The feet of the Wyrd Class student dragged to a halt just a few meters short of the start line.
His chest heaved violently, one hand clutched his side where a stabbing pain bloomed in his abdomen, while the other dangled limply by his side.
He bent forward, gasping for air, his throat making hoarse sounds with every breath.
His lips were pale, his cheeks flushed, and every inch of his posture screamed collapse.
For just a fleeting second — barely longer than a blink — his exhausted body betrayed the will to endure.
But a second was all it took.
"Robert!"
The single, sharp word rang out through the field.
Instructor Griselda didn't need to raise her voice — the aura laced within that one name was enough to shudder through the bones of every student on the field.
The effect was instant and chilling.
Every single student who had been running — whether they were a step ahead or dragging their feet at the tail end — froze as they turned around to watch what had happened as to why the Instructor called Robert.
Only one runner did not stop — Ashok.
He merely eased into a slower pace. Turning his head slightly, he glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable except for the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.
From the start line, Robert moved.
A gust of wind kicked up dust in his place as his body surged forward with such speed that most of the students didn't even catch the motion.
One moment, he was a tall figure with folded arms, and the next — he was behind the exhausted Wyrd student who had dared to stop.
Robert's grin was stretched from ear to ear, lips parted in something far too cheerful to be comforting.
It was the kind of smile worn by a predator who had been kept on a leash for far too long — and had finally been let loose.
The unfortunate student didn't even hear him arrive.
From his Storage ring, Robert drew out a thick stick — rough-hewn and solid — nearly the size of a grown man's forearm.
The wood looked ordinary at first glance, but in the blink of an eye, Robert's hand glowed faintly as he poured Aura into the weapon.
The once inert branch hardened, its surface brimming with condensed force.
He didn't coat it with Aura to get any kind of cutting or piercing; instead, he imbued it deep within which resulted in an increase strength and durability.
Then, without pause—
WHACK!
The sound cracked through the training field like a whip of thunder, sharp and merciless.
The stick came down in a brutal arc, striking the back of the student's calves with surgical precision without any mercy.
"ARRGGHHHHHH!"
A raw, agonizing scream tore itself from the throat of the Wyrd student.
His entire body spasmed as pain exploded through his leg.
He staggered forward with a half-jump, knees buckling as he crumpled onto the ground.
But he didn't lie flat — he curled up like a wounded animal, clutching at his legs with both hands, fingers trembling as they pressed against the searing pain radiating from his calf.
"AAHHHH—RGH!!"
The howl grew more pitiful with every second.
His voice cracked, wavering between gasping sobs and incoherent whimpers.
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and his body rocked gently as he writhed on the dirt path.
The strike had been devastating — not clean, but cruelly efficient.
The training uniform over the calf though enchanted had torn apart like paper under the sheer pressure.
A vivid red mark had already blossomed across the skin, swelling in seconds.
The flesh beneath was rising and purpled, a welt forming beneath the skin.
At its center, thin rivulets of blood leaked down — just enough to draw breathless silence from the spectators.
"DID YOU NOT HEAR THE INSTRUCTOR? YOUR FEET SHOULD NOT STOP! START RUNNING!" roared Robert, his voice a harsh bark.
His eyes, cold and glinting with irritation, locked onto the fallen student with unrelenting fury.
The rest of the students remained frozen in place. No one dared to speak, not even a whisper passed between them.
Their breaths were caught halfway, hearts thudding loudly as they looked from Robert to the wailing student and then slowly turned their eyes toward the center of the field — where Griselda stood.
But the instructor made no move.
Griselda remained utterly still, arms crossed over her chest, a calm and unreadable expression etched on her face.
Her gaze didn't even flicker toward the student on the ground.
No sympathy.
No anger.
Nothing at all.
It was in that silence of the Instructor that the rest of the class finally understood— this was no ordinary class.
The silent Instructor had proven that there will be no mercy.
The Wyrd Class student who had stopped was now little more than a heap on the dirt, his body trembling from the first strike.
His hands trembled as they clutched his leg, tears rolling freely down his cheeks.
Snot ran from his nose, mingling with his breathless sobs.
His eyes were red, wide, unfocused from pain.
But despite the shout, despite the command, he didn't — couldn't — get up.
His mind was fogged in agony.
His leg burned like it had been set aflame.
He didn't even register Robert's voice.
But Robert didn't shout again.
There was no second warning.
WHACK!
The second blow came down mercilessly, the same arc, the same precision and the same spot— but this time, the student's own hand was in the way, still clutching his calf like a makeshift bandage.
The stick cracked down with brutal force, colliding first with the delicate bones of the fingers, then striking again the already-bruised flesh of the calves.
"ARRGGGHHHHHH!"
The scream was raw, primal — a mix of pure suffering and panic.
The student jerked back violently, his body writhing as his fingers flailed uselessly.
He turned onto his side, clutching his hand now, which was swelling rapidly, two fingers already darkening with the signs of bruised bone.
His other hand still hovered over his battered leg, now leaking streaks of blood down the torn track pants.
Even though the blow had landed squarely on the unfortunate Wyrd Class student, it was as if every student watching had taken the hit themselves.
A shudder rippled through the gathered first years — both Aether and Wyrd alike.
Their muscles tensed involuntarily, breath catching in their throats as the sound of that sickening WHACK echoed again in their minds.
It was no longer just his pain — it had become a shared torment, felt through clenched jaws and hunched shoulders, through narrowed eyes and clenched fists.
Pity sparked first — that basic human instinct to feel sorrow for the wounded.
Then came sympathy, the helpless ache of watching someone suffer.
But both those emotions were quickly drowned beneath something far more potent.
Fear.
Paralyzing, bone-deep fear.
Because Griselda's gaze swept over them all like a blade — slow, deliberate, and sharp. Her one uncovered eye flicked from face to face, saying nothing… yet speaking volumes.
Don't Speak. Don't stop. Just Run
Robert's booming voice cracked like lightning again through the silence:
"START RUNNING!"
He raised the thick aura-hardened stick above his shoulder like a flag of warning, his tone twisted with authority.
"I WON'T SPEAK THRICE."
The Wyrd Student on the ground, writhing in agony, realized it too.
Even in the haze of pain radiating through his leg and now his fingers, he knew what came next if he didn't move.
Through blurred eyes he caught a glimpse of Robert — and what he saw chilled him more than the injury itself.
A smile.
Robert, despite his shouting, wore a wide, toothy grin.
His eyes gleamed with something between satisfaction and anticipation
He was smiling because he liked hitting the same place twice.
The student clenched his teeth, biting back another whimper as he scrambled to rise.
His legs shook beneath him like twigs in a storm, pain shooting up his spine with every movement. But he forced his feet under him — he had to.
No matter how much it hurt, staying on the ground meant more strikes.
More smiling.
He was about to take the first limping step when—
WHACK!
A third blow.
Ruthless. Unforgiving.
And this time, delivered with the same mechanical precision.
The stick came down once again on the same battered patch of muscle.
The sound it made was deeper now, fleshier — like hitting soaked cloth instead of taut leather.
The student screamed, this time with a voice nearly broken, before he crumpled again.
His leg buckled instantly, the strength snuffed out like a candle under boot.
The gasp that spread among the watching crowd was almost audible.
Someone flinched.
A few glanced toward Griselda, praying silently for her to stop this.
But she didn't move.
Robert, ever the dutiful assistant, raised his stick a fourth time.
"I don't have all day to watch your pathetic rise. FASTER!" he barked, the mockery in his tone barely concealed beneath the veil of discipline.
This time, something surged through the body of the fallen student — a raw, primal instinct that awakened beneath the waves of agony: adrenaline.
The kind born not of courage, but of sheer, survival-driven desperation.
His trembling arms, slick with sweat and shaking from pain, slammed against the ground as he forced his upper body upright.
His legs, both of them barely responding, twitched and spasmed — but he gritted his teeth and shoved himself upward.
He didn't rise with dignity or grace.
It was a scramble, a mad, stumbling lurch that resembled a wounded beast trying to flee the hunter's lash.
But it was motion.
And motion was all that mattered.
He staggered forward, almost falling again.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
His breath hitched as his foot caught air—then ground—then rhythm. His arms flailed for balance, but the momentum carried him onward, limping, wobbling, running.