ShadowBound: The Need For Power

By the next day, lessons had began, and the students quickly settled back into their routines. As for Liam, while he still had no clear idea how he would assist Mystica in locating the hybrids beyond the academy walls, he had made a straightforward decision: start by identifying the hybrids within the academy itself. That much had been discussed with Mystica already.

'This academy is massive. I can't just wander around sniffing everyone like some lunatic to find these hybrids. I need to train my senses to pick up their repulsive scent from a distance,' Liam thought as he sat in his seat during Fire Myst class.

'Sensing threads of human myst is simple enough, but sensing a human tainted with demon blood is a pain. Honestly, I should've asked Mystica for more than just a catalyst for my ascension. Hunting down all these freaks is way more irritating than I expected.'

'Guess I was too obsessed with ascending to think properly,' he thought with a sigh.

"The hell are you sighing about, weakling?" Asher said, dropping into the seat beside Liam with his arms crossed and his usual irritated tone.

"First day back to class and you already look like you're ready to quit. What a waste of spending the break here. Bet you didn't even do anything useful," he added with a click of his teeth.

Liam gave him a sideways glance before replying, "Shut up, mama's boy. Not in the mood for your mouth today," he said flatly.

"You bastard. Did you just call me a mama's boy?" Asher snapped.

"What, you going deaf now too?" Liam replied, not even bothering to look fully at him.

Asher blinked, stunned. Liam usually spoke as little as possible, but today he had thrown two insults without hesitation.

"Tch. Guess you didn't change much during the break. Hope it helps when you try to keep up with me this semester. Not that it'll matter—you'll still lose," Asher said, turning back toward the board.

Liam glanced at him for a moment, the faintest smirk appearing on his face.

Just then, Professor Orin Vale entered the room with his usual composed demeanor. He wore the same well-fitted navy coat over a high-collared shirt as he had on the first day, his transparent glasses perfectly in place.

He walked to the front of the class, his sky-blue eyes calmly scanning the familiar faces before him.

Professor Vale set his notes down on the desk with a casual ease, then faced the students properly, his hands clasped lightly behind his back.

"Welcome back," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the room without needing to be raised. "I trust you all made use of the two-week break, whether to sharpen your skills... or reflect on your failures from last semester."

He paused, allowing his words to hang in the air before continuing, "I must admit," he continued, pacing slowly along the front of the classroom, "you exceeded expectations during the simulation exams last semester. Many of you performed far better during the simulation exams than I anticipated. You showed creativity, resilience, and, more importantly, the will to push beyond your current limits. Some of you tasted victory; others, defeat.

"Whether you won or lost doesn't matter. What matters is that regret or that fire you felt—don't let it die. Keep it burning. It is the only thing that separates the living from the dead in the real world."

The class remained silent, the weight of his words settling over them.

"Now," Vale continued, shifting gears, "for the beginning of this semester, we will start with something that sounds deceptively simple but is far more intricate than most realize. If mastered, it will serve you in every aspect—daily tasks, sparring matches, battlefield survival... and even beyond."

He paced slowly in front of the class. "We will be studying Thermal Manipulation Control."

Some students shifted slightly at the term, but Vale pressed on without acknowledging it.

"Not fire conjuring. Not explosive release. Thermal Manipulation Control is the act of mastering the temperature of your fire at a granular level. It's the difference between a simple campfire and a plasma arc that can slice through steel. It's the science and art of controlling how much heat you apply, when, and where—without wasting myst or exposing yourself."

He stopped pacing and turned fully to face them. "You see, most novices burn recklessly. They output maximum heat by instinct and pride themselves on raw force. But a true master knows how to lower the flame to a soft glow that can warm a freezing room or tighten it into a pinpoint stream that can melt stone. Subtlety. Precision. Conservation."

He raised a hand, and a small flame danced above his palm, no bigger than a candlelight. "This could cook a meal, light a torch—or," he flicked his fingers, and the tiny flame instantly shifted into a blinding blue-white point, "it could melt through a knight's armor in seconds. The same flame. Different control."

Professor Vale allowed the flame to vanish.

"For the first half of the semester, we will focus on four major pillars under this concept:

1. Sustained Heat Control: Learning to keep a consistent temperature without fluctuations.

2. Rapid Temperature Shifts: Raising or lowering your flame's heat instantly based on the situation.

3. Focused Heat Projection: Channeling fire into concentrated beams or fine points rather than wide sprays.

4. Environmental Adaptation: Modifying your fire in response to humidity, wind, and even the presence of enemy myst."

He glanced across the room, locking eyes with several students, including Liam and Asher.

"Mastering this will elevate your combat capabilities far more than you realize. Fail to grasp it, and you will remain predictable, inefficient... and vulnerable."

Another pause.

"Get ready. I will be testing your control first before we proceed. Warm-up exercises begin in five minutes. No complaints."

He turned and began writing instructions on the board without waiting for a response.

As Professor Vale continued writing detailed instructions across the board, a hand suddenly shot up from the middle rows.

"Professor Vale, sir!" a female student called out. Her voice was sharp but respectful enough not to come off as a disruption. "What kind of flame was that—the one you showed just now? The blue-white one?"

Finishing the last line on the board without haste, Professor Vale set down the chalk and turned to face the class. His eyes calmly scanned the room until they landed on the girl who had spoken.

"Good question," he said, his voice cutting through the classroom air like a blade. "What you witnessed just now was a plasma flame—the hottest form of flame one can achieve. It surpasses the normal temperature range of fire and burns so hot it becomes ionized, hence the distinctive blue-white color."

He took a few steps closer to the center of the classroom as he spoke, folding his arms behind his back again.

"However," he continued, his tone hardening, "without the proper training of the mind and body, plasma flames are nothing more than a fairytale. Even the strongest knights—some of the best fire myst users—struggle their entire lives without ever reaching it."

He glanced toward Asher, who sat stiffly in his seat, arms crossed as usual.

"If a knight is gifted with natural blue flames," Vale went on, "then the path to plasma becomes easier... but only just. It remains difficult, a mountain few will ever climb. For someone like Asher, for instance, whose blue flames already surpass the typical heat of standard fire, the potential is far greater—but it demands relentless discipline."

The room stayed silent, most students hanging onto his words.

"Constant practice. Painful refinement. Only through these can one possibly reach plasma faster. Compare two individuals—say, Liam and Asher—both hardworking, both talented flame wielders. Even if they undergo identical training routines with the same consistency, the one blessed with blue flames," he motioned slightly to Asher, "has a significant natural advantage."

At that, several students shifted uncomfortably, some shooting glances of annoyance toward both Liam and Asher. Whispers stirred briefly, filled with quiet disdain, though no one dared speak out loud.

Without reacting to the low murmur of resentment, Professor Vale kept his focus.

The same girl raised her hand again, and Vale gave her a small nod.

"Sir," she asked, "how long did it take you to unlock your plasma flames?"

A faint, humorless smirk tugged at the corner of Vale's mouth.

"Forty years," he said simply. "And even now, the amount of plasma I can generate and control is not what you would call vast. It's precise, reserved for when it truly matters. Plasma flames aren't a flashy tool. They're a weapon of last resort."

He let those words settle in the air, heavier than before.

"I trust that answers your question, young miss," He said.

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

He gave a small nod, then shifted his gaze back to the rest of the class. "Alright then. Let's move on to the warm-up exercises, shall we?"