She hated the way her body had betrayed her. She hated how, despite all the effort, despite running until her legs screamed, despite training until she could barely stand—it still wasn't enough.
Wendy sat beside her, worry carved into her young features. Roubaul stood at the foot of her bed, silent but watchful. And then there was Naruto, standing with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
Through the suffocating weight in her chest, Carla admitted the truth.
"I have no talent." Her voice was hoarse, fragile. "I'm… I'm nothing special. I'm just—" She swallowed hard, shame twisting in her gut. "Something mere."
The room was quiet.
Then, Naruto spoke.
"You remind me of someone I used to know." His voice was even, steady. "Back in my home, there was a man named Rock Lee."
Carla blinked, startled by the sudden shift. Rock Lee?
Naruto pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
"He had no talent. Couldn't use magic, nor any other skills to make up for it. In a world where everyone had special abilities, he had nothing. People mocked him, said he'd never make it." Naruto's gaze sharpened. "But he didn't give up. He trained harder than anyone. He broke himself down, over and over again, until his body was nothing but pain and exhaustion."
Carla's breath hitched.
"And you know what happened?" Naruto's lips curved, not quite a smile, but something close. "He became the strongest man in terms of close combat in our village, even far stronger than elite wizards. He made those same people who looked down on him eat their words."
Silence hung in the air.
Carla stared at him, her heart pounding.
Naruto leaned back slightly, his voice softer now. "Strength isn't just about talent. It's about what you're willing to do, how far you're willing to go. He never stopped moving forward, no matter how much he lost. And you—" Naruto's gaze locked onto hers. "You remind me of him."
A lump formed in Carla's throat.
For the first time in a long while, the crushing weight of helplessness eased—just a little.
Naruto's voice, firm and unwavering, broke through the silence once more.
"You are not mere, nor a loser, Carla..."
His gaze bore into her, steady and resolute.
"It just means you have an even steeper hill to climb."
Carla exhaled shakily, her fingers gripping the bedsheets. A steeper hill.
From that moment on, Carla trained differently.
No more reckless overexertion, no more mindlessly throwing herself at an invisible wall, hoping sheer effort alone would break it. She trained with purpose. With discipline.
She studied her movements, refined her strikes, absorbed every lesson Naruto drilled into her. She trained alongside Wendy, pushing through exhaustion, not just for strength—but for control, for precision, for something that would last.
She didn't wake up stronger the next day. There were no shortcuts, no sudden bursts of talent.
But each morning, she moved a little sharper. Reacted a little quicker.
Each night, her body ached, but her resolve never faltered.
One step. Then another.
And before she knew it, Carla wasn't just running after Wendy anymore.
She was keeping up.
The battlefield was chaos—a ruined stretch of scorched earth and shattered trees, the remnants of the ongoing clash staining the air with smoke and dust. The Worth Woodsea canopy loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows that flickered with each explosion of magic. And in the heart of it all, Carla moved.
Not with the rigid, desperate dodging of before. Not with the frantic, instinct-driven reactions of a cornered fighter. She flowed.
Hoteye's Earth Magic tore the ground apart in an unpredictable rhythm, shifting between jagged spikes and sinking pits in an attempt to trap her. But Carla wasn't where he expected her to be. The moment the soil beneath her feet twisted, she was already gone, flipping off a falling tree trunk, twisting midair, and landing on the side of a stone spire. Before it could crumble, she launched off it, rebounding across his shifting battlefield like a specter.
Her speed wasn't just about running anymore. It was about angles, about movement—about being where the enemy couldn't reach.
Hoteye's brow furrowed, his usual disinterest cracking into something sharper. He clenched his fist, and the ground in front of Carla turned to quicksand, aiming to swallow her whole.
She didn't fight it. She dove forward, letting the momentum carry her into a roll before pushing off the unstable terrain. Using the rebounding force, she vaulted high, flipping over Hoteye's outstretched arm as he attempted to grab her.
There.
Midair, Carla twisted—her body bending fluidly, her heel carving through the space like a whip. A flying roundhouse.
Hoteye barely raised his forearm in time to block, but the impact rattled the bones underneath. His arm dipped, just slightly.
Carla wasn't done. She twisted again before landing, using the same force from her own kick to spin low, her other foot sweeping at his knee.
He staggered, his stance breaking for just a second.
A second was all she needed.
She shot upward from her crouch, using her hands to spring off the ground—an inverted flip kick aimed straight for his chin.
Hoteye tilted his head at the last moment, avoiding a direct hit, but Carla felt the impact as her foot grazed his jaw, forcing him back a step.
She landed smoothly, one foot sliding back into a defensive stance, breath steady despite the fire in her lungs.
Hoteye slowly straightened, rubbing his jaw. Then—he grinned.
"You're a tricky one," he mused, flexing his fingers. The earth beneath them rumbled ominously. "But let's see if you can keep dancing when the whole world is moving against you."
Carla exhaled, rolling her shoulders. The battle wasn't over.
Wendy's eyes fluttered open, her head pounding as the cold, unyielding stone beneath her sent a shiver up her spine. The dim cavernous cell was damp, the air thick with the scent of moss and something metallic—blood, perhaps. Her fingers trembled as she pushed herself upright, her breathing uneven.