Extra To Protagonist

Nathan was still talking. Something about stealing pie. Something about getting caught by Sophia and forced to write a three-page apology letter.

Merlin only caught pieces of it.

'He never shuts up when he's nervous and right now, he seems terrified.'

Elara said nothing. She walked beside them quietly, hands tucked into her sleeves. Her expression was harder to read than usual. Merlin caught her watching him from the corner of her eye more than once.

'They are worrying for no reason.'

He barely believed the thought himself.

Then a new voice cut in.

"Found you."

Seraphina stood at the base of the garden steps, arms folded neatly across her chest.

Hair pinned back, uniform immaculate, silver eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

Merlin slowed. Nathan immediately fell silent.

Even Elara straightened slightly.

Seraphina's gaze locked onto Merlin.

"You are coming with me."

It was not a question.

Not a suggestion.

Nathan opened his mouth, then closed it.

Elara looked between them but did not interfere.

Merlin stared at her for a moment longer.

Then he sighed.

'No rest, even now.'

Without a word, he moved.

His legs ached. His ribs protested. But he followed her.

Nathan and Elara stayed behind.

They did not follow.

They trusted her.

Or at least trusted that she would not let him collapse in a hallway somewhere.

Seraphina led him through the quieter wings of the Academy, past gardens, stone corridors, and long-forgotten courtyards swallowed by ivy.

She did not speak.

Neither did he.

Merlin's mind wandered.

'Where is she taking me?'

Finally, they stopped in front of an old building nestled behind the lecture halls.

The door was half-rotted, hanging slightly crooked.

Merlin arched a brow.

Seraphina ignored it.

She rapped her knuckles once against the wood.

Nothing happened.

Then slowly, a series of enchantments flared to life across the frame.

Subtle. Elegant. Old magic.

The door clicked open.

Seraphina stepped inside.

Merlin followed.

The room smelled of burnt herbs and copper.

The walls were lined with shelves stuffed with faded books, strange relics, and glass jars filled with preserved flowers and teeth.

At the center of the room sat a woman.

Older than most of the professors, but with the kind of agelessness that made it hard to guess.

Her hair was streaked silver. Her robes were stitched with sigils too faint to read.

She looked up from a thin scroll she had been studying.

Her eyes pinned Merlin to the floor.

"Finally," she said. Her voice was rough, like sand over steel. "Bring him here."

Seraphina moved aside.

Merlin stayed still.

The woman raised a brow.

"You came all this way. Now you hesitate?"

He scowled faintly but stepped forward.

'This better not be some useless ritual.'

The woman motioned for him to sit on a low stool near the firepit.

Merlin did. Slowly. Carefully.

Every movement scraped against the ache in his bones.

The woman leaned forward, studying him.

Her fingers hovered near his chest but never touched.

She frowned.

Deep.

"The soul is torn," she murmured. "Frayed. Unstable."

Merlin stiffened.

Seraphina's face was unreadable behind him.

"No mana circulation. No natural recovery. No wonder you look half-dead," the woman said bluntly.

Merlin exhaled quietly.

The woman studied him a moment longer.

Then she reached into a pouch at her waist.

Pulled out a shard of crystal—pale blue, humming faintly.

She pressed it lightly against the side of his neck.

A jolt ran through him.

Not painful.

Not pleasant.

Just deep.

Like something in his soul twitched in its sleep.

The woman watched him.

"Half a year," she said finally.

Merlin blinked.

"Half a year of focused treatment. No training. No mana strain. Absolute rest. If you are lucky, your soul might stabilize."

Silence stretched thick between them.

Merlin stared at the crystal in her hand.

At the faint flicker of something still alive inside him.

'Half a year? Seriously?'

He closed his eyes once. Briefly.

Then opened them again.

Calm.

Sharp.

"I do not have six months," he said.

The woman smiled slightly.

Not kindly.

Not cruelly.

Just knowingly.

"Then you had better find another way to live, boy," she said. "Because the way you are now… one good fight, and you will tear apart what is left of you."

Merlin said nothing.

He stood.

Slow. Measured.

Seraphina's eyes flickered with something almost like concern.

The woman did not stop him.

She just leaned back into her chair and resumed reading her scroll.

As if he had already made his choice before he ever walked through the door.

He had.

Of course he had.

Merlin turned.

Left the room.

The door swung shut behind him with a heavy finality.

The cold air outside scraped against his skin.

He welcomed it.

'Half a year of rest…or die fighting before then.'

His hand tightened into a fist.

There was no choice.

Not for him.

Not for the people he had sworn to protect.

Even if they did not know it.

Even if they never would.

'I will find another way.'

He walked back toward the main courtyard.

Each step heavier than the last.

And in the distance, the bells of the Academy tolled for the noon hour, sharp and clear against the brittle blue sky.

—

Merlin did not look back.

He moved slowly, deliberately, steps measured against the quiet stone. Past the main building. Past the lecture halls. Past the gates that marked the student training fields.

His body protested every motion. His ribs pulled tight. His legs dragged slightly.

But he kept going.

Toward the far wing of the Academy.

Toward the old facility most first-years were not supposed to use.

The reinforced training rooms.

He knew the way by heart.

He found the access door without hesitation. It was heavier than he remembered. He pressed his hand to the rune panel. The lock clicked reluctantly. The door groaned inward.

Inside, the hallways were colder. Darker. Echoes lived here, tucked into the cracks between stone and steel.

Merlin's footsteps rang in the emptiness.

He did not choose the largest chamber. Or the best-lit one. He chose a side room. Small. Unused. The kind reserved for private drills or weapon testing. No windows. One door. Bare stone walls.

He stepped inside.

The door swung shut behind him.

Silence swallowed the space whole.

Merlin crossed to the center of the room. His shadow stretched long and thin beneath the sparse overhead light.

He shrugged out of his uniform jacket, letting it fall across a bench. His undershirt clung to the sharp lines of his ribs, the worn edges of his recovery bruises.

He reached for Keryx, still sheathed at his side.

His fingers brushed the hilt.

Paused.

He closed his eyes.

"I cannot even channel mana through you anymore. You are just a piece of sharpened steel now. Just like me. Broken. Hollow. Waiting."

He drew the rapier.

The sound of steel whispering free was too loud in the empty room.

He turned the blade once in his hand. It caught the light weakly.

A breath.

Then another.

He lifted the sword into guard position.

And began to move.

Slowly at first.

Footwork. Angles. Repetition.

No amplification. No flash of lightning to reinforce his strikes.

Just the body.

Just the blade.

The form was sharp. Precise. Brutal in its simplicity.

Again.

Step. Thrust. Parry.

Again.

The muscles in his shoulder burned. His side screamed in protest. He ignored it.

'I will fight with my body. If I cannot wield magic. I will wield steel. If I cannot be what I was, I will be what is needed.'

He moved through the drills with mechanical precision. Sweat gathered at his temples. His breathing grew harsher. But he did not stop.

Not when his ribs protested.

Not when his vision blurred.

Not when his knees buckled slightly between sets.

He forced his body to remember.

Even if it wanted to forget.

He pivoted sharply on his heel. The blade flicked through the air in a clean arc. A feint. A parry. A thrust.

Again.

Over and over, until the clock in the wall ticked another hour past.

Until the faint ache in his soul was drowned out by the raw ache of muscle and bone.

Until thought itself dimmed into motion.

He stopped only when his hands shook so badly he could no longer hold the rapier steady.

Merlin stood there, breathing harshly, sweat dripping down his back, shoulders heaving.

He stared at the blade in his hand.

It trembled.

Pathetic.

Weak.

But still standing.

"I will not shatter." His voice was a rasp. "I will not."

He let the tip of Keryx lower.

The swordpoint kissed the stone floor.

And there, alone in the dark training room, Merlin gritted his teeth against the trembling of his own body.

He would find a way back.

Or he would die trying.

—

The blade touched the stone and stayed there.

Merlin kept his weight forward, resting against it, breathing sharp and shallow through his teeth. The ache had moved from his ribs into his spine, threading itself into every joint and tendon.

Still, he did not fall.

The air inside the room was heavy. Stale. Every breath tasted like dust and old mana residue. A space forgotten by most students, ignored by most instructors. Which was exactly why he had come here.

No witnesses.

No pity.

Just work.

He closed his eyes.

"I cannot rely on force. Not anymore. I cannot simply outmana an opponent. I cannot overwhelm them with speed or brute elemental pressure. I must adapt. Strip away everything unnecessary until only what matters remains."

He straightened slowly, dragging the tip of the rapier back up.

No lightning sparked at the edge.

No gust of wind coiled around the blade.

It was just steel.

Just muscle and instinct and technique.

He inhaled again, slower this time, and reached inside himself carefully. Not for power. But for presence. A tiny pulse. Like dipping fingers into a half-frozen river.

Nothing answered.

No water affinity stirring against his call. No wind brushing his skin. No flicker of lightning beneath the surface of his blood. No slip of folded space humming at the edge of thought.

Dead.

Silent.

Empty.

His hand tightened on the hilt.

"Then I fight without it. I do not need the world to bend for me. I will bend myself."

He set his stance again.

One foot braced. Body lowered. Blade steady.

And moved.

This time, the forms were different. Not drills for polished duels or academy tournaments. These were killing techniques. Blade angles that existed to open arteries.

Footwork built for surviving uneven ground and broken terrain. Movements designed not to impress, but to kill quickly, efficiently, without a sound.

He slipped into the rhythm.

Thrust. Cut. Pivot. Drop.

Half-steps. Quarter-turns. Breathing in through the nose, out through gritted teeth.

His body protested with every shift of weight.

Pain screamed from his battered core, from the memory of the rift tearing at his soul.

But he moved.

Each cycle faster than the last. Each strike sharper. Each breath slower.

Until he was nothing but motion and will.

Until he forgot the ache. The loss. The emptiness gnawing at the hollow of his chest.

The facility's faint lights flickered once, unnoticed.

The world narrowed to the circle of space around him, to the pattern carved into the stone by the edges of his movements.

Another strike. Another pivot.

Another refusal to fall.

Merlin moved until he could not lift his arm anymore.

Until his muscles betrayed him and the blade slipped from his hand, clattering against the stone with a dull, final sound.

He staggered two steps back and sat down hard against the wall, head falling back with a soft thud.

Silence filled the room again.

The sound of his own heartbeat slowing, returning to something almost normal.

He stared at the ceiling without seeing it.

"I am not strong yet. But I am alive. And while I am alive, I will not be useless."

The stone beneath him was cold.

The air scratched at his lungs.

But his hands—bloody-knuckled, trembling—were still his.

Still moving.

Merlin exhaled through his nose. A low, controlled breath. His head tilted forward, chin brushing against his chest.

He closed his eyes.

Not to sleep.

But to rebuild.

From the inside out.

He would learn what it meant to fight without magic. Without affinity. Without the world answering his call.

He would learn what it meant to fight as a human.

As Merlin Everhart.

No more. No less.