Chapter Eight: The Mark in the Palm

Yixin calmly withdrew his fist, let out a long breath, and walked out of the arena without looking back.

“Speed: nine bars, Strength: ten bars, Overall physique rating: S,” the burly teacher announced.

Only then did the stunned onlookers snap out of their daze, and thunderous applause erupted like a tidal wave.

“Not bad, kid!” the burly teacher called out heartily behind Yixin. “Since the founding of the Magic Academy, you’re only the second person I’ve seen who could max out the test drum on their very first day!”

At these words, Yixin’s steps faltered.

“Two people?”

A thought flashed rapidly through his mind: “One is me—who’s the other? Could it be… Yifeng?”

He shook his head, brushing away the self-entangling thought, and strode forward with renewed, fearless resolve.

“Keep going, everyone! Don’t think it’s easy to max out the drum. If it were, these old things would’ve been scrapped ages ago!” the burly teacher bellowed.

After Yixin left, the students swarmed forward, eager to show their own skills. Yet every time they swung their arms and struck the drum, the beam of light only climbed to about a tenth of its height before they slunk away, dejected. The stronger ones barely managed to make the indicator sway between the second and third marks.

“Looks like it’s not that easy to raise the gauge to the top,” muttered Hei Yu.

“If I can manage even one bar, I’ll thank the heavens,” Ling Xiaolei replied. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

“Without magical power to boost me, I might really lose to Yixin in strength,” Hei Yu admitted. “Ever since I’ve known him, he’s always been up before anyone else and asleep after everyone else. Day after day, year after year, he never skipped those monotonous physical drills—not even in wind or rain.”

Hei Yu’s mind conjured the image of Yixin every morning beneath the tree in his own courtyard, relentlessly pounding the thick trunk with his fists. Over time, the bark had been stripped away, exposing a patch of deep brown—a mark left by the blood that seeped from Yixin’s knuckles each time.

At dusk, Yixin would be seen running with weighted packs on his back, sprinting from the forest outside the city all the way home, sweat soaking his back until his clothes could be wrung out. Even on days of torrential rain or swirling snow, he could always be found running lap after lap around the city wall, alone. Such perseverance always left Hei Yu in awe.

Was it because he was heir to the Chiyan family? Or was it the burden of eventually inheriting the title of city lord that drove him, making him bear such weight at such a young age, paying a price a hundred or a thousand times that of his peers?

Sometimes Hei Yu thought so. But there were moments when this belief wavered.

Those moments came when Yixin was in a foul mood. He would go alone to the tree in the courtyard, his silhouette lonely and desolate, then unleash punch after punch at the trunk, venting a fury that seemed impossible to dispel.

Standing nearby, Hei Yu always wanted to know, but never did: Who exactly was Yixin so angry with? And why?

“The hardships he endures are beyond anyone’s imagination…” Hei Yu murmured softly.

“Oh…” Ling Xiaolei pretended to understand and nodded solemnly.

Hei Yu stepped forward. “Since I can’t beat him in strength, I’ll have to challenge him in speed.”

With his first punch, Hei Yu shifted his stance, arms poised, body stretched taut like a drawn bow. His black mage’s robe billowed with a gust of wind, and then his right arm shot out like an arrow, striking the drumhead.

Bang!

A crisp, clean sound rang out. The yellow beam on the gauge shot upward at the same blistering pace, climbing straight to the top and flashing brilliantly.

Only then did the onlookers react, rubbing their eyes in disbelief—they hadn’t even seen the punch. It was so fast that all they caught was a black blur of his right arm.

The second punch, however, was less impressive. Hei Yu gathered his strength, struck, and the red beam representing strength climbed only to the eighth bar, stopping abruptly just shy of the ninth.

Hei Yu shook his head, dissatisfied.

Yet to the assembled students, this was already a feat beyond reach.

“Speed: ten bars. Strength: eight bars. Overall physique rating: S,” the burly teacher announced.

“Also an S, just like Yixin’s score,” Hei Yu thought.

There were over a dozen test drums, and the students were split into groups, so the testing proceeded quickly.

Ling Xiaolei’s two attempts barely made the drums quiver. She shook her aching fingers, staring helplessly at the gauge—both times the beam barely budged from the starting point.

“Score… uh…” The burly teacher was at a loss.

He glanced up and down the scale—S, A, B, C, D, E—thought for a moment, and then declared,

“No rating.”

“What?!” Ling Xiaolei felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her, her shoulders slumping, all her spirit vanished.

“Hahaha!”

Her troublesome friend Hei Yu doubled over laughing, tears streaming from his eyes.

Ling Xiaolei stomped her feet in frustration: “What’s so funny? My specialty is ranged attacks, not close combat—so what if I’m not strong? In a team, cooperation is what matters most! You hear me? Cooperation!”

Hei Yu hastily waved his hands. “No, no, no, I need a new teammate…”

The testing continued in orderly groups.

Teacher Shi called out loudly, “Those who’ve finished the second test can head to the cafeteria for lunch. The magic theory test is this afternoon! After that, the dorm supervisors will take you to your rooms. Your class assignments will be posted tomorrow morning—lessons begin officially then!…”

At dusk, Hei Yu lay quietly on the big bed in the dormitory, reflecting on his first day at the Magic Academy.

He rested his left hand behind his head, raised his right hand before his eyes, and spread his fingers, blocking his view of the ceiling. In his right palm was a dark red birthmark shaped strikingly like a flower—something he’d had since birth. But now it was overlain by a flame-shaped seal, obscuring it from view.

He remembered that long ago, he’d always had the same dream.

In it, he wandered alone through an endless desert, unable to find his way. The dry wind carried the stench of blood and decay, and his own hands were stained with fresh blood.

His tattered clothes fluttered about him, his face and arms smeared crimson. Only his eyes shone coldly in the night. Behind him always spread a pair of wings—shaped like two sharp blades, and just as blood-red.

“Slaughter… endless slaughter…” echoed the voice in his mind. “Kill everything in sight, slay every enemy that comes your way, feast on their flesh, drink in their souls…”