The second day of training didn't begin with beautiful sunlight pouring in—it began with ten young people trying to hide from it while their muscles throbbed unbearably. Every fiber of their bodies felt like it had been replaced with glowing barbed wire.
In the dorm room—where the beds were separated by gender within the same space—the sound of groans was the only alarm clock. Nuke, who the day before had leapt around like a living grenade, now crawled out of her bunk with a swollen face, grumbling that the floor "wasn't explosively soft and fluffy enough to lie on."
"If anyone… touches me… I swear I'll hunt down snakes and put them around your necks and watch them choke you while you sleep," Troll hissed hoarsely, trying to stretch his back, which cracked like dry branches.
Suddenly, a pillow flew across the room and smacked the back of his neck hard enough to knock him off balance.
"Shut up. Nobody wants to hear you whining first thing in the morning," Fitty said, yawning and stretching.
"I'm going to kill you, Fitty," Troll shot back, ready to hurl the pillow at her even harder.
"Enough nonsense. If you want to fight, do it during training," Kilay said flatly.
Neale glanced at him. The boy in black was already standing, immaculate, as if he hadn't spent hours trading blows the day before.
"Ten minutes," Kilay said calmly, cutting through the collective misery. "If you're not in the yard, I'll personally make sure today's reflex memory is engraved with broken bones."
"You monster," Nuke muttered.
"By the way, didn't you say the floor was terrible? Why aren't you up yet?" Neale asked.
"Nuke quit," she replied dramatically.
The second day's training was a dive into technical hell.
Kilay no longer limited himself to correcting posture—he forced them into two-on-one sparring matches against him.
Neale and Richard tried to corner him, but Kilay moved like a fluid shadow dissolving into darkness, turning their strength against them.
"You chose to be late, and this is the best you've got?" Kilay said coldly.
"It was only five minutes—at most," Richard protested.
"You're still keeping your knives sheathed, Neale. Is that how you plan to fight in the future? You're both thinking too much and fighting too little," Kilay criticized, slipping past one of Neale's thrusts by a hair's breadth. "Is this how you'll fight if you ever unlock Justa Ira? No battle instinct? No willingness to draw your blade? In war, willpower and the desire to survive are absolute. Don't attack where I am—attack where I'm going to be. And attack like you mean to kill."
He dropped both of them, leaving them nearly knocked out.
"You're too strong. I wouldn't stand a chance alone. And even with Neale, it wasn't enough," Richard admitted.
"If you keep thinking like that, you never will," Kilay replied.
"Trust your strength. You have good combat deduction—you're just holding back when predicting my moves. Why, I don't know. Fix it. It'll make you stronger. No doubt."
"I get it… Kilay, who taught you to fight like that?" Richard asked.
"Right. Who's next?" Kilay deflected smoothly.
"I'm getting water. We'll continue after," Richard muttered, walking off toward the shade, thinking, Didn't I ask clearly enough… or… whatever.
"How was training, girls?" Neale asked.
"We're done. Nuke's low on energy after yesterday, so it was lighter. But she's an unpredictable monster in combat," Lira replied.
"I never want to train again," Nuke declared.
While Group Twelve rested in the shade, drenched in sweat, Julian—the son of someone clearly powerful, brought to Kirden with V-Zero—walked along the upper level overlooking the yard.
He carried a spherical device glowing faint blue—a catalyst that stored refined Justa Ira from someone else. He was likely absorbing its energy, hoping to one day generate it himself without relying on weapons or accessories, since such tools couldn't increase their potential after being made.
"Look at them," Julian said loudly to those around him, his voice echoing down to the yard. "So this is how commoners fight. Like animals brawling over rotten bones. Pathetic. Disgusting. They haven't even touched the energy of the Absolute Races yet and think effort will amount to anything. Those who pass the second stage—have some sense and learn early who you're meant to serve in this world."
Neale stopped drinking water and rose from the shade, locking eyes with Julian from below.
Hatred—his old companion that had first visited him on the night of his sixteenth birthday—roared inside his chest. He remembered his mother's scream as she was crushed, the smell of burning flesh and blood, the cold silence even amid the flames as he watched his father's sacrifice.
Those nobles of Kirden, protected by elegant houses, soldiers, and towering walls, didn't know what real war was. They had never looked into the eyes of the Absolute Races and seen the abyss between them and humanity.
For them, war was something others handled.
For Neale, fighting until those beings were erased from the world was the only reason he was still breathing. To one day hold the head of an Absolute Race in his hand.
"Ignore him," Lira whispered, sweat trailing down her pale face. "He just wants us to lose control."
"I won't lose control," Neale replied, his voice scraping like metal against stone. "I just remembered why I clench my fists."
For a moment, Lira and Nuke looked at him—and it was as if they could see him burning.
"Kilay. Richard. We still have time before lunch. Both of you—come at me. Don't hold back. Even if I'm on the ground, hit me. I have to get stronger. No matter the cost."
"As you wish, Neale. I'm angry too, so I wasn't planning to hold back," Kilay replied.
"I'll try," Richard added.
"Troll and Fitty are still fighting. Verbally and physically," Nuke observed.
"Do they hate each other?" she asked.
"Who knows… Have you seen the twins?" Lira asked.
"If Nuke isn't mistaken, they were called to help with lunch today."
And so the second day passed.
Only one day remained before the mysterious second stage—one that would only be revealed in the arena.