The hollow sound isn’t my sword finding her ice.

It’s flesh meeting metal.

The shockwave dissipates instantly. The freezing temperature shatters and is replaced, in the same second, by the wet, ordinary air of the courtyard. The snow that had been suspended in the air drops to the ground all at once, in a soft, unanimous rush.

Rector Dean is standing exactly between us.

His left hand has wrapped directly around the sharpened edge of Freya’s ice scythe. His right palm is pressed flat against the broad side of Eventide.

He isn’t bleeding. He isn’t even wearing combat gloves. He just caught two execution-class strikes with bare hands.

I can feel it through the contact. He’s a Rank A. This is the abyss between a Rank A and two low ranks—a gap that doesn’t translate to numbers, only to outcomes.

My OXI consumption stops cold, interrupted by an external pressure I can’t name. My knees give for a fraction of a second. I force them to lock. Swallow the metallic taste of blood that climbs into my throat.

I look at his hands again. The frost from Freya’s attack had already crawled past the guard. It was overtaking his fingers.

He doesn’t seem to care.

I run the math in my head.

Experience is a weapon, but Thirstfall runs on numbers. I’m Rank D. Freya is Rank C.

If this man had walked in one millisecond later, Permafrost would have swallowed my strike whole. The ice wouldn’t have killed me outright but would have climbed my arms and frozen the blood in my body before my sword ever reached her neck.

I wouldn’t have won. I’d be on the floor. Crippled.

Maybe dead.

I have to get stronger.

Rector Dean doesn’t shout. He doesn’t flex his aura. He just looks at Freya, then at me. His eyes are empty, politically cold.

"Put the weapons away. Both of you."

His voice is completely flat.

Freya hesitates for half a second. The ice on her arm dissolves. The scythe vanishes into her inventory. She doesn’t move. Her breathing is heavy and her eyes are fixed on the ground.

"Forgive me, Master..."

I lower Eventide. Cut the ignition. Watching every step Dean takes.

Dean is a tall, dark-skinned man with severe features and a rigid jawline. The penetrating look in his eyes announces veteran authority without him having to say a word. His build is lean and densely muscled—agility and precision over bulk. He wears his hair in long dreadlocks tied back. His movements are economical, predatory. He stands and walks like a fighter who is always one breath away from combat.

His clothing is the standard pattern of academy staff. A white robe, layered under a fitted overcoat with minimalist blue and gold trim running through the fabric.

"I believe this courtyard is a residential zone." Dean brushes a microscopic layer of ice from the lapel of his coat. "Not a slaughterhouse."

"Forgive me, sir," I bow.

"The instructors and the faculty are in a conference meeting. And this is what the two of you decide to do?"

He adjusts the coat across his shoulders. Resettles it after lifting his arms.

He knows Freya. He probably felt the energy signature of Permafrost from wherever he was, identified that something was off, and got here as fast as a Rank A can move.

"We need to talk, young lady." He prepares to leave. Then he glances at me over his shoulder, with a flicker of disdain. "Don’t get involved with dirty energy, Freya."

Dirty energy... Damn it man...

He felt something off about Memory of Lightwaves the second he intercepted Eventide. He’s putting a name on it for Freya’s benefit—and warning her away from me at the same time.

It’s the closest thing to a confirmation I’ve had since I got back to Thirstfall this life: my class isn’t supposed to exist on this side, and people who can read it know it shouldn’t.

Freya takes a step back—

—and one of her Permafrost wings falls.

It hasn’t been torn off and it hasn’t shattered. A precise, singular cut runs straight through the entire left wing, dividing it cleanly from base to tip.

She stares at the wing with her mouth half open. She doesn’t understand what just happened.

After Permafrost activates, her wings normally last about two hours. I remember that from another life—shared battlefields with her where I could follow her timers as carefully as my own.

"Hmm..."

Dean looks at the fallen wing on the ground. The ice has already started to splinter where it struck the stone, breaking into smaller fragments along the spreading cracks. Then he looks at his right hand—the one that stopped Eventide.

I see it tremble. A small thing. A single muscle twitching once. Almost too quick to read.

He closes the hand into a fist, casually, before anyone else can catch the motion.

"Let’s go." He gives the order to Freya. She follows him without a word.

I look at my dominant hand, still holding Eventide. Trying to put it together.

That... was... me?

Veric closes the distance and jumps onto my back. The full weight of him crashing into the Horizon plate makes me grunt under the impact, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

"You absolute worm. You scared the hell out of me. But you stood toe-to-toe with the Valkyrie. You crazy bastard!"

Rhayne, right behind him, head still down, can barely whisper.

"Thank you..."

"It’s okay," I tell them. I give one last look at my hand and at Eventide. I let the last of the awareness fade out of me slowly. Some thoughts, you set down. You’ll come back to them later.

"Let’s get out of here, Sands," Veric says.

I hear whistles in the distance. Instructors finally on their way to investigate the scene. Dean got here faster because he’s stronger. The rest of the academy is always going to be a step behind a Rector.

"Into the dorms. Now," I tell them.