A week passed.

  The world around us seemed to accelerate—students grew, mastered, experimented.

  The instructors became stricter.

  The lessons—denser.

  Practice began.

  Today, we were split into pairs.

  And for the first time in a long while, I felt… excitement.

  Finn trained with such stubbornness that I knew in advance—sooner or later, he’d get it.

  And then—

  The moment he combined air pressure with heat, his fire surged forward as a gigantic tongue.

  Not a metaphor—actually about ten meters long.

  He himself stepped back, as if he hadn’t expected such growth.

  “Not bad,” I said calmly.

  He smirked.

  “Figured it out myself!”

  And at that moment, it was his turn to attack.

  I decided to show progression—not strength, but thought.

  I created a rotating vortex around him, reducing mana consumption for ice and water.

  Finn, using his own wind, simply broke the structure of my vortex—through pressure and reverse flow.

  Honestly—beautiful.

  He accelerated his steps with wind and charged straight at me.

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  I raised an ice wall to draw his attention, and at the same time created droplets of water, leaving them on his cloak and arms.

  He didn’t even notice.

  He chased me as I retreated.

  And then—

  FLASH.

  All the droplets crystallized at once, turning into large chunks of ice that instantly “bit” into his mana, blocking muscle movement.

  He froze.

  I allowed myself a faint smirk.

  But a second later—

  BOOM!

  A fiery explosion around his chest melted the ice, and Finn—furious and inspired—came forward again.

  As for me…

  I decided it was time.

  I “fell,” as if I’d taken a hit.

  He didn’t even notice that the victory had been… given.

  Finn just said, smiling:

  “You’ve got tricks… new ones. Cool.”

  Meanwhile, the swordsmen practiced their techniques:

  speeding up dashes with wind,

  pushing off to long distances,

  attacks with elements of water—disruptive, slippery, distracting.

  Some already felt air pressure quite well.

  And I…

  I used one exercise as a test:

  With every wind-boosted movement, I created a thin layer of ice under their feet.

  It wasn’t visible, but the slipping forced the body to catch its balance.

  A good reaction drill.

  When the mages fought me, they dodged water droplets—they already knew what I could do.

  And when I decided to repeat the crystallization trick, one of the swordsmen shouted:

  “No-no, we already know! We’re not idiots!”

  I smirked a little wider than usual and “lost” again.

  With her… it was harder.

  She wasn’t just training—she was proving something.

  Every step—precise.

  Every dash—sharp.

  Every gust of wind—stronger than before.

  She was trying to show how much she’d grown.

  I dodged.

  Pulled the wind away.

  Shifted pressure.

  Changed flow directions.

  At some point, I got carried away.

  And pretended to be tired.

  Missed a strike.

  She stopped a step away, frowning.

  “You need to get stronger.

  As fast as possible.”

  I didn’t answer.

  When everyone left, the instructor stopped me.

  “Helvard,” he said, looking quietly, as if through me. “I understand. It’s hard for you.”

  Everyone wants to compete specifically with you.

  I stayed silent.

  He continued:

  “They compete with you for some reason.

  But you… at the same time, you remain weaker than many in raw power.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  He was wrong. But I didn’t correct him.

  “But,” he added, placing a hand on my shoulder, “you can make them stronger.”

  “Even if you think you’re weaker yourself.”

  “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  I nodded—politely.

  Even though that “motivation” was something I truly didn’t need.