The days that followed were a lesson in isolation. Ren became a ghost haunting the academy's halls, a pariah defined by a single moment of public failure. In the theoretical classes, instructors ignored his presence, their gazes sweeping past him as if he were an empty chair. In the corridors, other students parted before him, not with the deference they showed to nobles, but with the cautious distance one affords a stray dog—unpredictable, unclean, and unwelcome. The jeers, led by Lin Fei, had solidified into a permanent reputation. He was the "Aether-Deaf Genius," the Elder's great mistake, the dud.
Ren said nothing. He endured the scorn with the same stony indifference he had shown Lin Fei in his room. His entire existence had contracted to the four walls of his cell and the grueling, paradoxical training Elder Tian had devised. Every waking moment not spent in a lecture hall was a silent war. He fought to keep the raging river of his Spirit Soul dammed, a battle that left his mind frayed and his nerves screaming. Simultaneously, he waged a newer, stranger campaign to gain conscious control over his body's passive hunger for Aether, trying to feel and command the very pores of his skin.
The effort was monumental, and the only tangible result was a constant, bone-deep exhaustion. Yet, beneath the fatigue, something was changing. When he awoke each morning, the aches in his muscles were slightly less severe. The bruises from accidentally walking into a desk corner in the dark faded faster than they should have. A strange, quiet vitality was thrumming in his flesh, a strength being forged in the secret crucible of his unique biology. His body, denied the explosive power of his Spirit Soul, was compensating, honing itself with the Aether it stole from the air.
His schedule led him next to the academy's open-air training grounds, a vast expanse of packed earth and weapon racks baking under the midday sun. The air was alive with the shouts of students and the sharp crack of Aether-infused strikes against practice dummies. This was the domain of Instructor Borin, a mountain of a man with a scarred face and the weary eyes of a veteran GAMA officer who had spent too many years fighting in Rift Zones. His voice was a low growl that carried easily over the din.
"Theory is useless if you can't survive a punch to the face!" Borin bellowed, his gaze sweeping over the assembled initiates. "Today, you learn the difference between a textbook and a fist. We will practice basic Aetheric shielding and striking. Pair up!"
A nervous energy filled the group as students found partners. Before Ren could even move, a voice thick with malice called out.
"Instructor!" Lin Fei's arm was raised, a triumphant smirk on his face. "My friend Joric here needs a partner. Perhaps the Elder's ward would be willing to spar? It would be a good learning experience for him."
He gestured to a boy beside him, a hulking youth whose knuckles were already thick with calluses. Joric grinned, a thuggish expression that promised pain. It was an obvious setup, a public execution disguised as a training exercise.
Instructor Borin's eyes narrowed, assessing Ren for a long moment. "Fine," he grunted, his voice betraying no emotion. "The prodigy and the brute. Get to the center. The rules are simple: no crippling blows. The match ends when one of you can no longer stand or when I call it. Begin!"
Joric cracked his thick neck and lumbered into the sparring circle, a predator sizing up his prey. Ren met him in the center, his posture calm, his mind a whirring engine of calculation. He was forbidden from using his Aether. Joric, he could tell from the boy's confident stance, was likely a Rank 2 or 3 Initiate, already capable of basic enhancement.
"Don't worry, monster," Joric sneered. "I'll try not to break you too quickly."
He charged. A faint, dirty-yellow Aether coated his fists, the sign of a basic Earth-type affinity. He was slow, clumsy, but powerful. He threw a heavy right hook aimed at Ren's head.
Ren, relying on the nascent speed his body had developed, ducked under the blow with ease. He didn't counterattack; he simply created distance, his feet moving in a simple, efficient pattern.
The crowd of onlookers, with Lin Fei at their head, began to jeer. "What's wrong, freak? Can't even throw a punch?"
Joric growled in frustration and charged again, throwing a flurry of clumsy, Aether-coated punches. Ren weaved and dodged, his movements economical. He was a leaf on the wind, avoiding the brutish swings. But the circle was small, and his opponent was relentless. A heavy blow finally slipped past his guard and slammed into his ribs.
Pain, sharp and immediate, exploded in his torso. The blow, which should have cracked ribs on a normal boy, sent a shuddering shockwave through his frame. But then the strangest thing happened. The Aether his cells had passively absorbed flared to life, not as an attack, but as a defense. His bones and muscles, saturated with raw energy, absorbed the kinetic force with a dull, resonant thud. The pain was real, but it was distant, and a strange warmth immediately began to spread through the point of impact, knitting together the bruised tissue. He was durable. Impossibly durable.
The realization settled his mind. He couldn't win a contest of strength, but perhaps he could win a contest of endurance.
The fight became a brutal, one-sided spectacle. Joric, enraged by Ren's resilience, hammered away at him. A punch to the shoulder. A kick to the thigh. Another jarring blow to his stomach. Ren became a human punching bag, a living anvil for Joric's clumsy hammer. He was thrown across the dirt, forced to his knees, but each time, he rose again, his face a mask of stony calm, his eyes analyzing every move. He learned Joric's rhythm, the way the boy over-committed to every swing, the slight shift in his feet before a powerful kick.
The laughter from the crowd slowly faded, replaced by a confused murmur. The freak wasn't fighting back, but he wasn't breaking either. He just… endured.
Joric was panting now, sweat pouring down his face, the Aetheric glow around his fists flickering and weak. He had expended enormous energy trying to put Ren down. Frustration gave way to desperation. With a final roar of rage, he put every last ounce of his strength and Aether into one final, telegraphed haymaker.
Ren saw it coming a mile away. The wind-up, the grunt, the lunge. His mind was clear. He couldn't block it. He couldn't counter it. But he didn't have to.
At the last possible second, as the glowing fist barreled towards his face, Ren dropped his defensive stance. In a single, fluid motion that seemed impossibly fast, he sidestepped the attack and coolly extended his leg into the path of Joric's lunge.
The bulky boy, utterly overextended and off-balance, had no chance to react. His ankle caught on Ren's leg, and his own momentum became his undoing. He crashed, face-first, into the hard-packed earth with a spectacular, undignified thud. He lay there, gasping for air, the last of his Aether fizzling out. He was defeated.
A wave of stunned silence washed over the training grounds. Instructor Borin stared, a flicker of disbelief in his scarred features. Lin Fei's jaw was slack. Across the arena, Anya Volkov frowned, her brow furrowed in deep, analytical thought.
Ren stood in the center of the circle, not having landed a single blow, yet he was the only one left standing. He lowered his leg, his breath coming in steady, even gasps. He hadn't won with power. He had won with stillness.