Cursed(8)

Rhyka's lungs burned. His chest rose and fell in harsh, uneven bursts. Every breath scraped the inside of his throat like sandpaper. His legs felt like lead, each step jarring through tight, sore muscles. Sweat ran down his spine, soaking the back of his shirt and dripping down the side of his face. His arms, heavy and aching, pumped with effort, more from will than strength at this point.

He was running. Again.

Like a stray dog chasing a pack it had no business being part of.

Nearly a year had passed since Rinnte and Eto had awakened their cores. The memory still stung. Not just because of what it meant, but because of what had come after.

Since then, most of the class had followed. One after another. Quiet ceremonies. Hushed congratulations. Students who had once been unsure now casting simple spells in casual conversation, now standing straighter, walking faster, learning more advanced techniques.

And with that shift, everything else had changed too.

The curriculum had moved on. No more passive lectures. No more theory scribbled in notebooks. No more slow walks through scripture or the history of mana theory.

Now it was physical.

Hard, fast, constant.

They were learning to reinforce their bodies with mana—channel it through limbs, strengthen muscles, push their endurance. Enhance speed. Reflexes. Stamina. All of it. If one wanted to be a mage this was necessary

And Rhyka was still here.

He didn't have to be. No one would've blamed him for stepping back. A magicless student in a class full of emerging mages had no official place. Most people thought he'd drop out

But he didn't.

Some combination of pride, anger, and stubbornness kept him coming back. Even when it made no sense. Even when it hurt.

And it always hurt.

Yet despite being the only one without mana, he kept up. Mostly. His body had grown. He was taller now, lean but strong. The constant drills had put real shape on his frame defined muscle in his arms, thicker legs, a hardened look that came from effort and repetition, not bloodline or blessings. He'd always been athletic, but now he looked the part.

He'd also let his hair grow out. It now reached halfway down his neck, sticking to his skin when he sweat, usually unkempt from not bothering to trim it. He didn't care much for how it looked, only that it stayed out of his face.

Still, no matter how far he'd come, he was always fighting uphill.

While the rest of the class enhanced their bodies with mana, Rhyka had nothing but muscle and lungs. Mana let them recover faster. Run harder. Strike cleaner. His stamina had to be built the old way—step after step, sprint after sprint, until his body either adapted or broke.

And today, it was breaking.

The class had just finished a brutal running drill. Long distance over terrain, then sprint intervals. Rhyka had done it all. No shortcuts. No slowing down. His legs now trembled slightly every time he shifted his weight. His breath was ragged, coming in dry pulls through clenched teeth. His lower back was tight, his arms sore from swinging, and his knees ached with every step.

By the time they reached the classroom again, he felt the adrenaline wear off like a curtain being pulled back.

Pain kicked in almost immediately. His left side throbbed from a stumble on uneven ground. A sharp cramp twisted through his ribs. The ache in his calves had become a burn.

He muttered something under his breath. Nothing loud Just a curse. Quiet Tired Angry

His one goal now was to sit. Just sit. Rest these muscles before they locked up entirely.

He walked through the classroom without making eye contact, his eyes low, expression set.

He didn't expect a warm welcome. He didn't want one. He just wanted his spot.

But then he saw it.

Eto.

Sitting on his desk. His desk.

Not beside it. Not leaning against it.

Sitting directly on the tabletop, legs crossed, facing one of her friends. Laughing. Talking. Relaxed.

Like she belonged there. Like it was hers.

Rhyka stopped walking.

His jaw tightened. His brow twitched.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stared. Pain and fatigue sharpened his irritation into something quick and bitter.

A year ago, he would've walked right up and told her off. Maybe even yanked her down by the arm. He wouldn't have cared about the fallout.

But things were different now.

Cores changed everything.

He didn't know who could control their power and who couldn't. And he didn't need someone accidentally or carelessly shattering his bones because they overcast a spell while pushing back.

So he tried something simple.

He coughed.

Loud. Purposeful.

The kind of sound that wasn't natural. That demanded attention.

But Eto didn't look up.

Her friend didn't pause.

It was either ignored, or worse—heard and dismissed.

Rhyka clenched his fist.

The soreness in his arm made the motion hurt more than it should have.

He was in no mood.

And in that moment, something broke.

He walked over and slammed his hand down on the desk, flat-palm, with enough force to jolt the wood and rattle the legs.

Bang.

The sound snapped through the room like a slap.

Conversation stopped.

Eto and her friend turned, startled.

Rhyka stared her down, eyes sharp, mouth drawn into a hard line. His tone was flat and cold.

"Get down from my table."

The room went still.

Even students across the room looked over.

No one said anything.

Then, before Eto could respond—

Before a single word left her mouth—

The air shifted.

A sudden pressure built in front of Rhyka's chest. Not wind. Not visible.

Just force.

It slammed into him like a sledgehammer.

His lungs compressed instantly. The air left his body in a violent wheeze. His feet lifted off the floor.

Then his body was airborne.

He flew backward with no control, limbs flailing once before he crashed into the far classroom wall with a heavy thud.

His shoulder hit first. Then his back. Then the rest of him crumpled downward and hit the floor hard.

The sound of the impact echoed—wood and flesh colliding with stone.

Rhyka let out a sharp cry of pain. Not a shout. Not a scream. Something short and broken.

He coughed. Hard.

Then again. And again.

Blood sprayed the floor in small flecks.

He rolled onto his side, curling slightly, clutching his ribs. His forearm was scraped raw from the wall. The skin had torn on contact with the wooden beam, deep enough to bleed but not deep enough to need stitches—yet.

His breaths came in shallow, rapid bursts. Every inhale felt like a knife.

He didn't try to stand.

He couldn't.

The classroom was dead silent.

No one moved.

No one dared.

Because what they had just seen wasn't something they were used to

And they all knew it.