After training for hours, the sky had already begun to darken.
The orange glow of the sunset bled slowly across the horizon, dissolving behind the tall academy buildings until only a dim, bruised light remained. Long shadows stretched across the training yard, swallowing the ground in quiet darkness. Jelo’s body felt heavy in a way that went deeper than muscle. His clothes clung to him, soaked through with sweat, and his palms still radiated warmth from hours of creating and compressing flas over and over until the motion felt like breathing.
Chloro looked up at the darkening sky and gave a small, unhurried nod.
"That’s enough for today."
Jelo lowered his hand. The compressed fla sitting in his palm flickered once, then vanished. He exhaled slowly, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders.
"You did well," Chloro said. His voice was calm. asured. The kind of tone that didn’t throw complints around carelessly.
Jelo looked up at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.
"When you are less busy," Chloro continued, already turning to leave, "or when you have free ti — you can always co find . I’ll be available."
He raised his hand in a loose, casual wave as he began walking away.
Jelo watched him go. "Thank you, Chloro."
As Chloro moved through the empty yard, his footsteps quiet against the stone ground, his thoughts stayed behind with the boy.
He had been training with fire for years. Real years. Not months, not a season — years of discipline, of repetition, of burning his own hands more tis than he could count before he ever learned what true control actually felt like. It had not co easily. It had never co easily.
But Jelo...
Jelo was different.
The speed at which he grasped the chanics of heat compression was not normal. That was not an exaggeration. Most students at this level spent weeks — sotis longer — just trying to keep a fla stable without it sputtering out or flaring beyond their control. The concept of compression alone was sothing many upperclassn still hadn’t properly internalized.
Jelo had begun compressing fire on the first day.
Not perfectly. Not without effort. But he had done it. He had understood what was being asked of him and he had reached for it imdiately, like sothing in his body already recognized the principle before his mind had fully caught up.
Chloro’s eyes narrowed slightly as he walked.
He has talent, he thought.
Then he stopped himself.
No.
Talent wasn’t the right word. Talent implied sothing passive — a gift that existed on its own. What Jelo had was sothing more active than that. The way he absorbed information and imdiately began adjusting, refining, pushing the boundaries of what he’d just been taught — that wasn’t talent.
That was genius.
It was a rare thing to recognize. Chloro had trained alongside many strong students, had observed more than a few who carried themselves like they were destined for greatness. Most of them plateaued. Most of them hit the wall that separated good from exceptional and stayed there.
Jelo hadn’t hit that wall yet.
And sohow, Chloro already doubted he would.
There was sothing else, too. Sothing he had noticed quietly and kept to himself during their sessions together.
Jelo’s raw firepower was already greater than his own.
Not refined. Not controlled. But the sheer volu of heat that the boy could generate was beyond what Chloro could produce at full output. He had felt it during the compression drills — the density of the flas, the weight of them. There was a furnace behind Jelo’s ability that hadn’t even co close to being fully opened yet.
If he ever truly mastered that power...
Chloro let the thought settle.
One day, Jelo will surpass .
It wasn’t a bitter realization. It didn’t sting the way it might have for soone else. If anything, it was the exact reason Chloro wanted to keep training him. The most worthwhile students were always the ones who eventually stopped needing you.
He walked on, and the yard disappeared behind him.
anwhile, Jelo dragged himself back toward the dormitory like a man twice his age.
Every step felt like a negotiation. His legs moved, but they made it clear they were not happy about it. The ache had settled deep into his muscles, the kind that didn’t announce itself loudly but simply made everything heavier and slower and slightly miserable.
He pushed open the dorm room door, stepped inside, and looked at his bed.
He didn’t change. He didn’t wash his face. He didn’t do anything reasonable at all.
He crossed the room, collapsed face-first onto the mattress, and stayed there.
Training with Chloro is insane.
The thought drifted through his head without much energy behind it. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, blinked slowly, and felt the pull of sleep rising up from sowhere warm and deep.
His eyes closed.
His breathing slowed.
And then —
BANG.
The door swung open hard enough to rattle the fra.
Jelo shot upright, heart lurching. "Who —"
He stopped.
Blinked.
"...Oh. It’s you."
Atlas stepped through the doorway.
Jelo took one look at him and felt sothing shift in his perspective about his own day.
Atlas looked destroyed. His clothes were covered in dust and gri, his hair had given up entirely on any form of structure, and his eyes carried the particular exhausted blankness of soone who had pushed well past their limit and kept going anyway. If Jelo had walked back to the dorm looking rough, Atlas had clearly crawled.
I thought my day was hard.
Jelo watched him shuffle inside.
Compared to this, I got off easy.
"What exactly have you been doing?" Jelo asked. His voice still had the slow, half-asleep texture of soone who hadn’t fully committed to being awake.
Atlas dropped his bag onto the floor with a heavy thud, then stretched his arms above his head with a long groan.
"Okay," he said, like he was about to file an official report. "First — physical training. Back in the yard. Body strengthening, endurance work, the usual."
He walked to his bed and sat down on the edge of it with the careful deliberateness of soone whose legs were threatening to quit.
"After that, I went to the arena nexus . Worked on my abilities for a while. Tried picking up so new techniques."
Jelo nodded slowly.
"And then," Atlas continued, "I ran into another earth user."
That got Jelo’s attention more than the rest. He straightened slightly.
"He’s in Class 2. C-rank." Atlas rubbed the back of his neck. "We ended up talking for a while. He seed genuinely interested — in the ability, the approach, all of it. Ended up showing a few things. Helped work through so stuff." A small pause. "He told I could co find him anyti."
"That’s basically it."
Jelo looked at him for a long mont. Then a faint smile crossed his face.
"I understand now," he said, "why you look like that."
Atlas let out a weak, breathy laugh.
"But seriously," Jelo continued, "I an it — you work hard. Really hard. I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up surpassing most of Class One before we’re done."
Atlas waved him off and bent down to pull off his shoes.
"Stop it," he said flatly. "You’re going to be one of the strongest in this whole academy by the ti we leave Class One. Don’t try and put that on ."
He tossed his shoes aside and dropped back onto his bed without another word.
The room went quiet.
Neither of them had the energy to push the conversation further. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence — just the kind that settled naturally between two people who had used everything they had and were simply done.
Today had been good, in the way that exhausting days sotis are. They had trained. They had pushed. They had gained things that couldn’t be handed to them — the kind of experience that only ca from grinding through the hours and coming out the other side tired and slightly better than before.
But tomorrow was already waiting.
Tongen had made it clear he expected them early. Whatever session he had planned, it wouldn’t be gentle. It never was. The mory of the red ball drill surfaced briefly in Jelo’s mind before he shut it away.
That’s tomorrow’s problem.
Within minutes, both of them were asleep.
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