Ray stood in the lonely, stifling isolation of his Class S private training room.
The air was heavy, thick with the sharp, metallic tang of steel plates and the scent of his own sweat, mingled with an unrelenting, bone-deep exhaustion.
It was time. He stood in the center of the room, narrowing his eyes into cold slits as he focused his will to begin the second phase of his training.
He raised his right arm, summoning the latent power of his "Crimson Lightning."
A sharp, high-pitched crackle tore through the silence as a jagged beam of red energy lashed out from his fingertips.
He didn't stop there; he pushed harder, forcing his mana to branch out, conjuring three distinct crimson bolts in rapid succession.
They surged toward the reinforced wall, though they left no mark on the specialized surface.
He gasped, his chest heaving—his mana core was limited to only three strikes before needing a recharge.
However, thanks to the innate sensitivity of his Perfect Grade core, he could pull raw mana from the atmosphere and filter it into his veins in mere minutes.
Ray sat and closed his eyes, focusing entirely on absorbing the surrounding mana.
As the energy flowed back into his core, he stood once more, but this time, he didn't just summon the lightning—he drew it into the very marrow of his bones.
Violent sparks of red energy erupted across his skin like a secondary nervous system.
He unleashed a barrage of strikes, his movements now accelerated by the electrical surge.
It put a burning pressure on his physical frame, but he ignored the pain.
He fought for an hour, his body acting as a lightning rod for the "Tyrant’s" power.
Finally, he took a deep breath, pushing the lightning to its absolute limit.
He channeled his first combat art: "Tyrant’s Art, First Form: Crimson Lightning Stride."
His body became a blur, a crimson flicker vanishing and reappearing across the room.
He stopped abruptly, channeled mana into his fist, and unleashed the "Second Form: Crimson Tyrant’s Grip."
The punch tore through the air and collided with the wall, leaving only a faint scratch.
Then, the unexpected happened; his knees buckled, and his lungs burned.
The power was too much for this fragile vessel. He collapsed, gasping for air.
He couldn't sustain this "Crimson State" for more than 56 seconds before his veins threatened to burst.
Fifty-six seconds, he logged in his mind as he lay on the cold stone.
That is my threshold for now.
He named it the "Crimson Form."
Over the next three hours, Ray lived in a cycle of suffering and rebirth.
He pushed to his absolute limit, collapsed, meditated for a few minutes to recover,
rested thirteen minutes to heal his strained muscles, then dove back into the fray.
By the end of the third hour, he had extended his limit to a full minute.
Exhausted and soaked in sweat, he went to the bath to wash off the grime of his exertion.
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Afterward, he fell into a deep sleep to restore his mental and physical energy.
The next morning, Ray arrived at the Class S lecture hall and took his usual seat by the window.
He stared at the academy, which shimmered under the morning sun.
After a few seconds, Professor Ariadne entered, and silence descended.
She laid out some papers and began a complex lecture on elemental magic.
"Remember," she said, her voice precise, "most mages are bound by the singular nature of their element.
You are the masters of your own path, not weavers of everything."
As she spoke, her gaze drifted to Ray. The class followed her eyes.
It was known he possessed three elements—Death, Life, and Lightning.
Ray laughed internally, a dry, humorless sound.
They thought his multi-elemental nature was a gift, a sign of superior talent.
They didn't realize it was a prison.
He could use only one element at a time due to his current core’s weakness; if he
tried to use Death and Life together, the resulting dissonance would shatter him from the inside out.
He remained silent, listening to her theory.
In the afternoon, the atmosphere shifted. Ariadne gathered her papers and left. Moments later, the door swung open to
reveal a man who looked as though he had been carved from rock.
He had black hair, dark eyes, and a lithe, muscular build pulsing with suppressed power.
A cigarette smoldered between his lips—a flagrant violation of academy rules he clearly didn't care about.
"I am Laibos," the man said, his voice like grinding gravel.
"I am your combat instructor. Follow me."
The students scrambled after him.
They walked through the corridors until they reached a vast arena floored with
reinforced magic steel—far stronger than the materials in their private rooms.
"Each of you," Laibos commanded, his eyes gleaming with a majestic, intimidating light, "give me everything you have.
Do not hold back."
Valerian stepped forward with a confident smile, summoning a sword of scorching holy light.
He lunged with a powerful strike, but Laibos didn't even move his feet; he simply
swayed, the blade passing his throat by a hair's breadth.
Valerian followed with a "Flash" attack, then struck after binding Laibos with chains of light.
Laibos needed only a single movement, as if dusting himself off, to shatter the chains,
dodge Valerian's blade, and deliver a calculated, painful strike to the Prince’s stomach.
"Pathetic," Laibos spat. "Your tricks are laughable.
You are just ego without instinct. Your defense is non-existent."
Selina was next.
She unleashed a volley of holy light spears.
Laibos swayed between them like a ghost.
As he closed the distance, he sensed a spear of greater density and power heading his way.
Laibos delivered a punch that pierced the spear and stopped an inch from her nose; the resulting air pressure alone was
enough to whip her hair back and put terror into her heart.
"Your attack is simple and predictable," Laibos said, his eyes shifting to the others.
He moved to Selinka, a human girl with a high-purity mana core who had also joined Class S.
She unleashed a masterful display of spirit manipulation—contracting with wood
spirits to create boards to attack him with, then summoning a wind cyclone that
rushed toward him, and finally, firing a fireball into the cyclone to create a flaming vortex.
She even used the wood shards she had previously attacked with as fuel for the swirl.
Clever, Laibos thought.
She used the wooden boards to distract me, buying time to create the cyclone,
then used the fireball to turn it into a fire vortex, using the initial wood as fuel.
Laibos stopped smiling.
He drew his own blade—a rusted, nondescript piece of metal—and with a
single, lazy motion, he cleaved the flaming vortex in two.
The shockwave from that strike carved a deep, jagged canyon into the steel floor.
The class gasped in total silence.
That floor was designed to withstand massive attacks, yet Laibos had sliced through it like paper.
Finally, Laibos turned to Arshion.
The boy was shivering with excitement, his hand hovering over his sword.
I heard his talent is 'Sword Saint,' Laibos thought.
He seems to have been boiling with anticipation since the moment I drew my blade.
"Get ready," Laibos whispered, his voice suddenly razor-sharp.
He drew his blade fully, and its hum began to vibrate in their very bones.
"Show me your strength and what you are capable of."
Arshion's eyes ignited with fervor.
"Fine then!" he yelled, and lunged toward Laibos with everything he had.