the energy—then he realized something was wrong.
I can’t control it?
He looked back, a puzzled furrow forming between his brows.
“I don’t…
seem to feel connected to it anymore.
I don’t think I can control it.”
Alistare rubbed his beard again, forehead lined with quiet thought.
“Right then.
Do you reckon you can do that?”
Kisatsu shifted his gaze back to the turbulent sphere of white-violet, attempting to suck in the Rage he’d just used, only to shake his head in a mix of disbelief and uncertainty.
So he can only produce the thing?
Alistare squinted, then his gaze flicked toward Astafa.
“Astafa.”
The boy turned at the call as Alistare turned back to Kisatsu.
“Aim it at him.” He gave a slight jerk of his chin toward the other boy.
Kisatsu glanced toward Astafa, then back to Alistare, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
“It’s quite alright.
You know it won’t hurt him, don’t you?” Alistare said, voice level.
“What’s the matter?
Scared?” Astafa’s voice echoed across the space between them, high-pitched, stuffed with a challenging, smug bravado.
Kisatsu’s gaze snapped toward him as he gave the boy an indignant, unimpressed scowl.
He leveled his palm toward him, the volatile energy at his disposal.
“This isn’t personal if it hits you, just so you know.”
The moment he released it, the plasma globe vanished, sending a small shockwave across them that barely did more than flutter their hair.
“W-Wha—” He glanced at his palm, then turned to Alistare with a brief, baffled panic.
“I swear I tried to release it.”
He paused, forehead wrinkling.
“Is it because I didn’t harbour any hatred toward him?
Should I have thrown it like a ball?”
“No,” Alistare answered.
“You said it felt as though you were no longer connected with it, didn’t you?
Perhaps you can only produce and release the energy globe?
Undoubtedly, it would explode upon contact.”
“Then what is the difference between that and simply imbuing my hand with Rage?” Kisatsu lowered his hand.
“Is it even considered a ranged attack at that point?”
Alistare’s eyes sharpened with an inquisitive, suspicious calculation.
Of all the Versatile users I’ve surpervised, feeling no connection with the elemental sphere they’ve just conjured makes no sense at all.
That orb he just made looked remarkably like plasma.
He turned just enough to cast a sidelong glance toward the shattered glass before redirecting his gaze to Kisatsu.
I really should’ve hired a Versatile knight to train these students.
Unfortunately, the higher sections mostly comprise Dimensional users.
Alistare sucked in a deep, measured breath.
“Can you try casting another one?”
Kisatsu turned toward Astafa, movement now devoid of hesitation, and raised his palm decisively toward the boy.
“But instead of simply generating another plasma sphere, try focusing on blasting the target right away—like a gamma-ray burst,” Alistare added.
“Ever seen one of those?”
Astafa struck a defensive stance, eyes thinning with a deep, genuine uncertainty.
Kisatsu’s palm gleamed violet again, a response he was beginning to memorize.
He breathed in deeply.
Silence.
Then—a jet of white-violet plasma zoomed past Astafa like a short-lived laser beam.
The glass behind him shattered, though not entirely.
The edges of the splintered glass glimmered with a bright, radioactive violet light.
Astafa didn’t move—he didn’t feel the need to.
The ridges on Kisatsu’s palm still shimmered with that same sharp violet tint.
The veins beneath the skin of his outstretched elbow coursed with radioactive, visible light, flowing through the vessels like hazardous chemicals.
Kisatsu’s eyes flicked to his elbow, then he shook his arm frantically.
“Ouch!” He rubbed his elbow against the thick white fabric of his jacket, trying to abrade the heat beneath his skin just shy of burning.
“It burns a little…
that does.”
Alistare watched the boy’s frantic panic, stroking his beard in that same unfocused gesture.
An unresolved curiosity lingered in his eyes as they drifted toward the ruined glass behind Astafa, its edges still glimmering softly.