Dramatic

Elijah and Visconti stepped into the dorm, their shoulders aching from the day's training.

The moment they closed the door, their eyes fell on Kieran, who was sprawled dramatically on the floor like a corpse in a murder mystery. His arms were splayed out, and his face was pressed into the carpet in mock despair.

Elijah and Visconti exchanged a glance, silently communicating their mutual decision: ignore him.

As they started to walk past, Kieran lifted his head, looking utterly betrayed. "You guys aren't even gonna ask what happened to me today?"

"Nope," Visconti replied without hesitation, heading straight for the fridge.

"Not really," Elijah said, already unbuttoning his uniform.

"Unbelievable," Kieran groaned, rolling onto his back. "You guys are heartless."

Kieran groaned loudly. "Hey!? I'm dying here!"

Elijah glanced over his shoulder. "You're always dying. It's not exactly breaking news."

Visconti smirked, grabbing a glass of water. "What is it this time? Did someone finally point out how short your attention span is?"

Kieran sat up, pointing an accusing finger at Visconti. "It's not short; it's… selectively efficient. And no, that's not the point! My day was a nightmare, okay? A nightmare!"

Elijah raised an eyebrow, sitting down on the couch. "Fine. What happened?"

"Our instructor kept spouting all this philosophical nonsense like, 'The arrow doesn't miss; the archer does,' and 'The target is only as far as your determination.'" He mimicked the instructor's voice, adding an overly dramatic flourish.

Visconti snorted. "Sounds inspirational."

"Inspirational?" Kieran repeated, incredulous. "It was infuriating! And then, get this—he called a target 100 meters away near. Near! I almost laughed out loud."

Elijah tilted his head. "Did you say that to his face?"

Kieran blinked. "Do I look suicidal? No! But I thought it really loudly."

Elijah and Visconti exchanged a look before shaking their heads in unison.

"Anyway," Kieran continued, "I tried to hit the target with a spear—because why not, right? And guess what? I missed. Twice! And then when I asked for advice, the instructor just nodded like some wise sage and said, 'The answer lies within you.' Like, what does that even mean?!"

Visconti chuckled, sipping his water. "It means you should've practiced more."

"He also said something about how 'the art of battle is the art of understanding oneself.' Like, what does that even mean?"

Visconti, now munching on an apple, leaned against the kitchen counter. "It means you don't understand yourself, obviously."

"I swear, that man is blind," Kieran repeated, ignoring the comment. "And then, when I finally managed to get close—after twenty tries, mind you—he has the nerve to say, 'You're not putting your soul into it.' My soul! What does my soul have to do with throwing a spear?"

"Everything," Visconti deadpanned, smirking.

Elijah chuckled, leaning back on the couch. "Maybe he's onto something. You do seem soulless sometimes."

Kieran clutched his chest as if he'd been stabbed. "Et tu, Elijah?"

Visconti rolled his eyes. "You're so dramatic. What do you want us to do? Pat your back and tell you you're a hero for almost hitting the target?"

"Actually, yes. That would be nice."

"No," Elijah and Visconti said in unison.

Kieran glared at him. "I'm at peace when I think that your melee class wasn't any better than ours."

"It was," Elijah said, grabbing an apple from the counter.

Visconti nodded. "Definitely better. We didn't have to deal with imaginary staircases or impossible targets."

Kieran groaned dramatically again, flopping back onto the floor. "Why am I cursed to suffer alone?"

"Because you talk too much," Visconti said.

Elijah threw the apple core into the trash. "And you exaggerate everything."

Kieran sat up, pouting. "You two are supposed to be my friends. Where's the support? The sympathy?"

Elijah walked toward his room to change. "You'll get sympathy when you hit the target."

"Harsh," Kieran muttered, glaring after him.

Visconti shrugged, following Elijah. "Welcome to the real world, Kieran."

As the door to their rooms shut, Kieran flopped back onto the floor with a sigh. "I need new friends."

The next day.

"Today's focus is endurance and adaptability," he began, gesturing toward the obstacle course. "This will test your stamina, reflexes, and ability to think on your feet. You'll need to complete the course while carrying a weighted pack. Fail to finish in under ten minutes, and you'll be running it again."

Elijah eyed the course nervously. He wasn't exactly unfit, but this looked brutal.

Visconti, on the other hand, looked unfazed. He adjusted his pack casually, giving Elijah a smirk.

"Piece of cake," Visconti muttered.

"For you," Elijah shot back, tightening his straps. "Some of us aren't built like machines."

Visconti chuckled. "Hey, you've got your gravity tricks. Use them if you need to."

Elijah sighed. "I'd rather not. Last time I relied on that too much, I nearly twisted my ankle."

The instructor clapped her hands, cutting off their conversation. "Alright! First group, get ready!"

Elijah and Visconti were among the first to step up.

The whistle blew, and they were off.

The first obstacle was a series of narrow beams suspended over muddy water.

Elijah hesitated for a second, then darted across, his arms outstretched for balance.

Behind him, Visconti moved with the precision of a dancer, barely breaking a sweat.

"Show-off," Elijah muttered as he jumped onto the next platform.

"Just trying to motivate you!" Visconti called back, a teasing lilt in his voice.

The course grew tougher.

They had to crawl under barbed wire, climb over tall walls, and leap across wide gaps.

Elijah found himself panting by the halfway point, his legs burning from the effort.

"Keep moving!" the instructor barked from a distance.

Elijah gritted his teeth and pushed on.

As he climbed a steep incline, he slipped, nearly tumbling backward.

Visconti, already at the top, reached down and grabbed his arm.

"C'mon, no time for sightseeing," Visconti said, pulling him up.

"Thanks," Elijah muttered, his face red—not from embarrassment, but from the sheer effort.

By the time they reached the final stretch, Elijah was running on fumes.

The last obstacle was a towering wall with a rope dangling from the top.

Visconti went first, scaling it with ease. "Let's go, Elijah!" he called down, waving.

Elijah grabbed the rope and started climbing. His arms ached, his fingers felt numb, but he refused to give up.

As he reached the top, the whistle blew, signaling they had finished within the time limit.

Elijah flopped onto the ground, breathing heavily. "Never... doing that... again."

Visconti leaned over him, grinning. "You say that now, but you'll be back."

Elijah groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Why did I sign up for this?"

"Because you secretly love the challenge," Visconti teased, offering him a hand to stand up.

Elijah took it reluctantly, muttering, "I hate you sometimes."

As they walked off the field, the instructor called after them, "Good work. Rest up for a while."

Elijah sighed. "Why do I feel like 'rest' isn't actually an option here?"

Visconti patted his back. "Because it's not."