Vampire's Chronicles: Multiverse Online

The academy didn't slow down after the first week. If anything, it accelerated.

Each day began before sunrise and ended well after nightfall. Theory, drills, rituals, practicals. A storm of expectations. But what truly began to weigh on Thalos wasn't the schedule, it was the weight of focus.

There were simply too many things to master.

The Spellblade curriculum assumed its students came in with fundamentals already honed, many had been privately tutored since they were ten. But Thalos was building from scratch, spreading thin across multiple disciplines.

Still, he knew he had to be smart. So he made a choice.

"I'll push three things: Shadow Slash for offense, Blood Step for mobility, and one curse for control."

Anything else could wait.

Blood Step had quickly proven itself invaluable. In tight quarters, where spacing meant life or death, a burst of controlled speed could turn the tide.

But learning to use it wasn't as simple as willing his body forward.

The technique demanded perfect timing between breath, muscle tension, and the burst of blood mana that fueled it. Too early, and you'd stumble forward with no control. Too late, and you'd simply flinch.

And unlike highbloods who practiced with elixirs that numbed fatigue, Thalos had only himself and the cheap blood pouches rationed to him once per week.

That didn't stop him.

He practiced during lunch, between lectures, and long after others had left the training hall. His Blood Resonance trait kept him going, healing the micro-tears in his calves and keeping his core stable. It wasn't painless, but it was sustainable.

"One clean burst. That's all it needs to be."

He still messed up often.

Of all the disciplines he practiced, Shadow Slash was the most instinctive and the most deceptive.

It wasn't just a sword technique. It was a weave of motion and mana. A blade drawn through shadow, where the edge gained subtle weight from blood magic and the cloak of darkness.

In concept? Elegant.

In practice? Difficult.

Shaping the mana while swinging took split-second timing. One beat too fast, and the magic fizzled. One beat too slow, and the magic overcharged, making the strike sluggish and obvious.

He still remembered the first time it worked.

It wasn't flashy.

No dark wave of energy. No misty arc of death.

Just a cut, sharp and sudden that passed through a target dummy's reinforced surface and left a smoldering line beneath the wound.

The instructor watching that session raised an eyebrow. Nothing more. But Thalos grinned for the rest of the day.

The most frustrating skill, by far, was cursecraft.

His chosen starting curse was Crippling Mark, a disruptive sigil that slowed muscle reaction in opponents by interfering with blood flow in their limbs.

Casting it wasn't the issue. Thalos could inscribe the sigil in his blood circuit now in under fifteen seconds.

But hitting a moving target in a live fight?

That was like trying to catch a fish with a net made of breath.

The spell wasn't powerful, it didn't paralyze or inflict pain. But if it landed, it slowed an enemy just long enough for a counterattack.

He practiced it relentlessly. On dummies. On rats. On willing classmates who volunteered during training exchanges.

It worked one in five times.

Still too slow.

"I don't need perfection," he muttered during one sparring session. "Just one good moment."

And slowly, that moment came closer into reach.

By the middle of the second week, Thalos had become a quiet fixture in most classes.

He didn't speak much. Didn't linger during breaks. His uniform was clean but plain, his posture focused but reserved. Most students barely noticed him and those who did, didn't talk about him.

Some appreciated the silence.

Others didn't.

"Low-blood. Still grinding like a peasant, huh?"

The voice came from Calien, a tall vampire with sharp eyes and emerald-threaded cuffs on his sleeves, small markers of old blood and wealth. His blade forms were crisp, practiced, and his blood spells flared to life like clockwork.

Thalos didn't respond.

He'd learned early that answering only fed the fire.

But Mirae the spellblade who'd sparred with him that first week, overheard from across the row. She tilted her head and answered before Thalos could react.

"He lasted longer against me than you did in mid-match drills."

Calien's smirk twitched.

His eyes narrowed, not at Mirae but at Thalos.

Thalos felt the heat of the stare, even as he kept his eyes on the chalkboard.

"Great. Thanks," he thought bitterly. "That's just what I needed. More attention. Why are girls always dragging others into their crap?"

Mirae offered no apology. No further comment. She simply turned back to her notes.

But Calien didn't.

He leaned a little closer as the instructor moved to the far side of the room, voice low enough that only Thalos could hear.

"Enjoy your little wins while you can, no-mark. The real lessons haven't started yet. Let's see if you're still smiling after the next combat trial."

Thalos gave a wry smile and shook his head.

"So it starts," he murmured under his breath. "This place is only going to get tougher."

Not all interactions were tense.

In his Resource Identification class, Thalos was partnered with a boy named Eloin, a soft-spoken vampire with strange silver irises and a sharp memory for herb lore.

"You're the one who drew the Crippling Mark on that animated target last session," Eloin said one afternoon, while they were sorting dried stems.

Thalos nodded. "Yeah."

"You moved your off-hand too early. That's why the sigil misfired."

Thalos blinked, surprised. "...You saw that?"

Eloin shrugged. "I've messed it up the same way before. You'll get it."

The comment was simple.

But it stuck.

For the first time, Thalos felt the faint edges of camaraderie. No expectations. No barbed undertones. Just mutual progress.

Maybe the academy wasn't completely isolating after all.

By the third week, Thalos wasn't much stronger.

Not outwardly.

His spells still misfired. His strikes weren't blindingly fast. His curses missed. His reflexes weren't uncanny.

But…

His footwork was cleaner.

His Blood Step was faster.

His grip on the blade more confident.

And his curse?

Now it worked two in five times.

Not a leap.

But enough to feel like progress.

By the third week, the novelty of being a new student had fully worn off. Missed drills earned penalties. Misaligned mana circuits brought disciplinary lectures. Sparring duels started to carry bruises.

Most of the students were adjusting, shaped by years of private lessons and family tutors.

Thalos wasn't.

He was learning the hard way.

Of all his classes, Cursecraft & Debilitation was the most mentally demanding. It wasn't simply drawing sigils or channeling malice. Each curse required a concept, a pathway, and a delivery method.

And unlike other spell types, curses were unforgiving.

"A poorly-formed fireball might fizzle out," their cursecraft instructor had said on the first day. "A poorly-formed curse might bounce back on you or worse, taint your own blood."

That had stuck with Thalos. Especially since his curse, Crippling Mark, was both subtle and easy to fail.

He practiced every evening until the curves and pressure points of the sigil were etched into his mind. His biggest challenge wasn't shaping the curse, it was landing it.

Against dummies or still targets, he was decent.

Against moving opponents? He missed more than he landed.

But progress came in strange places.

One afternoon, while applying the mark on a dummy enchanted with minor mobility enchantments, he noticed something odd.

"If I start shaping the curse mid-feint…"

He tried again. Faked a lunge to the right. While shifting his stance left, he launched the sigil not at where the dummy was, but where it would dodge.

The mark struck.

It hissed against the wood.

The dummy shuddered.

"Finally."

A shallow grin crept across his face.

He didn't celebrate. He didn't even breathe a word of it to anyone else.

But that night, he added another line to his logbook under effective adjustments.

In Martial Arts: Blade & Body, things were far less forgiving.

Every week brought a new sparring partner. Every partner was faster, stronger, or more experienced than Thalos.

He didn't win often.

But he adapted.

His Blood Step, once unpredictable and clumsy, had evolved into something usable. Still not fast enough to leave afterimages like the top duelists, but smooth enough to dodge or reposition without exposing his back.

He learned when to retreat, when to counter, and most importantly, when to fail safely.

Some classmates mocked him for overusing mobility over brute power.

But when a mock duel ended with Thalos slipping around the back of a faster opponent and landing a light cut, no one laughed.

Except one.

Calien.

"Tricks and scurrying around like a rat. Fitting."

Thalos simply wiped his blade and walked off the mat.

He wasn't interested in proving anything through insults. His blade would do the talking.

By the end of the third week, Thalos began to truly feel the compound effect of his traits.

He still practiced more than most.

Still made more mistakes.

But he recovered faster, especially when he drank from his weekly rations or hunted small blood beasts during outdoor assignments.

His Blood Resonance trait didn't just heal minor damage, it slightly boosted his body's responsiveness after every feeding. That meant more drills, longer hours, sharper form.

Coupled with Quick Learner, it meant every repetition yielded more return than it should've.

And while others plateaued mid-week, Thalos inched forward, inch by inch.

His stats hadn't increased yet. But his proficiency had.