Changing People
There's a vast difference between merely imagining people changing and actually making it happen. Seria had been feeling that truth keenly for over two hours now.
"This is tough…."
She was trying to embed butterflies into Irshu and Tarshu's ice, making them explode at the perfect moment. The theory was simple, but executing it was ridiculously hard. If the ice was too thin, the butterflies would melt away mid-flight, rendering the whole thing useless. Too thick, and no number of butterflies could shatter it, no matter what she tried. But if she pulled it off, it would be incredibly useful in a pinch. Abel was bracing for a fight with the Ability Supremacists, after all—she could show it off there. That thought sparked a burning desire to keep pushing, no matter how grueling the process.
"So hard."
This frustration wasn't unique to Seria. Irshu and Tarshu felt it too. They grunted and struggled, flailing desperately to make this impossible feat work.
"But I want to make it happen."
It had started as just some cryptic request from Abel. But now, all three were fully immersed, challenging themselves as ability users. Sure, while every other student at the academy poured everything into their personal combat styles and powers, this might look pointless. But if they ever followed Abel into that day of true revenge, facing even stronger foes… this effort would surely pay off. Above all, their progress would push Abel further too, out there on the training grounds. He'd said seeing even a split-second glimpse was more efficient than just thinking about it.
"Miss Seria."
Midway through their joint attack drills, a familiar voice made her turn. It was Flam and Portus. She recalled how, lately in class, they'd seemed distracted, absent from both the training grounds and the club room.
"Do you know where Abel is?"
"Uh… over there in the next training ground. B-but… Lord Flam, and Lord Portus next to you… is something wrong?"
Sure enough, their faces were grim. Portus's especially was so stiff it unnerved her.
Flam let out an awkward sigh, waving his hand as if to say don't tell her anything.
"You don't need to know the details, Miss Seria."
"Lord Portus?"
"We've tolerated your nosiness so far. But prying into others' business won't do you any favors. A noble should act like one."
A noble should act like one. Seria couldn't miss the emphasis there—or the implication: You're no real noble; you're just a commoner, aren't you?
It was shocking. Portus had always been a bit stiff but polite. Now his face was stone-cold, his voice not just curt but frozen solid. Seria could only fluster in confusion.
"Just tell us where Abel is."
"…He's in the training grounds."
"Let's go, Flam."
Portus strode off without a glance at her. Flam watched him pitifully for a moment, hesitating, then stepped close to Seria.
"He's got his reasons, Miss Seria."
"What do you—"
"I know it stings, but don't hate him too much. It's unavoidable."
With that cryptic line, Flam followed Portus. Too stunned to react, Seria just blinked. Irshu and Tarshu hurried over, checking if she was okay.
"Abel."
Abel opened his eyes, sword raised high in a profoundly important stance. There stood Portus, radiating icy hostility.
"Got a minute to talk?"
"Something important?"
"Very."
Glancing aside, he saw Flam too—definitely serious business. Perfect timing; they were next on his list after Seria, Irshu, and Tarshu. Them coming to him saved legwork. Still, the vibe was off. They looked like they'd just had a tense showdown, but Flam seemed more fidgety than hostile. Not a fight—something else had stiffened the air.
"I have questions. Answer honestly."
"Of course."
"…My father visited you. Lord Phoenix came too."
"Yes."
"What exactly happened? What situation made my father and Lord Phoenix—two of the strongest—name you as the next top dog?"
No big deal. Abel laid it all out plainly: Lord Phoenix's single strike. Master Sparrow's peak advice upon witnessing it. How it finally showed him the true path, with the former powerhouses urging him onward.
"I see. So that's it."
Portus nodded, eyeing Flam. They'd clearly coordinated this part.
"Abel. Since we're here, show us."
"A spar?"
"Exactly. Prove it to us. Tell us the gap right now. How far do Flam and I have to run to catch your back?"
Easy enough—he could do it now. But it'd yield little gain, just confirmation. Abel was dead serious about efficiency in ability training.
"I have conditions."
"Name them."
"First: if you want a spar, both Lord Portus and Lord Flam face me together. No objections."
"That's…."
"Accept it, Portus. Remember? He handled our rampages without a scratch. Our fathers marked him as the next strongest—he's earned it."
Flam, pride incarnate, voted yes. Portus frowned at the two-on-one, but relented.
"Fine. Accepted. First condition means a second. What's next?"
"This is the key one. To spar with me, you two must attempt a joint attack at least once."
"…What?"
"Say that again?"
What nonsense was this? Who with whom? It wasn't just syncing pyrokinesis and hydrokinesis. These were heirs to the pinnacle families of those arts—merging powers? Impossible, ability-wise or otherwise. Flam and Portus balked: Possible? No way. Their pride rejected it outright.
"Hm."
Abel knew exactly how to handle even that. Men were all the same. He'd react the same way.
"Won't do it? Or can't?"
If sound effects existed, veins bulging—pop—would've echoed from both. Ultimate provocation. Unforgivable to any man. You had to grab the opponent dismissing you like that.
"We will."
"Damn right."
From enrollment to now, they'd clashed as ultimate rivals. But now, Abel ahead was the mountain to conquer—not each other. For that, even absurdity was acceptable. They were ready.
"How long? Two weeks plenty…."
"Three days."
They spoke in perfect sync. Abel's eyes narrowed. Three days was brutally short to refine something new, even for him.
"We'll master a real joint attack with this guy in three days."
"Don't disappoint us, Abel."
With vows exchanged, they headed to their training ground. En route, Flam called to Portus ahead.
"Hey, Portus."
"…."
"You sure? Miss Seria might really misunderstand…."
"Better she hates me now. Right?"
He had to choose. Focus. That would conquer the jealousy rearing its head.