Headmaster Caelum Varros’s class was the one I had been looking forward to the most. Calix Kalix’s lessons had been extraordinarily useful, opening my eyes to the magnitude of possibilities in aura control. But it didn’t make me stronger. I wasn’t gaining levels, and from what I had seen, leveling up was the surest way to get stronger. That needed to change.

  And if anyone could change it, it was Headmaster Varros. His class didn’t even have a name. He simply called it "Varros."

  When I arrived, I quickly realized that this was nothing like my previous lessons. There were only three of us in total.

  A giant woman stood to my left, easily over ten feet tall, built like she could rip a tree out of the ground and use it as a toothpick. Her presence was overwhelming, not just in size but in weight. Not physical weight—something deeper, like gravity itself bent toward her. She wasn’t just strong. She carried power in a way that told me she had crushed everything in her path to be here.

  To my right was a human male, shorter than the giant but no less intimidating. There was something coiled about him, something sharp and violent, like an unsheathed blade waiting for an excuse to cut. He didn’t radiate overwhelming force like the giant, but I could tell—this one was a killer. Cold. Precise. Dangerous.

  The moment I stepped forward, they both turned their attention to me. And immediately, I felt it. I was the weakest one here.

  The giant woman looked down at me with an expression of mild curiosity, as if I were a stray animal that had wandered into the wrong den. The human barely spared me a glance, his gaze moving past me as if I wasn’t worth acknowledging.

  I rolled my shoulders, resisting the urge to let my tail flick in irritation. This was fine. Expected, even. That just meant I had the most to prove.

  As I stood there appraising the two, I tried to use Cloaked Appraisal, but all I got were the same question marks as before. That was irritating. I couldn't gauge them, couldn't get a read on how much stronger they were.

  Then, without a sound, Headmaster Varros appeared. Not in a flashy way. Not like he had when I beat up that pampered noble and caught his attention. He was simply not there, and then he was—like he had always been.

  There was no dramatic aura flare, no grand entrance, just presence. Like reality had made a mistake in forgetting he existed and was now correcting itself.

  He clasped his hands together, and the world shifted.

  The barren training ground disappeared, replaced by a dense forest. Massive trees towered around us, their branches stretching high into a mist-filled sky. The air was thick with decay, the scent of rotting leaves and something far fouler seeping into my lungs.

  Then I saw them.

  Ghouls. Twisted, half-rotted creatures with glowing eyes and jagged teeth. Undead in rusted armor, their skeletal frames barely held together by strips of rotting flesh. And liches—cloaked figures with hollow faces, their hands raised as the air crackled with dark energy.

  They weren’t just standing there. They had been in the middle of something before we arrived, because they looked startled. Then, as one, they turned toward us.

  And then they rushed us.

  “You are all too easygoing," Varros said, his voice calm, almost amused. "You never know when a fight will occur. Be ready.”

  And just like that, he vanished, gone as effortlessly as he had arrived.

  There was no time to think. The undead were already upon us.

  I was the first to move, Quickstepping toward the nearest undead. Its body was half-rotten, barely held together, so I figured a Torment-empowered strike would be enough to put it down.

  And in a way, it was.

  My fist connected with its jaw, and the entire head tore free with a sickening rip, flying through the air and slamming into a nearby ghoul. But the headless body didn’t stop. Its grip tightened around its rusted sword, the blade still coming down in a practiced arc. I barely twisted in time, but not fast enough to avoid it completely. Cold steel clipped my shoulder, carving a sharp red line down to my elbow.

  I growled, jerking back, my mind racing. How the hell was I supposed to kill something that didn’t need its head?

  Then, before I could react, the human moved.

  One moment, he was standing at the edge of the fight. The next, he was there—carving through the undead in a blur of white light. His sword flashed, and in a single instant, bodies were split, limbs severed, dark ichor spraying in controlled arcs. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop moving, his form nothing but a streak of motion as he tore through the horde like a force of nature.

  He wasn’t just cutting them down. He was erasing them.

  Where his blade passed, the undead didn’t just fall—they disintegrated, their bodies unraveling into motes of light before they could hit the ground. Even the liches, their skeletal hands still raised mid-spell, dissolved before their magic could take form.

  As soon as the human cut down one of the liches, I saw several of the undead collapse mid-motion, their bodies crumpling like puppets with severed strings. That was it. The liches were the key. They had to be controlling the lesser undead, keeping them moving even after their bodies should have given out.

  A roar cut through the battlefield, deep and resonant. The giant had drawn the attention of most of the ghouls, standing her ground as they swarmed her. Then she grew.

  Her already massive frame expanded, muscle and bone stretching until she towered nearly twenty feet tall. The air around her grew heavy, pressing downward like gravity itself had thickened. The ghouls struggled to move under the weight, their frantic snarls turning into strangled gasps as their bodies fought against the unseen force.

  Then she ripped a tree straight from the ground and swung it like a club.

  The impact sent bodies flying, ghouls reduced to mangled heaps with a single swing. She wasn’t fighting them. She was crushing them.

  These two weren’t just strong—they were forces of nature in their own right.

  But I wasn’t about to stand around and let them do all the work.

  I pulled Woundreaver from my inventory, its edge gleaming in the dim, unnatural light cast by the liches' magic. My grip tightened around the hilt as I Quickstepped into the fray.

  If the liches were the real threat, then I would cut them down first.

  Woundreaver cut through the air, the familiar weight of the blade steady in my grasp. I Quickstepped, closing the distance between me and the closest lich. Its skeletal hand twitched mid-incantation, but I was faster. My blade carved through its bony frame, severing its spine before it could cast. The magic in its eyes flickered, then faded to nothing as the remains collapsed into a lifeless heap.

  All around me, the battle raged. The giant’s tree-turned-club crashed into the earth again and again, flattening ghouls in droves. Each swing sent waves of force rippling outward, breaking bones and crushing anything unfortunate enough to be caught in the impact. Blood and viscera stained the battlefield as the human darted between enemies, a streak of white light that left nothing but corpses in his wake. His sword flashed, cleaving through rotten flesh and brittle bone with brutal efficiency.

  The tide of battle turned rapidly, the sheer devastation of the three of us overwhelming the remaining undead. I cut down another lich, and another, watching as their controlled minions crumpled, lifeless once more.

  Then the real challenge made itself known.

  The air turned colder. The surrounding undead stopped their frantic movements, freezing in place as if waiting for something. A deep, hollow chuckle resonated through the battlefield, and from the shadows of the trees stepped a figure clad in tattered, flowing robes. A lich, but different.

  This one did not crumble when its subordinates fell. It did not falter when its brethren died.

  Its eye sockets burned with cold blue fire, brighter than the others, more malevolent. The air around it crackled with dark energy, and I could feel the weight of its magic pressing down on me.

  This wasn’t just a lich. This was something stronger. And it was looking right at me. I steadied my grip, muscles tensing as I readied myself for the fight. Then it raised its staff.

  A bolt of crackling dark energy shot toward me, fast and precise. I Quickstepped, barely dodging in time, the attack searing past my shoulder. Even the aftershock sent a chill through my veins, my body screaming in protest. This wasn’t normal magic. It was something far worse.

  I moved, closing the gap between us, but the lich was fast. It floated backward effortlessly, skeletal fingers weaving a spell as another barrage of dark energy erupted from its hands. I twisted, dodging what I could, but one of the attacks clipped my leg, sending a wave of cold fire racing through my body.

  Pain flared through me, sharp and gnawing. This thing wasn’t just attacking me. It was trying to take my life and make me its servant.

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  I pushed forward, striking out with Woundreaver. The blade met resistance—an invisible barrier shimmering to life between me and my target. The lich cackled, mocking, as my attack barely scratched the protective shell surrounding it.

  It retaliated immediately, a skeletal hand thrusting forward as a force slammed into my chest. I staggered back, my breath hitching, pain lacing through my ribs.

  I lunged again but the Lich Lord had already adapted. Instead of retreating like before, it twisted its skeletal wrist, altering the spell’s trajectory. Shadows condensed into hooked chains midair, snapping toward my legs to cut off my momentum. I Quickstepped to the side—only for a second chain to lash out, reacting to my movement. The bastard was learning.

  This thing wasn’t just strong—it was toying with me. I gritted my teeth, blood dripping from fresh wounds. I wasn’t going to win like this. I needed more.

  Torment surged through me, the raw power clawing at my mind, begging to be unleashed. I could feel it now, the way it pulsed within me, the ring that Alyssa implanted into my palm was humming in the back of my mind, emitting red smoke out of the circle. The more I suffered, the closer I came to losing myself. If she wasn’t there—if I didn’t have that anchor—I would have already been consumed by it.

  The lich raised its staff again, but this time, I didn’t dodge. I braced myself, letting the energy sear into me, feeling the pain fuel my torment. Then I activated Crimson Reconstitution.

  The wounds knitting themselves shut sent a rush through my system, but it wasn’t just healing. I could feel the cost. Torment bled from me, tendrils of raw suffering spilling into the air. The ring flared in my mind, steadying me. Keeping me sane. Without it, I would have already succumbed.

  The lich hesitated. It could feel the shift, the raw pressure of my aura as Torment surged within me. But it did not falter.

  Neither did I.

  I moved. Quickstep.

  I reappeared in front of it, Woundreaver carving an upward arc. The blade struck the shimmering barrier encasing its skeletal form, sending ripples of resistance through the air. The impact blasted dust and debris outward, but the barrier held, cracks lacing its surface but refusing to give way.

  The lich sneered, blue fire flaring violently in its sockets as it retaliated.

  A surge of necrotic energy erupted from its outstretched hand, slamming into my torso. The force lifted me off my feet, hurling me back into the gnarled roots of a dead tree. My vision blurred as pain lanced through my body, the sickly, draining magic gnawing at my strength.

  I forced myself upright, gritting my teeth. The edges of my wounds darkened, spreading with unnatural decay. This wasn’t just an attack—it was eating at me.

  The lich raised its staff, whispering a guttural incantation. The earth trembled, and from the ground, skeletal hands burst forth. A half-dozen undead clawed their way from the soil, their hollow eyes burning the same eerie blue as their master’s.

  I exhaled sharply. Fine. It wanted to drag this out? I’d oblige.

  Quickstep.

  I twisted past a reaching skeletal hand, my tail whipping out to send its head flying. Another undead lunged, rusted claws swiping toward my back—I twisted mid-motion, Woundreaver flashing in a horizontal sweep that bisected its ribcage. But the third closed in faster than expected.

  Its clawed fingers raked across my side. A jagged tear in my armor split open, flesh beneath it burning as more of the lich’s magic seeped into me. My vision pulsed, my heartbeat hammering in my ears. I couldn’t let these things slow me down.

  Quickstep.

  I dashed through the remaining undead, severing their brittle limbs as I moved, but I didn’t stop to finish them. The lich was already preparing something far worse.

  It lifted its staff, the air vibrating with malevolent force. Dark energy coiled around it, growing denser, more unstable. Then, with a downward slash of its bony arm, it unleashed the spell.

  A wall of spectral chains erupted from the void, twisting and lashing toward me. There was no dodging it. The moment they touched me, they snapped tight, wrapping around my limbs like sentient vipers. My muscles locked, my movements sluggish as the chains pulled, tightening with each breath.

  A freezing numbness sank into my bones. I could feel the magic burrowing deeper, sapping my strength. The lich tilted its head, watching, waiting.

  I bared my teeth. No. I wasn’t done yet.

  I wrenched against the bindings, my body screaming in protest. The chains rattled, resisting, tightening further. My vision wavered, black creeping into the edges. The lich let out a rasping chuckle, raising its staff for the finishing blow.

  Torment surged, clawing at the inside of my skull. I let it in.

  Power erupted through my veins, searing away the cold. My muscles tensed, straining against the bindings as raw force burned through the chains like brittle twigs. The magic shattered, shards of violet energy scattering like dying embers.

  The lich flinched, the fire in its eyes flickering in what I swore was surprise. I moved. Quickstep.

  I was on it before it could reform a defense, my tail slamming into the ground to launch me forward. Woundreaver crashed against the barrier again—this time, it gave. The protective ward fractured with a thunderous crack, shattering like glass.

  The lich reeled back, skeletal fingers clawing desperately at the air. A final incantation left its lips, and an obsidian spike shot from its palm, aimed straight for my heart.

  I twisted. The spike tore through my shoulder instead, ripping muscle, sending a fresh wave of agony through my nerves. Blood sprayed across the dirt, but I didn’t stop.

  Torment flooded my limbs. I gripped Woundreaver tighter, my knuckles aching. With every ounce of force I had left, I brought my blade down.

  The sword carved through the lich’s ribcage, splitting its chest in two. The blue flames in its sockets sputtered, flickering wildly. A hoarse, inhuman wail tore from its skeletal throat.

  The fire went out. Its body collapsed, turning to dust before it even hit the ground. I staggered, my breath ragged, blood dripping from my wounds. My vision blurred for a moment before I forced it into focus.

  The battlefield was silent. Then, slowly, I turned. The giant and the human stood a short distance away, motionless. Their weapons were clean, their bodies untouched. Every undead had already been reduced to nothing.

  They had waited. They had watched. And now, they were evaluating me.

  I exhaled slowly, my body still buzzing from the fight. The wounds throbbed, aching reminders of how close I had come to losing. But I had won.

  And I had leveled up.

  Ding!

  You have slain [Lich Lord - Level 32].

  You have leveled up!

  +1 to all stats.

  +4 free points.

  I barely had a second to process the notification before the human spoke, his tone clipped and assessing. “You fight like a madman. You grow stronger the more damage you take. It is both frightening and stupid.”

  I wiped a streak of blood from my chin, rolling my shoulder to gauge the extent of my injuries. “It works.”

  The human’s gaze remained impassive, but there was something sharp behind his eyes, something calculating. “Until it doesn’t.”

  A deep chuckle rumbled through the clearing. The giant woman crossed her massive arms, looking down at me with amusement. “Yeah, little man. Who in their right mind wants to get hurt before getting stronger? Why not just become stronger at the start of the fight?” Her voice held genuine curiosity, not mockery.

  I considered her words, my tail flicking behind me. “Because pain is a better teacher than comfort.”

  The human scoffed. The giant grinned. And then, as if the battle had never happened, Headmaster Varros reappeared. One moment, there was nothing but the eerie silence of a battlefield stripped clean. The next, he was standing between us, his expression unreadable.

  “Good,” he said simply. “You all survived.”

  His eyes lingered on me for a fraction of a second longer than the others, then flicked to the ground where the lich had turned to dust. The corner of his mouth curled up in something that might have been approval. Or amusement. It was impossible to tell.

  “As you might have noticed, this class isn’t happening at the school,” Headmaster Varros said, his voice calm but firm. “I moved us to a nearby town that has been dealing with an undead infestation. This is how I operate my class. You will grow stronger while also cleaning up areas around the school.”

  I furrowed my brow, considering his words. What had he actually taught us? Other than to expect an ambush at any moment, the lesson felt more like a battlefield trial than structured training. The question was forming on my lips when the human spoke first.

  “These enemies are too weak to be a threat to Ellie or me,” he said, his tone neutral as he glanced my way. “But maybe too strong for him.”

  There was no mockery in his voice, no arrogance. Just a flat statement, as if he were reading off a list of facts.

  And he wasn’t wrong.

  Both he and the giant, Ellie, had carved through the undead with ease, cutting them down like weeds. Meanwhile, I had been forced to struggle against a single Lich Lord, taking wounds and pushing myself to my limit just to claim victory.

  Varros nodded, his expression unreadable. “You’re right, Arthur, but tell me—what did you do when Sylas was in trouble? When the chains were stripping away his humanity? When Oathshackle, his ring given by Alyssa, was releasing his energy at a furious rate?” His voice was calm, but there was a weight behind it, pressing down like an unspoken challenge.

  Arthur and Ellie stiffened, their postures shifting. A flicker of something passed across Ellie’s face—hesitation, maybe. Arthur exhaled through his nose, expression unreadable, but I noticed the way his fingers flexed at his sides.

  They hadn’t ignored me. They had chosen not to act.

  Had they wanted to step in? Had they debated it? I didn’t know. But now, standing here, I could see the weight of that decision pressing against them.

  Varros let the silence stretch. Then, finally, he spoke again.

  “This is the lesson I am trying to teach you both. Strength is more than just power. It is knowing when to act. You are both strong enough to stand alone, but what value is that if you let others fall? You let Sylas fight. That was right. But when the battle became overwhelming, when Oathshackle was overpowered at the end, letting him draw just a little more power—when he was on the brink of death—you still stood idle."

  His gaze swept between them, sharp and unwavering. “Both of you had the power to end that fight early. To step in, to save him. But neither of you did. You let him struggle as if he were an ant beneath your notice, not worth saving.”

  Ellie’s jaw clenched. Arthur’s hands curled into fists. They knew he was right.

  Then Varros turned toward me, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. “And why did you challenge the Lich Lord alone? You wanted to prove yourself, but you nearly got yourself killed. You had two capable companions at your side. All you needed to do was ask for their help. Instead, you fought it alone.”

  His words struck like a hammer. I had seen Ellie and Arthur tear through the undead with ease, yet I had ignored that. I had pushed forward, determined to prove my worth, determined to take on something beyond my limits. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to. Seeking pain. Seeking their approval. And I had almost died for it.

  I hung my head.

  “My class is meant to teach you lessons in the real world,” Varros continued, his voice unwavering. “With real consequences.” Then, with a simple wave of his hand, the battlefield vanished. The trees, the bodies, the lingering scent of death—all of it blinked out of existence in an instant.

  We were back at the training grounds where we had first met.

  Varros turned to Ellie and Arthur, his tone shifting, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “You two will teach Sylas how to fight better.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow. Ellie cracked her knuckles.

  Varros grinned. “As you can see, he gets stronger through suffering. So make him suffer.”

  Then, just like before, he was gone. No grand exit, no flash of light. One moment he was there, the next he wasn’t.

  That left me alone. With two fellow classmates. Who were now eagerly looking at me. And judging by their expressions, I was about to have a very, very bad time.