BaiYun had dragged himself back to Aurora Academy last night, his memory of the day’s chaos already blurring at the edges. It was a haze—just scraps of the end stuck with him: they’d agreed to keep the high-being mess hushed up to avoid any panic, and he’d be the one to steal the Mana Spring water. The rest? Gone, washed out as he’d collapsed onto the creaky bed in his narrow dorm room. The place was a clutter—stacked books teetering on a desk, a cloak slung over a chair—but he didn’t give a damn. He’d slept hard, dead to the world, not stirring until midday sun pierced the cracked shutters, jabbing at his eyes like a rusty nail. He groaned, dragging himself upright, head throbbing like someone’d taken a mallet to it. His mood was sour as stale bread, a restless churn gnawing his gut—sure, he worried about heading to Enzo turf and not making it back, but what really twisted the knife was the thought of failing, of not snagging that Mana Spring water for Evelyn. Dying was one thing; letting her down after kicking up this whole mess? That’d be a gut punch he couldn’t dodge.

  Noon slipped in unnoticed, the day half-wasted. His stomach growled, loud and pissed enough to yank him out of his gloom. He shuffled out, boots scraping stone, heading for the academy’s Hearthvault—a squat hall of carved beams and simmering cauldrons, its air thick with yeast and burnt grain. He slapped a few coppers on the counter, snagging a tray of grayish broth and crusty bread with a quick nod to the cook, then turned on his heel. No way he was eating there—too many eyes, too much noise. He trudged back to his room, tray balanced in one hand, shutting the door with a soft thud behind him. Plopping onto the bed’s edge, he stared at the steaming slop, spoon dangling loose, when a stray thought sparked out of nowhere, weird and random as hell.

  “I’ve been in this world all this time and not once used chopsticks to eat. Feels… off.”

  He wasn’t sure if that even counted as regret, even if he’s going to die soon—what kind of idiot moped over chopsticks when you’re dodging magic hands and plotting spring heists? But there it was, stuck in his head like a burr. He frowned, eyes drifting to a battered bucket shoved in the corner—still crusted with last week’s grit. Another dumb idea hit him, pointless but nagging. He grabbed it, sloshed it full from the washbasin’s trickle until water spilled over the rim, and hauled it back to the side of his bed. Setting it beside his cooling stew, he flexed his fingers, mana humming faintly in his chest, and muttered, “Water Generates Wood.”

  Yeah, he was trying to magic up a pair of chopsticks.

  First go was a bust. The mana flared, water rippled, and a knobby lump bubbled up—too thick, like some kid’s toy club. “Useless,” he grunted, chucking it aside with a dull thud onto the floorboards. Next try, a twig snapped to the surface—thin as a reed, breaking the second he grabbed it. He flicked it away, watching it skitter under the desk. “Rubbish.” Another shot—too long, a chopstick stretching past his elbow, rough as splintered bark. It hit the ground with a clatter, joining the pile. Too short came after, stubby nubs barely worth a damn—he didn’t even bother picking them up, just swept them off with a low growl

  He kept at it, jaw tight, fingers twitching with every cast. A gnarled pair popped up next, jagged edges snagging his thumb—he glared, pitching them hard enough to bounce off the wall. “Oh, come on,” he muttered, more to himself than the water, mana sparking again. Too coarse this time, like sanded driftwood—he ran a finger over the grain, snorted, and tossed it into the growing heap. Another try, almost right but lumpy as hell—he held it a second, then flung it away with a sharper “For fuck’s sake!” The failures stacked up around his boots—crooked sticks, splintered rejects, a sad little graveyard of wood—and still he went on, muttering curses under his breath like “Smoother, you dumbass” or “Not even close.”

  It wasn’t about the chopsticks anymore—he didn’t know what it was about. The stew sat there, turning to cold mush, and the afternoon dragged on, sun slanting lower through the shutters, casting long shadows across the room’s chipped walls. He’d grumble now and then—“Chopsticks, motherfucker”—or just sigh, heavy and flat, as if the water owed him something. His hands moved on autopilot, mana flaring in short, sharp bursts, each miss grinding at his patience like a dull blade. A warped pair landed with a splintered crack—he stared, half-tempted to blast the bucket apart with a Fireball. Another, too fat again, thumped into the pile. He slumped back against the wall, rubbing his face with a tired “This is stupid,” but his fingers were already sparking for the next go. The monotony swallowed him whole—better this than sitting there, stewing over the spring, letting his head spin itself sick with “what ifs.”

  By late afternoon, the light dimming to a dull gold, the room was a mess of failed sticks scattered like battlefield wreckage. One last flick—the water shivered, and up came a pair: sleek, even, just long enough, smooth as polished bone. He snatched them, turned them over in his hands, thumb sliding along the grain—perfect. A faint smirk tugged his lips, more exhaustion than pride. “Finally,” he breathed, then glanced at his lunch—stone-cold, a gray puddle of sludge. He shrugged, shoving the chopsticks into his storage ring with a flick of mana. “Not today—next time, eh.”

  His string of boring spell-slinging hadn’t gone unnoticed, though. Qilin watched from the void, its lumbering beast frame half-shadowed, crimson eyes glinting through some unseen crack, tail flicking with lazy disdain. “What a fucking waste,” it growled to itself, voice rumbling low. “Kid skips his meal to mess with sticks—pointless as hell.” It snorted, then paused, squinting at the sleek chopsticks now tucked away. “But… damn—that’s smooth as polished steel. Took him all afternoon for that? Kid’s got a knack I can’t touch—pure, raw finesse, and a stubborn streak wider than my horns. Me, try that? Fuck no—I’d rather claw rocks than waste time on something that petty. Still, gotta hand it to him: it’s impressive, even if it’s useless as hell in a fight.”

  A sharp knock rattled the door, snapping BaiYun’s drifting thoughts back to the room. He blinked, frowning as Ola’s voice filtered through. “You in there, BaiYun?” The door creaked open, Ola peering in, his graying hair mussed like he’d been pacing. BaiYun straightened, suddenly remembering yesterday’s deal—ten days of training to get him ready for the spring job. His mana felt thin, barely a flicker left after the chopstick nonsense. He opened his mouth to explain—“Look, professor, I’m tapped out—”

  Ola cut him off with a wave, voice calm. “No worries—today’s off anyway. You need a breather after yesterday. Your pal Arthur Valtor’s set up a spread at Dawn Tavern—food, drinks, the works. He wants you to swing by, loosen up a bit.”

  BaiYun’s brow twitched. Arthur’s idea? Unlikely—this had Ola’s fingerprints all over it. He didn’t have many friends here—Arthur Valtor was one, maybe, and Hermann Thorrison counted as half, if you squinted hard enough. Ola was clearly pulling strings, trying to drag him out of this funk with some company. BaiYun didn’t really want to go—sounded like a hassle—but those earnest eyes locked on him, steady and warm, hit like a punch. Ola wasn’t just prodding; he was trying to fix him. “Thanks, professor,” he muttered, scratching his neck, then grabbed his cloak.

  He stepped out, but Ola turned the other way, heading off down the hall. BaiYun paused, calling after him. “Hey, professor, Dawn’s this way.”

  Ola didn’t stop, tossing back a dry laugh. “I’m not drinking—got better things to do. Besides, Barrett Raine’s going too.”

  BaiYun froze. Barrett Raine—head of the warrior division, the capital’s infamous booze hound who loved his drink too much. Once he started chugging, he’d keep going till he blacked out—every time a tavern wreck. BaiYun’s gut sank a little. “Well,” he muttered, “I’ve been set up.” Still, he squared his shoulders and headed for the tavern, resigned. Might as well check on Vivian—say a proper goodbye while he was at it.

  Turns out BaiYun figured it’d be a quick visit—big mistake.

  BaiYun woke in a tavern guest room, noon sun blasting through the slats like a damn torch. Every inch of him ached—his face especially, burning like someone’d used it as a punching bag. He struggled up, half-tumbling off the bed, and staggered to a cracked mirror on the wall. The reflection stared back—a bruised, swollen mess, nose purple and eyes puffy. “Who the hell’s this?” he mumbled, blinking slow, then groaned as it clicked. That battered pig in the glass? Him.

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  The room carried a faint whiff of herbs—on the table sat a bowl of stone-cold hangover soup, a roll of bandages beside it. He rubbed his temples, piecing together last night. Flashes hit—sloshing ale with Barrett, roaring like old pals, then… nothing. A blank wall. His clothes weren’t even his—some faded tunic and trousers, stiff with age. He must’ve puked his guts out. Right in front of Vivian, too. Shit—talk about embarrassing.

  Head pounding, he stumbled out of the guest room, nearly tripping into the hallway where Franco, the barkeep, was sweeping. “Yo, Bulb Lighter!” Franco grinned, spotting him, his smile dripping with mischief. “Some balls you showed last night!”

  BaiYun’s stomach dropped—oh no. That fucking name again. Hermann must’ve blabbed his dumb stories all over, and he’d clearly fucked up big time in his drunken haze. Still, he forced a weak laugh, fishing for clues. “Hey, Franco, buddy… didn’t do anything too wild, did I?”

  Franco barked a laugh, clapping BaiYun’s back hard enough to make him wince. “Wild? What’s ‘WILD’, man?”

  BaiYun’s heart sank deeper. Chicken-shit chaos, guaranteed—he just couldn’t remember how bad. “You don’t recall?” Franco grinned wider, leaning his broom against the wall and dusting his hands. “Alright, alright—let me jog that foggy head of yours.”

  Last night at Dawn Tavern, Arthur, Hermann, and Barrett had all shown up to drink with him. Arthur and Hermann tapped out early—couldn’t keep up—leaving BaiYun and Barrett to keep the party roaring. The place was a din of clinking mugs and slurred shouts, and the two of them were deep in the sauce, arms slung over each other’s shoulders like brothers. BaiYun, sloshed and bold, thumped Barrett’s back. “Barrett! You know, back where I’m from, there’s this weapon—‘sniper rifle.’ Kills from miles away, bam, headshot—easy! And the best one? Called a ‘Barrett.’ So, from now on, you’re Snipe—cool as hell, right?”

  Barrett, half-gone and loving every drop, ate it up, belting out a laugh. “Hell yeah, BaiYun, my man! Let’s drink to that!” They clashed mugs, ale slopping over, each swearing they could outdrink the other. Before long, the table was a graveyard of empty tankards.

  “Vivian, more malt brew!” Barrett hollered at her, mid-laugh. She was bustling behind the bar—an old comrade of his from their army days, where they’d spar for kicks, always neck-and-neck. But Barrett? Guy couldn’t stop once he started—loved his booze too much. Every tavern trip ended with him trashed, swinging wild. He’d demand Vivian yank the Morningstar off the wall for a rematch, and she’d end up calling his wife—the infamous she-tiger—to drag him home. Next day, he’d sport a face full of bruises, every time.

  Now, Vivian eyed the pair shaking her head, brows knit as she hauled over another pitcher. “Slow down, you two—don’t drink yourselves into a ditch.”

  Barrett bristled, slurring back, “Vivian, what do you know? Men drink—women butt out!”

  BaiYun shot up, slamming the table, swaying but fired up. “Snipe, you dumbass—where’s your manners? Talking to Lady Vivian like that? Don’t you get it—women hold up half the damn sky! Show some respect!”

  “BaiYun, quit yapping!” Barrett roared, thumping his own chest. “Half the sky my ass? My Soulreaver carves the world—Vivian’s Morningstar’s nothing!” He spun to her, grinning sloppy. “Viv—get that stick down here. Let’s go, one-on-one!”

  Vivian opened her mouth—probably to threaten calling his wife—but BaiYun cut in, lurching between them, jabbing a finger at Barrett’s nose. “You’re a bloody joke, Snipe—drunk off your arse, harassing the beautiful, gentle Lady Vivian! Some midlife confidence-crisis dumbass!”

  The tavern went dead quiet, all eyes on him. Vivian blinked, her expression flickering. “…Beautiful, gentle Lady Vivian?” A few muffled snickers started, cut short by her razor-sharp glare.

  BaiYun didn’t notice, barreling on. “Wanna fight? I’ll take you on!” He pounded his chest—too hard, coughing mid-rant. “Come at me!”

  “You?” Barrett cackled, swaying. “Fine—meet Snipe’s iron fist, kid!”

  Vivian sighed, palming her face. “Both of you, knock it off—”

  “Yeah nah!” BaiYun waved her off, voice booming. “Tonight, I’m teaching this old Snipe some manners!”

  “Less talk, more fists!” Barrett growled.

  The fistfight kicked off.

  BaiYun’s mind flashed to Mike Tyson—his favourite fighter. He crouched low, fists up tight by his cheeks, eyes peeking over, sharp—or maybe just drunk—locked on Barrett. Barrett froze, thrown by the peek-a-boo stance he’d never seen. BaiYun lunged, closing fast.

  Distance is king in a brawl. Barrett, a head taller with arms like logs, could jab from afar and leave BaiYun reeling. BaiYun’s only shot was inside—up close, where those long limbs couldn’t swing free. Barrett knew it too—his right fist shot out, a straight smash aimed at BaiYun’s face.

  But BaiYun saw it coming. He swayed left, pendulum-style, Barrett’s punch grazing his ear with a whoosh. Barrett threw a left to catch him—too slow. BaiYun rode the sway’s momentum, hopping left with a short lunge, and drove a left hook square into Barrett’s liver—boom, clean and vicious.

  “Urgh—!” Barrett gagged, launching the ale cannon with a wet spray—boom—doubling over, clutching his side in a puddle of his own brew.

  “Ha! Bulb Lighter turned Snipe into a cannon show!” someone jeered. “Launching the ale cannon” was Vaelthor slang for hurling your guts in spectacular fashion.

  BaiYun grinned, shaking out his fist, spinning to Vivian with a sloppy wink. “See? Snipe’s no good—one punch, and he’s blasting the floor!”

  The tavern erupted in laughter, mugs clanking.

  Certainly, it wasn’t a fair fight—Barrett was leagues above him sober. That liver shot landed only because he’d never seen Iron Tyson’s tricks. Once the surprise wore off, Barrett turned it around—pure domination. BaiYun couldn’t touch him again, caught in a storm of long-range jabs and raw power. A few hits later, he was reeling, vision swimming. Then came the right hook—crack—right to the jaw. Lights out.

  Franco spun the tale like he’d thrown the punches himself, smirking wide. “So yeah, Snipe KO’d you with one swing.” He shrugged. “But you fired his ale cannon first—first guy in Arcane City history to pull that off!”

  BaiYun’s face burned, pride stinging, but he fished for a scrap of dignity. “Uh… did I launch mine too?”

  Franco shook his head. “Nah, but close—you hit the floor like a mud-caked mutt.”

  BaiYun wanted a hole to crawl into—damn it, what a clown show. “Still,” Franco added, voice dropping slyly, “after you went down, the boss lady looked after you all night. Brewed you that soup, patched you up, even swapped your filthy rags for her late husband’s gear.”

  BaiYun blinked, stunned, just as Vivian stomped past, barking down the hall. “Franco, you slacking again? Move it!

  He jolted upright, scratching his head, turning to her sheepishly. “Uh… didn’t cause you too much trouble last night, did I, Lady Vivian?”

  She stopped, handing him a cup of tea with a casual flick, arms crossing. “If you mean brawling with Barrett, getting knocked out, and snoring on my floor…” Her tone was dry, “then no, not much trouble.”

  BaiYun flushed red, shame swallowing him whole. He took a cautious sip, mumbling, “Heh… thanks for looking out for me.”

  “No big deal—I just couldn’t leave you sprawled there,” she said, eyebrow arching. “Next time you pull that stunt, though, you’re sleeping in the stables.”

  He choked mid-sip, waving frantically. “No, no—bed’s way better!”

  Vivian eyed his flustered mess, a faint smirk tugging her lips before it smoothed away. She stepped to the window, gazing out, her voice softening. “I know what you’re up to next—Evelyn told me.” Her face shifted, a tangle of something unreadable flickering through. “She’s worried sick. Do you really have to go?”

  BaiYun paused, the tea warm in his hands. “Yeah,” he said after a beat, voice firm. “I’ve got to. It’s my mess—I clean it up.”

  Vivian stood there, staring out, her expression a mess of thoughts he couldn’t pin down. After a long silence, she just said, “Come back soon, drinks are on me.”

  Their eyes met, a quiet weight hanging between them, words stalling out. BaiYun broke it, grinning slow—his signature cocky flash creeping back. “Deal—I’ll be back for that drink.”

  She nodded, a small smile flickering. “And drop the ‘Lady Vivian’ stuff—Viv’s fine.”

  He dipped his head, the grin softening. Time to find Ola—training was calling. “Gotta go,” he said, then added, “I’ll be back—queen’s waiting.”

  Vivian’s gaze held steady. “She is,” she said, voice low. He flashed a reassuring wave, turning to leave.

  Only when his steps faded down the hall did she murmur to the empty room, “Don’t die, you little rascal.”