Soul Harvest was even more disappointing. The ability existed in my repertoire—I could feel it waiting for the right trigger condition—but without an actual kill to activate it, all I got was the vague impression that ending something’s life would restore a tiny fraction of my energy reserves. At Copper rank, the effect would be almost negligible. A proof of concept rather than a sustainable combat mechanic.

I dismissed the kama and watched it dissolve back into black smoke, then dissipate entirely. The training dummy stood before me looking like it had been attacked by some kind of flesh-eating bacteria. Deep gouges crisscrossed its torso. Black stains spread outward from each wound like ink spilled on fabric. The impact sensors blinked in patterns that suggested the monitoring systems were trying to classify damage types they’d never encountered before.

The academy maintenance staff was going to have questions about this.

I walked to a different dummy—one that looked pristine and undamaged—and manifested the kama again. This time I focused on control rather than destruction. Light touches instead of deep cuts. Testing the weapon’s precision rather than its raw damage potential.

The blade responded beautifully. It could carve lines as thin as paper cuts or gouge trenches deep enough to expose internal structure. The death aspect affected everything the weapon touched, but the intensity seemed to scale with the force of impact. Gentle contact created minimal degradation that stopped spreading after a few seconds. Aggressive strikes produced the spreading decay I’d observed earlier.

That meant the weapon could be used for surgical strikes rather than just overwhelming damage. Precision cuts to disable rather than destroy. Controlled wounds that would impair an opponent without necessarily killing them outright.

Though given the Death Mark effect, "non-lethal" was probably a relative term.

I worked through a series of practice forms, trying to build muscle memory for the weapon’s weight and balance. The kama felt natural in my hands in a way that Wave Motion never had. Where my original ability required conscious effort to maintain proper spiral rotation and energy density, Reaper’s Edge seemed to want to be used effectively. The weapon guided my movements toward more efficient strikes, the blade positioning itself to catch and redirect force in ways that maximized damage output.

It was seductive. The kind of power that made violence feel not just possible but inevitable. I could understand why Addison fought with such aggressive confidence—when your weapon actively helped you kill things, restraint became a conscious choice rather than a survival instinct.

I dismissed the kama and stepped away from the second dummy, which now sported a collection of precise cuts across its arms and torso. Less dramatic than the first target, but still enough damage to require replacement before other students could use it safely.

My phone buzzed. Seven fifty-six.

Four minutes until homeroom. Just enough time to shower, if I ran.

I grabbed my water bottle and towel, then took one last look at the training dummies. Two targets damaged beyond repair. Evidence of abilities no first-year student should possess. Physical proof that I was something other than the struggling lottery winner everyone thought they knew.

The maintenance staff would find them eventually. They’d file reports. Ask questions about what kind of training exercise could produce those specific damage patterns. The investigation would probably trace back to this morning’s session, which would put Vale’s name on the report, which would create exactly the kind of administrative attention Cassandra was looking for.

Unless the damage disappeared first.

I walked back to the control panel near the entrance and found the settings for the training area’s automated systems. The gym had cleaning drones for minor maintenance, but it also had a complete reset function designed to restore the space to baseline configuration between classes. New dummies. Fresh mats. All evidence of previous use erased and recycled.

I activated the reset protocol and watched mechanical arms descend from ceiling panels, efficiently disassembling the damaged equipment and replacing it with identical units from storage compartments built into the walls. Within ninety seconds, the gym looked exactly as it had when I’d first entered for training with Vale.

No evidence. No questions. No administrative complications that might interest a Diamond-tier investigator with too much time and too many resources.

I slipped out of the gym and jogged toward the residential complex, checking my phone as I moved. Seven fifty-eight. Cutting it close, but manageable if I skipped breakfast and settled for whatever protein bar I could grab from the vending machines near homeroom.

The shower was brief and functional—hot water, soap, enough time to wash away the sweat and grime from training without luxury. I pulled on my academy uniform, noting how much better it fit now than it had three weeks ago. The blazer actually buttoned. The pants didn’t pull tight across my thighs. The transformation wasn’t just strength and endurance—Limit Breaker was reshaping my entire physical presence in ways that made me look like I belonged here.

I made it to Homeroom 3B with thirty seconds to spare, sliding into my usual seat just as the morning announcements began playing over the intercom. Belle glanced at me from the left side, her modified uniform somehow even more provocatively tailored than usual, and raised an eyebrow at my slightly damp hair.

"Productive morning?" she asked quietly.

"Vale’s definition of productive involves a lot of suffering."

"Good. Suffering builds character." She grinned. "Plus you smell like industrial soap instead of desperation, so that’s an improvement."

Naomi settled into the seat to my right, bringing her usual thermos of green tea and a concerned expression that suggested she’d noticed my exhaustion. "You look tired."

"I am tired. But I’m also ready for Friday."

"Are you really?"

I thought about the kama dissolving in my hand. The training dummies carved apart by death-aspected energy. The way Reaper’s Edge had felt like an extension of my own intent rather than a foreign power I was borrowing.

"Yeah. I think I am."