I knew I was in trouble when Hask stopped smiling.
The first round had been assessment. This round was punishment.
His fist came at my face so fast I barely registered the movement before pain exploded across my jaw. I staggered back, ears ringing, vision swimming with black spots.
"Too slow, Zero."
I tried to reset my stance, but he was already inside my guard. An uppercut to my solar plexus lifted me an inch off the ground. All the air left my lungs at once.
"Too defensive."
I doubled over, gasping. Bad move. His knee caught me in the chest, sending me sprawling across the training mat. My back hit the floor hard enough to bounce.
"Too reactive."
This was beyond a beating. This was a public execution. Around us, the paired students had stopped their own drills to watch the slaughter. I heard someone whisper "Holy shit" under their breath.
Hask advanced, each footfall heavy on the mat. He wasn't even using his Anima's stat transfer now. Just raw physical prowess built over decades of gate runs.
"Get up."
I rolled to my side, spat blood onto the mat. My ribs screamed. Something might be cracked.
"I said get up, Zero."
I pushed to my knees, then to my feet. The room spun. Black crept in at the edges of my vision.
Is it too late to drop this fucking class?
"Your physical training is cute," Hask said, circling me like a shark. "But it's entirely defensive. You react. You survive. You never attack with genuine intent."
I tried to throw a jab. He caught my fist in his palm like he was catching a ball thrown by a child.
"You fight like a boy waiting for the world to tell him what happens next." He twisted my arm, forcing me to my knees. "You are surviving the script. You aren't writing it."
The words crashed through me with more force than any of his punches. They aligned with everything since my father's accident. Waiting for assessment results. Waiting for facility placements. Waiting for someone to explain what happened to my father. Waiting for the academy to decide my worth.
Always waiting.
Never deciding.
The box in my jacket pocket went from warm to searing hot.
"Shit!" I gasped, clawing at my chest. The heat radiated through my ribs, but there was no pain. Just intense, focused warmth centered exactly where the tarot box pressed against me.
Hask's grip loosened slightly. "What's wrong with you?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because thick, ethereal fog was seeping into the edges of my vision, just like in my dream. But this wasn't sleep. This was the middle of a training hall with twenty students watching.
The fog didn't expand. It just... lingered. A hazy periphery that framed Hask's confused face.
Then time slowed.
Not metaphorically. Actually slowed. Hask's mouth moved at quarter speed. His eyes blinked like they were fighting gravity. Around us, the watching students became living statues, frozen mid-gesture.
"Look at you."
The voice filled my head. Not like a thought. Like someone standing behind me, lips pressed to my ear, speaking directly into my brain. Male. Smooth. Theatrical.
"Playing the victim in your own theater. Pathetic."
I whipped my head around, searching for the source. There was no one close enough to speak that clearly.
"They gave you a blank stage and you decided to sweep the floors."
The fog at the edges of my vision condensed, pulling together into a humanoid shape about ten feet tall. A man wearing what looked like a cosmic suit—black with swirling patterns like nebulae dancing across the fabric. His hands moved constantly, shuffling invisible cards of raw energy between his fingers.
The Magician.
Just like the card that should have been blank in my box.
I'd officially lost my mind.
"Take the pen, boss," the Magician said with a flourish of his hands. "Force the issue."
"What the fuck?" I whispered.
The Magician sighed dramatically. "Eloquent. No wonder you're getting your ass handed to you."
"You're not real."
"Says the kid with zero Anima compatibility talking to a cosmic archetype while time does a little freeze-frame for our convenience." The Magician's fingers never stopped moving, shuffling energy that sparked and popped between his palms. "Forget real. Try useful."
"What do you want?"
"Wrong question. What do you want? Besides not getting your teeth kicked in by Captain Granite over there."
I glanced at Hask, still frozen mid-blink. "To not get my teeth kicked in would be a start."
The Magician made a dismissive gesture. "Boring. Survival isn't a want. It's a baseline. What do you WANT?"
The answer came without thinking: "To prove I belong here."
"Better. How?"
"By succeeding where everyone expects me to fail."
"Now we're cooking. And how will you do that if your strategy is to get your ass kicked until someone feels sorry for you?"
"I don't need pity."
"No shit. You need power." The Magician leaned closer. "And power comes from will. Not reaction. Creation. That's me, boss. I'm the original 'make something from nothing' guy."
The fog swirled around him, creating a makeshift stage. He spread his arms wide, cosmic suit glittering with starlight.
"So stop waiting for permission to exist. Stop hoping the script includes you. Write yourself in."
"How?"
"Start by hitting back." The Magician pointed at Hask. "He thinks he knows what you are. Show him what you could be."
"Without an Anima?"
"There are older things than Anima, boss." The Magician's smile was sharp. Predatory. "Much older."
"Like you?"
"Like us." He flicked his wrist, and a card appeared between his fingers. My card. The Fool. "You drew the wild card. Now use it."
The fog began to dissipate. Time resumed its normal flow.
"Remember, boss—they're just doing what was written for them. You? You're the guy with the blank page. So write something interesting."
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A/N: Thanks for reading this chapter! Support by adding to your library and giving a power stone or two. Comment for a cookie!