The pounding on the door didn't stop.
I could hear boots shifting outside, muffled voices, the cold edge of official urgency bleeding through the wood like a blade pressed against skin. My throat tightened.
"Stay here," Varkas muttered, already halfway up the stairs. "Don't breathe too loud. Don't even fucking blink."
He didn't wait for a response. The door creaked behind him. I heard it open.
A pause.
Then his voice, smooth and casual. "Well well, if it isn't the lapdogs in robes. Thought I smelled incense and disappointment."
"Master Varkas," one of them said. His voice was tense. Respectful, but strained. "We sensed a flare. Holy Essence. Massive. Dangerous."
"You think I don't know what comes outta my own hands?" Varkas chuckled, followed by the clink of a bottle. "Some thugs jumped a boy. Thought I'd remind 'em why Ravegard's alleys still whisper my name."
A beat of silence.
"That's... within your jurisdiction, I suppose," the scout said reluctantly. "We've heard rumors you still train occasionally."
"Training? No. Teaching life lessons with divine fists of justice? Maybe."
Another pause.
"Was the boy hurt?"
"No worse than his pride."
The conversation ended shortly after. I didn't hear all the words, just the shift in tone. Whatever bluff Varkas had spun, it worked. The boots faded. The air lightened. Then the door slammed shut and heavy footsteps stomped back down into the room.
He appeared at the bottom of the stairs, wiped sweat from his brow, and looked at me.
"Well," he muttered, "guess we're officially on a clock."
The days blurred.
Not because they were easy, but because every hour dragged me through a different kind of hell. Varkas didn't believe in slow starts. I trained until my legs went numb, until my fingers blistered and bled, until sweat felt like blood and air like glass.
He taught me how to hold a sword properly—not just how to swing it like some idiot with anger issues. Grip. Balance. Weight distribution. Where to place your feet on cobblestone. How to read momentum in someone else's shoulders before they even moved.
The first few days, I dropped the wooden blade more than I held it.
"Wrong stance," he'd bark."Too stiff.""Too loose.""Too dumb."
It wasn't elegant. But slowly, my body adjusted. My movements stopped looking like a desperate flail. I stopped thinking so much. I started reacting.
We moved from the sword into body conditioning—where things got worse.
"You've got inner Essence," he said once, cracking his neck while tossing me a bruised apple. "You just don't know how to use it. So we'll start simple."
Simple, in Varkas' language, meant jumping off rooftops.
Or sprinting across market alleys with coins on the backs of my hands. Or dodging rocks he threw without warning. Sometimes while blindfolded. Once while being chased by a drunk dog with one eye and a limp.
"Inner Essence isn't just strength," he'd growl while I wheezed on the ground. "It's awareness. Control. Reaction. You use it to sharpen what's already there."
By the end of the first week, I could jump higher than any normal person my size. My landings were tighter. I could move faster, think quicker, feel a threat before it happened.
But that's when he introduced Pure Essence.
We started with projection.
"Push," he said, standing in front of a stack of old crates. "Visualize your Essence moving through your palm. Don't shape it. Don't name it. Just release."
The first time, I felt nothing. The second, a mild tingle. By the fifth try, my fingers sparked—and the crate shook.
By the tenth?
It shattered.
I blinked, stunned.
Varkas grinned. "There we go. Hello, Pure Essence."
It was raw, unfiltered, and unstable. Not flashy like fire or cold like ice—but useful. With practice, I learned to use it to push things back. A blast from the palm. A shockwave from my foot. I even managed to imbue a stick with enough force to split stone.
But controlling it was draining. Essence leaked too fast if I lost focus. Once, I nearly knocked myself out trying to project sideways and missed entirely, throwing myself into a wall.
He laughed for five minutes straight.
Around day twelve, something changed.
I was running drills in the back alley, dodging makeshift dummies while deflecting thrown knives with a wooden blade laced with Essence. Varkas stood at the edge, arms crossed, watching with that annoying smirk.
"You're ready," he said finally, as I collapsed near the barrels.
"For what?" I panted.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he tossed me a battered headband and pointed to the empty lot behind the tavern.
"We're sparring. Now."
Varkas stood a few meters away, spinning his wooden sword in lazy circles. He wore no armor, just his usual half-rotted robe and a crooked grin.
Me? I was already sweating.
"Don't hold back," he said, cracking his neck to one side. "If I wanted a light workout, I'd fight a chair."
I took a breath and centered myself. The Essence in my chest pulsed gently, like a slow heartbeat waiting for a command.
This was it.
All the bruises. All the drills. All the days I wanted to quit.
Time to show him I'd actually learned something.
I moved first—charging in with a shoulder feint and slashing upward with my sword infused in Pure Essence. The air shimmered faintly as the energy laced through the wood, not quite glowing, but tangible, like static against skin.
Varkas parried with one hand.
One fucking hand.
He didn't even budge.
"Nice. Sharp angle, but you're telegraphing your shoulders."
He swept his leg out.
I jumped—way higher than any normal person should.
Essence surged in my thighs, and for a second, I felt weightless. My foot came down in a counter-kick, forcing him back a step.
I landed, staggered, and immediately dashed to the left. He followed, expression unchanged, just calm focus.
I twisted mid-run, focusing on the pulse in my hand—channeled Pure Essence in a sudden, wide push.
A burst of force exploded from my palm, catching him in the chest.
He slid back half a meter.
That was all.
Then he smiled.
"Finally," he said, loosening his shoulders. "Let's see how long you last now."
He came at me like a ghost—silent, efficient, fast. His blade blurred. I blocked twice, barely, and ducked a third strike that would've taken my nose off.
I activated inner Essence mid-roll, propelling myself into a sprinting spin to his flank. I raised my sword high and brought it down, all my energy behind it.
He caught it.
With his bare hand.
"Too slow," he muttered.
And then he kicked me square in the stomach.
I hit the ground hard, gasping.
He didn't move. Just stood there, hand bleeding slightly from the blade.
I blinked at him through the pain, then laughed—quiet, breathless.
"I got you to move."
He looked down at his hand. Blood trickled down his wrist.
"…Huh. Guess you did."
We didn't say much on the way to the Bitter Barrel. The streets of Ravegard were quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that didn't come from peace, but exhaustion. The lanterns overhead flickered like they were trying to hold on a little longer, and puddles shimmered under them like tiny broken mirrors. I kept glancing at Varkas as we walked—he had his arms tucked into his ragged robe, his gaze distant, but not lost. He looked like a man who was still halfway in a fight, even if the opponent was long gone.
Inside, the tavern was as I remembered: dim, warm, and heavy with the scent of alcohol, burnt wood, and stories that no one wanted to tell. A few drunks were slumped at the far end, half-listening to a bard strumming a single broken chord over and over again. Varkas muttered something to the bartender, who grunted and poured him his usual Dustburn. For me, just a cup of that cheap berry juice. I didn't ask for it. I didn't need to. At this point, they probably knew I wasn't drinking anything that came with regret built in.
We found our usual spot in the corner, near the window with the cracked glass. The streetlight outside cast soft golden lines across the table between us, catching the dust in the air. Varkas leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs, and raised his drink with a crooked grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"To surviving hell," he said.
I clinked my glass against his. "Barely."
I took a sip. It was too sweet, like someone had tried to cover up the sour underneath with fake cheer. Fitting, I guess. Across from me, Varkas drank slow, eyes closing for a moment, like the burn was something he needed to feel. He lowered the glass and gave me a long look, the kind that didn't judge, but peeled a bit deeper than I wanted.
"You're getting better," he said after a pause. "Almost like you don't completely suck anymore."
I gave him a tired smile. "That the nicest thing you've ever said to me?"
"Don't get used to it."
His voice was light, but his posture wasn't. There was a tension in his shoulders, in the way his fingers tapped the glass rhythmically, like he was trying to keep a beat only he could hear. I watched him for a moment. Something was on his mind. It had been since the fight. Since I landed that one hit that made him actually bleed.
"You always dodge the question," I said, quietly. "About the Academy. About… what happened. You said you'd tell me. One day."
He didn't answer right away. Just turned his glass slowly, staring into it like it might change what was inside.
"You really wanna know?" he said finally, voice quieter than before.
"Yeah," I said. "I do."
He leaned back a little, exhaled through his nose, then gave this bitter half-smile like he knew I'd say that. But instead of answering, he shifted forward again and looked me dead in the eye, his fingers steepling together in front of his mouth like he was about to give a sermon.
"Before I tell you," he said, "I need to know something first. And don't lie."
I blinked. "Okay?"
"Have you ever been in love?"
The question hit harder than it should've. I didn't know what to say at first. Part of me wanted to laugh—because how the hell was that relevant? But the look in his eyes made it clear this wasn't just some casual tavern talk.
I looked away, letting my fingers trace the rim of the glass. What did it even mean, to be in love? Honestly, I don't think I ever really was. Not back then. Not during the first years of school, when I fell for every girl who smiled at me for more than three seconds. If someone showed me basic kindness, I convinced myself it meant something. That I mattered. That I wasn't invisible. I used to get obsessed with people who didn't even know I existed. I thought that was love.
But then… Carmen.
She didn't look at me like I was broken. She didn't treat me like I was a burden. She argued with me, mocked me, challenged me in ways I wasn't ready for. I hated how she saw through all my bullshit. And I think that's why I started needing her around. Not because she made me feel better—but because she made me feel… real.
When she kissed Nikita, I didn't explode or scream. I just felt something collapse inside. Something quiet. Something final. I wanted her to be happy, even if it wasn't with me. I still do. And maybe that's the closest thing I've felt to love.
"…Yeah," I said at last, still not looking at him. "I think I have."
He didn't speak right away. Just looked at me with a strange expression—half curious, half... almost sorry.
"Did she love you back?" he asked, voice low and even.
I hesitated.
"No," I said. "Not like that."
Varkas let out a quiet breath through his nose, and a small, crooked smile twitched at the edge of his lips. Not mocking—just tired.
"Then yeah," he muttered. "You've been in love."
He leaned back in the creaking wooden booth, the light from the lantern above catching the shadows under his eyes. He stared up for a moment, like something on the ceiling might distract him from whatever thought just clawed its way into his head. Then he took his glass again, not rushing it this time, and rolled the contents in slow, lazy circles before finally taking a long drink. His throat moved, his jaw clenched, and when he set the cup down, he kept his hand on it like it might run off if he let go.
"Love's dangerous, Aleks," he said finally. "Not in the romantic way. Not in that pretty, storybook shit they write songs about."
His fingers tapped the wood once—twice. He wasn't looking at me now. Just the table.
"It digs in when you're not looking. Makes you think you're better. Like maybe, just maybe, you're worth something. And then it rips everything out from under you the second you start to believe it."
His voice didn't waver. But something in his face did. His shoulders had sunk a little. His fingers had stopped tapping. His grip around the glass had tightened so subtly, you'd miss it if you weren't watching for the cracks.
"I gave everything to become someone. Power. Status. Respect. And when I had it all, when I thought I was finally standing at the top…"
He exhaled, slow and heavy.
"…it was love that kicked the ladder out from under me."
I didn't know what to say.
He turned his head, looked at me. Really looked. The grin was gone. What replaced it wasn't anger or regret. It was something heavier—like the ghost of a wound that never fully closed.
"You wanted the truth?" he said, his voice now rougher, but quieter.
His hand slid off the glass.
"Then I'll tell you. All of it."
He leaned forward into the flickering light, and for a moment I could see it—behind the age, the alcohol, the layers of filth and bitterness—the shadow of the man he used to be. The weight of brilliance warped by betrayal.
"Listen close, Aleks," he said. "Because this… is the story of how I let love ruin me. And how everything else burned down with it."