Chapter 66: Growth
The days at the Academy began to blur into a rhythm—rigorous, exhausting, yet strangely intoxicating.
Every morning, the students gathered in the training halls where instructors drilled them in the fundamentals of channeling the powers in their D-H.
More Rank 1 D-H were now distributed for practice, their faint glow pulsing as if tiny stars had been trapped inside crystal shells. The students were finally allowed to access other [Breaths].
"Remember!" Frost Winister’s voice carried like steel over stone, sharp but steady. "A Breath is not a toy. It is the distilled will of the dragon whose heart you wield. Treat it with respect—or it will consume you."
His words did not empty worries.
One boy in the second week overextended himself, trying to push lightning from a Stormfang’s D-H.
The current surged too violently, and though the healers patched him up, he still carried burns across his arm.
The cautionary tale spread quickly, but so did the allure.
For most, the Breaths came awkwardly. Fire sputtered instead of roaring, gusts fizzled into breezes, scales of stone cracked after a single strike. But practice built familiarity, and familiarity began to sharpen into skill.
For Draco, his experiences made him excel far above the rest, granting him guidance no instructor could match.
Where others strained to find the rhythm of essence flow, his control was as fluid as breathing. His flames never flickered, his defenses never cracked. He learned quickly, but made sure never to outpace too much—always showing enough to impress, but never enough to expose the gulf.
And then there was Jet Ashborne.
The boy who had once carried a storm of bitterness now threw himself into training with relentless purpose. Morning drills, noon spars, evening studies—Jet was there, always pushing, always sweating, always refusing to fall behind.
During combat training, his strikes rang louder, his steps grew sharper, and his Breaths—though still rough—began to hold shape. Fire clung to his blade longer, stone skin hardened across his arms without crumbling, wind carried his leaps farther. Instructors began to nod. Classmates began to watch.
Draco, however, saw deeper.
He noted the way Jet’s breathing synced more perfectly with his Essence flow, how he began anticipating instead of reacting, how each mistake carved into him only became fuel for correction the next time.
’He’s learning fast,’ Draco thought during one spar, dodging Jet’s fiery slash with a smooth pivot. ’Not System-fast, but for someone without an advantage... frighteningly fast.’
*****
Every week, the Dragon Subjugation trials loomed. Students were divided into their teams and sent into controlled zones where multiple captured Rank 1 Dragons or even Rank 2 had been released.
Naturally, it was meant to simulate real hunts, where cooperation mattered as much as raw power.
For most, these were ordeals.
Claws shredded shields, tails swept formations, and Breaths scattered panicked cadets. Teams were rotated, but one pattern emerged again and again: Draco’s group never lost.
Even when paired with students who bickered or froze, Draco’s calm commands, precise timing, and uncanny awareness carried the day.
His presence turned chaos into order, disaster into strategy. The instructors noticed and the students were always amazed by the methods he used to ensure victory.
The most interesting change was that Jet actually joined Draco’s team!
And... he especially thrived under these trials.
Though not a leader, he fought with the unshakable will of someone determined to prove himself.
When Draco gave orders, Jet followed, but he also adapted, anticipating Draco’s intent without needing it spelled out. Their cooperation sharpened each week, like two blades being honed against one another.
Lizbeth led the other team, and they were always one or multiple steps behind Draco.
And so the weeks passed...
*****
By the fourth week since the Academy’s opening, the evenings had become their own ritual.
Draco and Jet would meet at the private training grounds, a quiet square of stone and sand behind the east tower where few others ventured. Lanterns burned dim here, leaving long shadows that danced like specters of their battles.
This evening was no different.
The sun had sunk low, painting the horizon in crimson and violet. Jet arrived already rolling his shoulders, his storm-grey eyes alight with a fire that hadn’t been there a month ago.
"You’re late," he said, though his smirk betrayed he’d only arrived moments earlier himself.
Draco stepped onto the field, his usual calm in place.
"Or maybe you’re early."
Jet drew a wooden practice blade, flames licking faintly along its edge as he activated his Fire Breath. The control was tighter now—less wild sputters, more steady burn.
Draco mirrored him, essence coiling effortlessly through his veins as he summoned a faint sheen of scales along his forearm. He didn’t need to channel fully—just enough to push Jet.
"Ready?" Draco asked.
Jet’s grin widened. "Always."
They clashed.
Wood struck against scale, sparks flying as Jet pressed forward with a ferocity that belied the simple practice weapon.
His movements were sharper, his breathing controlled, his steps less wasteful. A month ago, he’d have overextended on the first dozen swings. Now, he chained five dozen strikes before Draco forced him back.
"Better," Draco noted, deflecting another fiery slash. His tone was casual, but inside, he was impressed.
Jet snarled, leaping back before sending a compressed wave of flame forward.
"Don’t patronize me!"
Draco sidestepped the fire with minimal effort. "Not patronizing. Observing."
They fought on. Jet’s breaths came heavier, but his rhythm didn’t break. His instincts had sharpened, but against Draco—whose every move was calculated, aided by his rich experience —he remained a step behind.
A fraction slower. A degree weaker.
After twenty minutes, sweat poured down Jet’s brow, his flames sputtering with strain. Draco, though breathing heavier than usual, remained composed.
With a swift twist, Draco knocked Jet’s blade aside and tapped the wooden edge against his chest.
"Dead," he said simply.
Jet collapsed to a knee, gasping. "Damn it..."
Draco offered him a hand. After a pause, Jet took it, pulling himself up. His expression was grim but not defeated.
"You’re... still too far ahead."
Draco studied him quietly. "...For now."
Jet blinked, surprised. Draco’s tone held no mockery, only fact.
"Your strikes are sharper. Your Breaths last longer. But a big issue is your Essence output. It still leaks at the edges. You move too much when you should hold still, and you hold back when you should press. You’re close, Jet. Closer than you realize."
Jet listened in silence, his jaw tight, but his eyes absorbing every word.
"And most importantly," Draco added, his voice lowering, "you’ve stopped doubting yourself. That will take you farther than you know."
Jet let out a long breath. "...You make it sound simple."
"It isn’t," Draco replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But it will feel simple after enough time."
They sparred again, drilling through corrections until the lanterns burned low. For an hour they repeated, refined, adjusted—Jet never complaining, Draco never coddling.
Finally, they sheathed their weapons, sweat cooling in the night air.
"Same time tomorrow?" Jet asked, rolling his sore shoulder.
Draco nodded. "Same time."
They parted ways, Jet heading toward the dormitories, Draco toward his own quarters. The corridors were quiet, the hum of the Academy muted at this late hour.
When Draco opened the door to his room, however, he immediately noticed the object on his desk.
A letter.
The wax seal glinted under the lantern light—the emblem of the Academy pressed deep into crimson wax.
Draco stared for a long moment before stepping closer. Slowly, deliberately, he picked it up, running his thumb across the seal.
A small smile curved his lips.
"...I’ve been expecting this."