By the time they reached home that evening, Layron could barely walk straight. His legs were trembling, his arms stiff from the dozens of cuts bandaged underneath his clothes. Every step sent a jolt of pain up his spine, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to move normally.
It didn't work.
Anya noticed immediately.
"Why are you walking like an old man?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Layron opened his mouth—then shut it. His mind raced for an excuse, but the dull throbbing in his body made it impossible to think straight.
Fake Gramps, lounging in his usual chair, sighed and answered smoothly. "We've been fishing."
Anya blinked. "...Fishing?"
"Yeah." Fake Gramps leaned back, arms crossed. "The boy finally realized he's not cut out for all that academic nonsense. So I'm teaching him something else. He's going to make a living off the river."
Layron glanced at him in surprise but quickly nodded. "Y-Yeah. I mean... it makes sense, right?"
Anya's suspicion lingered. "And the bruises?"
Fake Gramps scratched his chin. "Ever wrestled a river fish, girl?"
Anya frowned. "...No?"
"Exactly."
Layron barely held back a laugh. It was absurd—but it worked. Anya sighed, rubbing her temples, and dropped the subject.
For now.
The next morning, Anya was already up early, shoving clothes and supplies into her travel bag. Her trip would last two days—two days where Layron wouldn't have to worry about her getting suspicious.
Then, the knock came at the door.
A group of her classmates had arrived to walk with her to the academy. Among them were a few faces Layron immediately recognized—and hated.
Krenlo. His smug little group of idiots.
The moment they spotted him, the teasing started.
"Well, well, if it isn't the dropout."
"Look at him, standing there like a lost puppy."
"Guess you finally realized you're useless, huh? Is that why you stopped training?"
Layron's jaw clenched. His nails dug into his palms.
The words stung—but not because they were true.
Because they used to be.
He could feel his heartbeat rising, his blood pounding in his ears. He forced himself to breathe, to let them talk. It didn't matter.
Until—
"Anya's been babysitting you for years, huh?" Krenlo sneered. "Without her, you'd probably be some stray dog in the gutter."
Something inside Layron snapped.
Before he even realized it, his body moved.
His fist shot forward, straight for Krenlo's face—
But a hand stopped him.
Fake Gramps.
His grip was firm, his eyes locked onto Layron's with an unspoken command.
Not now.
Layron's breath came sharp and fast. Krenlo had flinched—just slightly. He hadn't expected Layron to react. No one had.
Even Anya looked shocked.
Layron wasn't supposed to be like this.
He was supposed to keep his head down. To take the insults. To be the same weak Layron they all expected.
But now—
Anya's expression softened. She stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest, just over his heart.
"Fine," she murmured. "It's still beating. Not a monster, I guess."
Layron stiffened. "What—"
She pulled away before he could finish, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
"See you in two days, dummy."
And just like that, she was gone.
Layron stood there, confused, heart still hammering against his ribs.
What did she mean?
--
Layron followed Falkren through the village, expecting to take the usual path toward the forest.
But they didn't.
"Wait," Layron frowned. "Why are we heading this way?"
[[Your training ground has changed.]] Falkren's voice was unreadable.
Layron's gut tightened.
"Where are we going?"
[[To where you either survive or you don't.]]
The library loomed ahead.
Layron hesitated. "...The library?"
Falkren didn't answer. He simply moved. Layron followed.
They stepped inside, past the rotting shelves, the dust-choked air, the scent of ancient paper.
Shion was already there.
Without a word, he pressed a hidden switch.
The floor rumbled.
Stone shifted beneath their feet. A trapdoor slid open, revealing a stairway spiraling downward into darkness.
Layron swallowed hard.
"This… was under the library?"
Shion started descending. "Welcome to the Fallen Arena."
Layron hesitated at the top step.
Then followed.
When they reached the bottom, Layron's breath caught.
The chamber was enormous—far too big to exist beneath the library. Floating stone platforms moved at random. Jagged spikes jutted from the walls. The ground itself seemed alive, shifting, breaking, reforming in a never-ending cycle.
A battlefield that didn't play fair.
Shion leaned against a pillar, his fingers lazily tapping the wooden frame of his bow.
"This place," he said, "has seen warriors rise and fall for centuries. It doesn't care who you are. It only cares if you can survive."
Layron exhaled sharply. "No pressure."
Falkren perched on a crumbling statue. [[Today, Shion will be using Bowsungun. ]]
Layron stiffened. He had heard rumors of that technique.
Shion smirked. "Let's see if you last more than ten seconds."
---
Bowsungun – The Bullet Rain
Shion raised his bow.
No arrow.
He simply pulled the string back—
And the air around Layron shimmered.
A perfect ring of floating bows appeared in the air—each one nocked with a deadly black arrow.
Layron barely had a second to react before they all fired at once.
He dove—just in time to avoid the first volley. But the moment he hit the ground, the terrain shifted.
The floor beneath him cracked open.
Layron twisted mid-fall, barely catching the edge of a rising platform—
Only for another wave of arrows to curve toward him.
His mind screamed.
Foresight Break.
The world blurred, splitting into endless futures. He saw himself die over and over—until, finally, he saw the one path where he survived.
He twisted his body, rolling between the arrows, using the terrain's movement to slingshot himself across the battlefield.
He wasn't dodging anymore.
He was flowing.
Shion's eyes narrowed. "Not bad."
Another volley. Faster. Tighter. No escape—
Unless.
Layron stepped off thin air.
A platform rose beneath him at the exact second he needed it.
Falkren's mechanical eye flickered. [[He's… predicting the terrain too?!]]
Layron wasn't just dodging.
He was playing the battlefield like a game he'd already won.
Shion fired again.
Layron vanished between the shifting platforms.
When he reappeared, he was already behind Shion.
The test was over.
Falkren let out a low, impressed hum.
Shion lowered his bow, staring at Layron with something between disbelief and approval.
"Guess you're not completely hopeless."
Layron grinned—exhausted, bleeding, but standing.
"Try harder next time."
Layron stood at the edge of the training hall, his chest rising and falling, his soaked clothes clinging to his skin. He had done it. He had mastered Flowing Stride.
The river was no longer his enemy. The terrain was no longer a disadvantage. His Foresight Break had allowed him to see and adapt before the battle even started. He was fast. He was precise. He was in control.
He looked at Falkren and Shion, expecting some kind of acknowledgment.
But the looks on their faces weren't impressed.
They were expectant.
Layron's heart sank.
"...What?" he asked, already knowing he wouldn't like the answer.
Shion cracked his neck and gave a small smirk. "You think we're done?"
Layron exhaled, trying to steady himself. "What now?"
Falkren's metallic eye whirred.
[[Now, we take away your eyes.]]
A strip of thick, jet-black cloth landed at Layron's feet.
His stomach dropped.
"A… blindfold?" he muttered.
Shion's smirk widened. "You trained to see everything. Now let's see what happens when you don't."
Falkren perched on a nearby ledge, his wings flicking once. [[Time to prove whether Foresight Break is actually yours to control... or just a crutch.]]
Layron clenched his fists.
It wasn't over.
It had never been over.
And this time, he wouldn't be dodging arrows.
This time, the arena itself would be fighting him.
The Real training... was just beginning.
---