Martin didn't return to his dorm.
He rarely did, unless sleep, secrecy, or scheming required it. Right now, none of those were in season. Instead, he wandered the alleys and terraces of Varncrest like a ghost with a mission, mind circling a revelation that clung to the inside of his skull like smoke in a ruined chapel.
The combat yard.
That girl.
The regeneration.
The recklessness.
It wasn't just her strength—it was the lack of hesitation. The kind you couldn't fake. You didn't learn to run into flame. You were made for it.
"To think I'd find a loose end here..." Martin whispered, a grim chuckle escaping him.
The memory returned unbidden, crisp and acid-sharp.
The Blood-Hand.
A nameless, off-the-books organization funded by noble houses, crime syndicates, and military black budgets alike. They specialized in manufacturing weapons out of people. Not just assassins. Hybrids. Mage-bred, alchemically altered, neurologically edited, psychologically shattered tools. Children designed to stab, kill, and laugh while doing it.
"Super-soldiers for sale, in all age and sizes," Martin said aloud, mocking the sales pitch.
He rubbed his temple, chuckling.
"Hahaha. Those monkeys. Mad little monkeys, carving brains with chalk and blood."
He could still recall the smell of antiseptic over rot. The humming of ritual matrices embedded in floor tiles. The taste of ozone and copper.
And the screaming.
Not from fear.
From excitement.
The Blood-Hand's products had enjoyed what they did. Violence wasn't a necessity to them—it was music. Symphony. Sport.
They were the only enemies Martin had ever fought who laughed louder than he did during a kill.
"One of my finest slaughters," he whispered.
He remembered breaking the mainframe, detonating the power nexus, flooding the holding cells, killing the wardens, and slicing through over a dozen hybrids on his way out. It had been a work of art, a blur of elegance and carnage.
But—there had been one anomaly.
One operative unaccounted for.
Five years ago. File flagged as disappeared during chaos. No name, no photo. Just one note:
"Combat specialization: resilience + berserker conditioning."
And now, she was here.
Laughing flames. Regeneration. Forward momentum like a bullet that refused to miss.
"Oh, this will be fun," Martin grinned, eyes glowing faintly. "I hope she's still got the grit. I'd hate to find her dulled by academic civility."
His fingers flexed slightly, the phantom memory of a heated knife fight echoing along his knuckles.
But before he could spiral deeper into memory, a loud crash sounded from above.
Martin blinked, instinctively taking a half-step back as something—or rather, someone—came flying down from the upper terrace of a nearby tower and slammed into the cobblestone courtyard like a poorly-launched golem.
Dust cloud. Shattered tiles. Groaning meat.
Martin leaned forward, one eyebrow raised.
"Did you request a catastrophic impact," he called down, "or was that a bonus feature?"
A hand rose from the crater, middle finger trembling.
"Urgh… screw… you…" croaked a very familiar voice. Roen. Former city-knight. Currently regretting all life decisions.
He coughed up a bit of glowing dust. Not blood. Probably mana sediment. Nothing fatal.
Martin sauntered down and crouched beside him, offering a slow, sarcastic clap.
"Truly theatrical. Are you auditioning for Mage Who Dies First? Because I feel like you nailed it."
Roen rolled to his side with a grunt. Something in his shoulder gave a very unhealthy pop.
"You're a 36-year-old man," Martin added helpfully, "Stop crying."
"Shut up," Roen muttered. "Everything hurts."
"So," Martin said, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him into a seated slump. "How exactly did this happen? Did a student catch you slandering their god again? Or did you try flirting with another librarian?"
Roen groaned. "Belisarius… said I lacked commitment."
"Uh-oh."
"Then came at me with full spite."
Martin whistled low. "That man does have a spite-based combat style. You're lucky to still have bones."
Roen tried to respond, but was instead enveloped in a sudden flicker of blue runes—teleport glyphs written with speed and anger. He barely got out a scream.
"Nooo—!"
And then he was gone. The glyphs fizzled with a slightly smug hum.
Martin blinked once, then shrugged. "Yup. Definitely getting put through the ringer."
He stretched lazily, hands behind his head, and rolled his neck until something in it cracked audibly. The air smelled like burnt cloth and rain mana. The sun above had shifted slightly, shadows dragging longer across the walls of Varncrest's odd skyline.
Martin's stomach growled.
"Well, time for seafood," he said to no one in particular.
He wandered toward the distant bell-tower district, where the air always smelled faintly of saltwater. The seafood stalls were embedded into a loop of platforms suspended by sky-ropes over an artificial lake—stabilized by binding runes, but still swaying slightly in the wind.
Fresh eel, fire-crab meat, jellyvine noodles.
He ordered quietly, throwing a mana token into the exchange rune and letting the smell of spice and fried kelp soothe his brain. He sat at the edge of the dock, food in hand, and looked out over the gently glowing water.
But in the back of his mind, the thought still lingered.
She had survived. One of them.
One of his past sins had lived.
And now they were classmates.