Chapter 5: Complete the Technique

Students didn't announce their departures to professors; they asked permission. Basic manners that had been drilled into him as a child, now completely forgotten in the habits of adulthood.

Adom caught himself and cleared his throat, fighting back another inappropriate grin. "I mean... may I be excused, Miss Thornheart? Professor?"

The nurse's expression had shifted from stern to oddly curious, while Crowley was looking at him as if he'd grown a second head.

Adom gestured vaguely at his own temple, forcing an apologetic smile. "The concussion, remember?"

The excuse was becoming quite convenient, really.

Biscuit finally seemed to make up his mind, padding over to Adom and pressing his warm nose against his hand. Whatever the Sunhound had sensed earlier appeared to have been dismissed as non-threatening, though Miss Thornheart's thoughtful expression suggested she'd be keeping a closer eye on her newest patient.

Much to Adom's displeasure.

"You may go, Mr. Sylla. Please be careful, and you do not have to come to tomorrow's practice. Get some rest."

"Thank you, Professor." And then Adom ran.

He ran.

Here's the thing about running: when you've spent decades barely able to walk, dragging yourself around in a wheelchair, watching your body betray you bit by bit... well, running becomes something of a dream.

A half-forgotten memory that makes your heart ache. Young people at the Xerkes Celestial Academy of Mystical Arts or for short, Xerkes, took it for granted - this ability to just pick up your feet and move, to feel the wind in your face, to cover distance with nothing but the strength of your own legs.

Adom ran through the courtyard, his feet pounding against the ancient stones, past startled students with their various familiars.

Xerkes had only one rule about familiars: as long as it didn't burn or kill other students or furniture, and could fit in a classroom, it was allowed.

Hmm. That was two rules...

Anyway.

Students stared at the weird kid sprinting and laughing like a maniac. He didn't care. He ran in place, feeling his muscles respond instantly, perfectly, no pain, no stiffness, no betrayal. Just pure, beautiful motion.

The late afternoon sun cast the Academy's white towers in gold, their spiral tips reaching into the cloudy sky like they always had.

"Sylla," someone greeted with a nod, while another called out, "Watch it, Sylla!" as he nearly collided with them. He waved a quick apology, laughing as he ran on. Snatches of conversation followed him—"Is he racing death?"—and a few curious glances turned his way - children who would become colleagues, rivals, friends, some even enemies.

But right now, they were just confused teenagers watching another teenager have what appeared to be a mental breakdown in the middle of the school grounds.

It felt like flying. It felt like freedom. It felt like a dream.

Except it wasn't a dream. And that? That was even better.

"Hey, shrimp!"

Adom stopped automatically, his body responding before his mind could intervene. What was that called again? Ah yes, reflexes, and in this case, it seemed his body was still wired in a way that made him answer to specific things still.

A habit he would have to correct soon.

He turned around, still panting, still smiling, to see Damus approaching with his usual entourage. They were talking among themselves, snickering - not really evil, just... kids drunk on the power of being in the right group, at the right time, with the right leader. 

Damus Lightbringer. Now there was a story.

Heir to House Lightbringer, descendant of the last Sword Saint, and one of the most talented student in their promotion. Everyone knew who he was - how could they not? His magical potential was off the charts, and he had the kind of natural charisma that drew people to him like moths to flame.

Adom and Damus had known each other practically since birth. Their fathers - Duke Jasper Lightbringer and Arthur Sylla - had been adventurers together, part of the "Jolly Jumper" party. They'd even survived being trapped in the Midnight Labyrinth, an infamous Dungeon, for three years, and came out of it as its conquerors. The stories about them were still told in taverns across the continent.

Funny thing was, Adom couldn't quite pinpoint when Damus had changed.

The two of them been close as children, practically brothers. Then they came to Xerkes together, and something... shifted.

It started small - a joke here, a comment there, always about Adom's insecurities, always in front of others. The "friendly" sparring matches that left bruises. The way he'd wait until others were watching before pulling his little pranks.

And of course, there was the nickname - "Shrimp."

How lovely.

Though to be fair, looking down at his current body, Adom had to admit he was rather scrawny at this age. All knees and elbows and absolutely zero muscle. No wonder Damus had started calling him that.

Wait. Started? Was starting? Time travel really did mess with your verb tenses.

They crowded around him, that special kind of teenage intimidation disguised as playful roughhousing. Marcus Blackthorn grabbed him in a headlock, ruffling his hair with knuckles just a bit too hard to be friendly.

Finn Cooper and Leon Walsh flanked them, creating that familiar wall of bodies that always made escape impossible.

"Man, you really got your ass handed to you," Marcus laughed, still not letting go. "For a moment there, I thought you were dead!"

"Crowley's got some nerve," Leon added, his freckled face split in a grin, "matching you with Damus. Everyone knows he's the best fighter in second year."

There we go...

"Third year too," Finn chimed in, always the eager one. "Remember when he beat Jules from third year in practice?"

Third year? Really?

"Fifth year," Marcus added, finally releasing Adom. "Don't forget about Catherine from fifth year."

It was a miracle their noses weren't brown yet from all the licking.

Damus stood slightly apart, that familiar half-smile on his face as he watched his friends roughhouse with Adom. He had that look - the one that said he was above it all while secretly orchestrating every moment.

"Sorry about that spell from earlier, shrimp," he finally said. He always insisted on finishing all his sentences addressed to Adom with that word. Then came the usual patronizing remarks."You had it coming though. Your footwork's terrible. No wonder you keep falling." Good old Damus. So predictable.

Ooh. There goes that half-smile again, this meant it was time for the false sympathy, in three, two, one..."Hope you're not holding a grudge. Are you? S-"

"Shrimp." Adom finished. Earning him the widened eyes of Damus and his fanboys.

It was strange.

Back then - now? - when all this started, Adom had refused to believe Damus could be like this. They'd shared too many childhood memories, too many secret adventures. Then, gradually, that disbelief had turned into fear. And anger. Mostly at himself, for never fighting back, for letting it happen.

It was also, as Adom only now realized, the reason he hated eating shrimps. The taste of them, the sight of them, the word itself. It always reminded him of how passive he was back then when clearly, he had no reason to be. Others would end up paying the price for that passive acceptance, unfortunately.

But now? Looking at Damus, Adom felt more baffled than anything else. How had he ever been intimidated by... this?

Because this was just a kid. A privileged kid with that spiky blond hair that used to be the trend at this point in time (God, it looked ridiculous now that he saw it again). His face was scattered with acne that no amount of magical remedies seemed to cure.

His uniform was perfectly pressed, of course - couldn't have the Lightbringer heir looking anything less than perfect - but his tie was deliberately loose in that "I'm too cool to care" way that took at least ten minutes to get right.

Just another noble kid with pimples playing at being a big shot, really. Funny how perspective changes everything.

"What are you looking at?"

Adom smiled. A window!

"Actually, you should avoid scratching those," he said, gesturing vaguely at Damus's face. "Moonweaver Apothecary makes this really effective magical ointment for acne. Not very well-known, but it works wonders."

Marcus, Finn, and Leon froze, their heads swiveling back and forth between Adom and Damus. Their expressions shifted from confusion to shock to something approaching horror.

Ah, right. The unwritten rule: thou shalt not mention Damus Lightbringer's skin condition. Ever. It was like the sun - everyone saw it, everyone knew about it, but nobody dared speak of it. Not even to offer help. Especially not to offer help.