At the same time that Axel and the others settled into the dorms, word spread through Bloodstone Warfare School like wildfire — members of the Whisper Syndicate had arrived.

The effect was immediate.

Eager students returned from their wilderness training expeditions. The front gates of the school opened and closed at regular intervals as more and more students trickled in. The air buzzed with excitement. Everyone wanted to see what the Whisper Syndicate was made of — and more than a few were hungry to test themselves against them.

For the next two days, Axel split his time between two things: strolling around the snowy campus with Annabelle, and quietly continuing his effort to widen his original veins from the dorm.

At night, the world fell silent.

Only the sound of icy wind and snow beating against the windows accompanied him as he meditated.

Axel opened his eyes and exhaled slowly. “Still stuck…”

He’d already used more than half of a third-level infected’s life crystal. His base attributes had improved nicely, but his original veins still hadn’t shifted.

Stubborn bastards.

Alright. Time to pivot.

He pushed aside his frustration. If he couldn't break through with the Force, it was time to shift focus. That was Vince’s advice: don’t blindly push forward. If you keep cramming Force into your body after hitting its limit, it won’t matter if the original veins haven’t formed — your body will crack under the pressure. At that point, you’d be forced to level up whether you were ready or not.

Axel wasn’t ready. He wanted more than just breaking through — he wanted to build flood-level original veins. That meant patience, strategy, and precision.

He fired up his terminal and pulled up the combat method archive again.

Back during the Universal Studios incident, he’d felt just how much of a difference a proper battle method could make. That whip-kick had shattered a mutant before it could even react.

But that same technique wasn’t always practical — too wide, too slow to charge up. In a duel, it was too easy to dodge.

This time, he wanted something faster. Tighter. More efficient.

After a long review, he made his picks: Inch Fist and Phantom Step.

Inch Fist was all about sudden, explosive power in tight quarters. Fast and direct. Perfect for closing distance and striking hard. Pair that with Phantom Step, a fast, fluid movement technique, and he’d have a powerful close-range combo.

For the next few hours, Axel trained along with the instructional videos. Repetition. Muscle memory. Micro-adjustments.

Once satisfied, he slipped back into inner vision.

As expected, the now-familiar sensation of learning kicked in — and three phantom figures appeared around the ancient tree of his mindscape.

This time, it was Harrison, Maxen, and the killer from Sin City.

Maxen helped a lot, Axel thought, watching the ghost-like projection of the flame-wielder.

He hadn’t expected Maxen’s foundations to be so deep — his abilities went beyond just elemental manipulation. His battle methods were honed.

Phoenix is no joke. Axel hadn’t fought side-by-side with the Obsidian team yet, so he didn’t have a full measure of their strength. But based on Maxen alone, he had some idea now.

Axel practiced deep into the night.

After his physical stats passed the 500 mark, he’d found that he didn’t need much sleep anymore. Just a short nap now and then was enough to recover a good chunk of stamina.

So, for three straight hours in the inner world, he trained relentlessly — practicing form, movement, and flow.

When he opened his eyes again, it was still snowing. The sky outside was heavy and gray, with a faint glow on the horizon. Dawn was still a couple hours away.

Axel glanced at Annabelle. She was still fast asleep, curled up in the bed across the room.

He stood quietly, stretched, and cracked open the door. No sense waking her up. He stepped into the cold, ready to sharpen his Inch Fist — silent and alone in the snowbound silence of Shiverstone.

The air outside was freezing — the kind of sharp cold that cut straight through your lungs — but with it came clarity. Axel inhaled deeply, feeling his head clear and his senses sharpen.

He broke into a light jog. The campus was deserted at this hour, not even a hint of life on the roads. After a long, quiet run through the snow-covered grounds, he arrived at the top of a small hill nestled within the school’s borders.

He’d only been practicing Inch Fist so far. Partly because he needed time to internalize the movements, and partly because that kind of “revelation-style” learning — absorbing skills directly through inner vision — drained him. Physically, mentally, and in terms of raw Force.

“Inch Fist.”

He murmured the name softly, reverently, then closed his eyes.

The only sounds were the wind rustling through bare trees, snowflakes striking branches, and the occasional distant birdcall echoing through the frozen air.

Snow drifted down, coating his shoulders in soft white. Then Axel moved.

Snap!

His hip twisted left. His shoulder rolled in. That motion chained into his upper arm, which flowed into his forearm, which snapped his fist forward like a piston.

With the boost from his awakened strength and reinforced physique, the power behind the punch surged forward with explosive speed. The air cracked with the blow — a sharp, dry pop — and the snow clinging to him was blasted clean off.

The strike had no target, but that didn’t matter. The air itself recoiled.

Fighting methods in this world were rooted in traditional martial arts — but reimagined through the lens of awakeners. And they were deadly when used properly.

Axel exhaled, breath steaming into the icy morning air. Just one movement, and already his body had warmed up.

He began again. Same punch. Same rhythm. Practicing on loop.

Just as Axel was sinking into the repetition, a shadow moved across the trees nearby.

A lean, athletic figure was dancing lightly across the canopy, barely disturbing the snow. His movements were graceful, precise, almost animalistic in their control. Before long, he’d landed on a high branch overlooking the hilltop.

From there, he watched Axel in silence, a bamboo sword resting lightly in his hand.

The young man raised an eyebrow. He didn’t recognize Axel. But that punch — it was solid. Controlled. The kind of control you don’t see in rookies.

And that face… too young. Far too young to be practicing combat methods like this.

He didn’t speak, just observed.

Then Axel shifted again — switching fluidly from Inch Fist into Whip-kick.

He’s practicing two fighting styles back to back? the observer thought, his brow furrowing slightly.

That was... unusual.

Most third-level awakeners — especially newcomers — were advised to focus on one technique at a time. Build mastery. Layer on complexity later. He had intended to step in and say just that.

But after a few moments, the idea faded.

Because Axel wasn’t just messing around — he had form. Control. Fluid transitions. His Whip-kick was crisp, deliberate, and well-practiced. Better, in fact, than most of the fourth-years who’d been training for double his time.

Who the hell is this guy?

Sweat beaded on Axel’s forehead as steam rose faintly from his body. He felt it — the quiet presence watching from the trees. He looked left.

And there he was. A young man stood calmly on a branch, his silhouette outlined by snow and dawnlight. Sword brows. Bright, sharp eyes. Quiet confidence radiated from him.

He held a bamboo sword loosely at his side, but the way he stood — the balance, the control — made it clear. He was a sword fighter.

When Axel spotted him, the stranger didn’t flinch. Instead, he leapt from the branch with almost no sound and landed with practiced ease in front of him.

“You’re practicing two combat methods at once?” the man asked.

Axel nodded. “Yeah. Problem?”

The man shook his head. “No problem. Just... rare.”

“I’m Marcus,” the man said simply.

“Axel.”

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