Saint Academy

The sun had barely touched the distant horizon when Damien Gray stepped through the broken gate of Saint Academy, his boots crunching against stone dust still unsettled from the warlock invasion. The academy was quieter than usual—too quiet. Even the wind refused to whistle through the jagged ruins.

A single transport vehicle awaited him, parked in the gravel lot like a sentinel. Its sleek, obsidian frame bore no insignias. No student farewells, no instructors in sight. Just Headmaster Elijah Solen, standing beside the door, dressed in his ceremonial coat, arms folded behind him, gaze unreadable.

Damien exhaled slowly and approached. "No goodbyes?"

Solen shook his head. "You're not going on vacation. And you're not a hero."

He gestured for Damien to enter. The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

"Then what am I?" Damien asked, climbing in.

Solen followed, the door sealing behind them with finality. "You're a problem we don't understand yet. But a problem we can't afford to ignore."

The vehicle lifted off the ground and darted forward on a magnetic path, leaving behind the scorched grounds of Saint Academy.

---

They traveled in silence for most of the way. Damien stared out the tinted window, watching fields of crystalline trees blur past and hover-drones vanish into the clouds above. He clenched his fists. A week ago, he'd stood under the sun in front of cheering crowds. Today, he sat in shadows, uncelebrated. Contained.

"It's not punishment," Solen said, as if reading Damien's thoughts. "It's survival. Yours—and possibly the world's."

Damien didn't respond. He just kept watching the horizon.

"You awakened something no Saint has touched in centuries," Solen continued. "The Void isn't just an element. It's otherness. And it doesn't like being used without purpose."

"…So what's the purpose?" Damien murmured.

"To find out," Solen said, his voice harder now. "You won the tournament. But don't let that make you arrogant. You haven't fought anyone close to your true enemy yet. You haven't fought yourself."

The vehicle slowed as they entered a massive ravine in the earth, swallowed by black iron gates and surrounded by layers of rotating magnetic shields. The architecture was like something out of a different world—an underground fortress forged from obsidian, neon veins pulsing through its walls like lifeblood. Above the entrance, carved in jagged script:

THE BLACK VEIN

An elite combat facility buried deep beneath the surface. Saints whispered its name with awe and dread.

---

The moment the doors opened, a wave of cold, pressurized air hit Damien. This place breathed. Not like a building, but like a beast—alive and waiting.

Waiting for him.

They stepped out into a dim hallway lined with armored plating and etched circuits. The lights didn't glow—they throbbed. Every few steps, Damien spotted drones silently tracking his biometrics.

"Welcome to the deepest pit the Saints ever built," Solen said. "There's no ceremony here. Just reality."

Ahead, a figure waited at the junction of the corridor. Tall, statuesque, and motionless—like a statue carved from glass and steel.

Her hair was tied in a braid that gleamed like silver thread. Her eyes were sharp as blade tips. She wore no rank badge, no ornamental robes—just a sleeveless combat suit with faint streaks of glowing lines running down her arms like conductive veins.

Solen spoke first. "Damien Gray, meet Mira Vex. Raphael rank. Static Divinity. Instructor and combat specialist."

Damien offered a nod. Mira didn't return it.

"She once trained with the High Saint John Davis," Solen added.

"And sometimes," Mira said, her voice cool and smooth as ice, "I beat him."

Damien blinked.

She stepped closer, examining him—not his appearance, but his posture, his stance, the tension in his shoulders.

"Hm. Too rigid. Too reactive. You flinch before you move." She circled him once, like a hunter reading a target. "I'll teach you to fight like a Saint."

She stopped in front of him. Her eyes locked onto his. "But don't expect kindness."

Damien squared his shoulders. "I'm not here for kindness."

Mira raised a brow. "We'll see."

Solen placed a hand on Damien's shoulder. "You'll remain here until she says otherwise. No visitors. No distractions. No excuses."

Then he looked Damien dead in the eye, his voice solemn. "Out there, they cheer your name because they think the High Saint favors you. But down here, you'll either prove them right—or become the reason they were wrong."

With that, Solen turned and left, disappearing into the depths of the Black Vein, leaving Damien with the woman who once bested the most powerful Saint alive.

Mira turned toward the steel archways at the end of the hall. "We begin now. No Divinity. Just fists. If you can't master those, the Void will swallow you whole."

And with each step deeper into the heart of the Black Vein, Damien realized: this wasn't a lesson.

This was war.

And his first enemy… was himself.

"You don't need your Void yet. You need your fists to matter first."

— Mira Vex

The training began with silence. Not motivation. Not applause. Just the cold clink of metal doors sealing shut behind Damien as he stepped into the empty chamber.

Each day followed the same structure—no Divinity, no theatrics, no rest. Only fists, bruises, and the sound of Damien being thrown to the ground over and over again.

---

Day 1–3: Broken Pride

Mira didn't speak during combat. She simply moved. A pivot here, a palm strike there, and Damien would find himself staring at the ceiling in under five seconds.

Every time.

The first day, he fought like a storm—wild, angry, flailing for dominance.

She knocked him flat.

The second day, he tried being faster.

She moved through his speed like she'd been there first.

The third day, Damien roared in frustration and launched a full barrage of blows, fists flying like a machine—

—but Mira slipped past them all and tapped him on the shoulder with her knuckles before flooring him again.

He lay on the mat, breathing hard, drenched in sweat and defeat.

"You're fighting yourself," Mira said flatly. "And he's losing."

That night, Damien slept with a swollen lip and an ego in shards.

In the void of sleep, it returned.

A plane of blackness.

A whisper:

> "You choose. Savior… or Destroyer."

Damien didn't respond.

---

Day 4–7: The Shift

He stopped trying to beat her.

He started trying to watch her.

Mira's elegance was terrifying—economy of motion, sharp steps, patient angles. She moved like still water that only rippled to drown you.

So Damien mirrored her. Not in combat—yet—but in discipline.

He timed her breathing.

Watched the way her foot rotated a millimeter before she struck.

Observed the faint tension that danced through her shoulder just before she pivoted.

He stopped treating the fight like a battlefield and started treating it like a classroom.

By Day 6, he was lasting longer.

By Day 7, he forced her to block—for the first time.

"You're learning," she said. That was the only praise he got.

He slept better that night. But the dreams returned.

The Void pulsed behind his eyelids.

> "You cannot fight as two people. Decide. Savior… or Destroyer."

---

Day 8–9: Finding Rhythm

Each movement became tighter. Crisper. Not faster—more refined.

Damien began identifying moments.

When Mira shifted too far left—counterpunch.

When she baited a high jab—body hook.

And still—he didn't land a hit.

But he got close.

He saw it in Mira's eyes, that fractional uptick of acknowledgment. Not admiration. Just recognition. Like watching a flame that refused to die.

On Day 9, after nearly landing a blow, he lay on the mat grinning despite a cracked rib.

"Tomorrow," he said. "I land one."

Mira looked down at him, arms crossed. "Then you'll begin."

---

Day 10

He stopped thinking.

The chamber of Black Vein was silent, save for the rhythmic echo of two breaths colliding in the center of the arena.

Ten days.

Nine defeats.

Zero excuses.

Now, Damien Gray stood across from Mira Vex, shirtless, soaked in sweat, bruises crawling up his ribs like living ink. His fists were raised, shoulders square, feet spread evenly across the matte-black flooring etched with faded battle lines.

Mira was calm. Barefoot. Braided silver hair swaying slightly, her stance coiled like a storm waiting to strike. Not a scratch on her. Only the faintest bruising from yesterday's close call—and the ghost of interest in her eyes.

"You've lasted longer," she said flatly.

Damien smirked, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth with his wrist. "And I haven't hit the floor in thirty seconds. Progress."

"No sarcasm," Mira snapped. "Every thought that isn't about your centerline gets you closer to the floor."

"Noted."

Their eyes locked.

Mira moved first.

Damien anticipated. Not her strike, but her movement—he pivoted left as her elbow sliced air, the shockwave whispering past his cheek.

He jabbed—

She ducked, twisting under the blow and driving a palm toward his ribs.

Crack.

Damien grunted, twisting his torso mid-air to absorb the brunt of the hit as he rolled across the ground and bounced back up, breathing hard.

No time to think. Just feel.

He came again, three strikes—high jab, low sweep, feint to the side—

Mira parried the first two, but his third forced her back a step.

A step.

He didn't pause to savor it. He pressed.

Two more jabs. She blocked.

Then her knee rose.

He spun around it—barely—and caught her wrist with his right hand. He saw her surprise flicker.

Then she threw him.

Damien's back hit the wall. Hard. The air left his lungs in a choked gasp. He slid down, coughing, groaning—but smiling.

"You hesitated," he said through grit teeth. "You're thinking."

Mira's gaze sharpened. "So are you."

She gave him no reprieve. She was on him like lightning—heel slamming toward his thigh, palm aimed at his sternum.

Not today.

Damien twisted, dropping low, and ducked the palm strike. He used the momentum to rise with an uppercut—not at her jaw, but as a distraction. She caught it.

That was the trap.

Damien slammed his left knee into the ground to stabilize—

—and drove his right fist forward.

A clean, brutal jab straight into Mira's solar plexus.

Thud.

For a moment, everything froze.

Mira staggered. Just a step—but to Damien, it was everything. Her arms slightly lifted, her chest heaving. He had hit her.

Not grazed. Not faked. Connected.

Both of them froze. Mira's hand slowly touched her abdomen.

Damien stood tall. Breathing ragged. Lips bleeding. Knuckles raw.

The silence was suffocating.

Then Mira straightened.

"...Well done," she said, her voice clipped and measured. "You've earned the next lesson."

Electricity crackled faintly around her shoulders.

Her aura began to pulse.

"Now we fight for real."

And with a thunderous hum, Static Divinity surged into existence.

Damien's breath caught.

In the back of his mind, the Void stirred.

Whispers curled around the edges of his thoughts.

> "She fights like a Saint. Now… do you?"

---

Meanwhile:

Saint Academy – Recon Field, Eastern Wastes

Recon team - Amara Veyne first year student rank Jophiel, Zeke Alastair first year student rank Uriel, Instructor Rayne, Kael Varn second year student rank Uriel and Riven Sora second year student rank Camael.

Amara Veyne stepped over blackened bones.

Her boots crunched over ash and glass. Around her, the ruins of a Saint outpost whispered of war.

"Whole facility's gone," said Riven Sora, her tactical visor glowing soft blue as she scanned the surroundings. "No survivors. No energy signatures. Just Flame residue."

Kael Varn stood at the edge of the blast crater, forming a blade from metal dust and analyzing its corrosion. "Too clean. This wasn't a raid. It was a cleansing."

Instructor Rayne knelt at a burnt Saint emblem. "They left their mark," she said, pointing to a charred sigil scorched into the wall: an inverted flame surrounded by seven crimson stars.

Zeke clenched his fists. "They're not just attacking. They're hunting. They're picking off every Saint school they can find."

Amara's face remained stoic, but her fingers twitched.

She glanced at the horizon.

Damien… are you seeing this?

She didn't say it aloud.

Riven looked up. "We need to send this data to the Council."

Rayne nodded. "They'll ignore it at first. But when it spreads—"

"They'll have no choice," Kael finished.

Amara narrowed her eyes.

"They're declaring war," she said.

Her voice didn't shake.

But her heart did.