The City That Still Bled
The battle was over.
The city still stood — but it no longer breathed the way it once had.
When everything went quiet, only a heavy silence remained — the kind that rings in your ears.
Smoke rose from shattered rooftops. Blood seeped into the stone.
The air was thick with ash, smoke... and something else.
As if the sky itself was mourning this place.
Saiden stood still. His gaze wandered across the field where life had once burned — now it looked more like a grave, just missing the names on the stones.
He saw the body of the old man... Targus.
Still lying there.
Next to him — a shield, cracked in half, like it had finally grown tired of protecting.
Toren dropped to one knee and gently ran his hand across the dirt-covered cloak.
"He saved us," he whispered.
"And died like a hero," Zaynor added, teeth clenched.
"Even if to everyone else he was just a grumpy old loader."
They stayed silent for a long time.
Speaking felt like betrayal.
Even breathing felt wrong.
Soldiers moved among the bodies, collecting the fallen.
Mages restored the barriers.
The city had been kept alive — but it would never be the same again.
⸻
When the trio finally reached the evacuation camp, something clenched inside them.
Among hundreds of faces — their families.
Alive. Exhausted. But alive.
Saiden's mother turned first. Her eyes widened — and she ran to him like it was the last time she'd ever see him.
"Saiden... you... you're back..."
He hugged her silently.
As if only now he allowed himself to breathe again.
Nearby, Zaynor shook his father's hand — and quickly turned away, hiding his tears.
Toren dropped to his knees and wrapped his little sister in a tight hug.
They didn't say where they had been.
They didn't tell anyone what they saw.
They didn't mention the shield shattering.
The orc impaling the mage.
Targus's eyes closing forever.
They just... stayed close.
⸻
Later, in the survivors' tent, they were given food — warm bread and slightly burnt meat.
No one ate.
"How many died?" Saiden asked, staring at the floor.
"Hundreds," Toren answered. "Maybe more.
Forty soldiers for sure. Five mages didn't make it."
The next morning, half of the remaining troops were sent toward the village near the Gate.
Rumors spread that it had fallen.
And now, the enemy was dangerously close to the Gate itself.
The commanders tried to keep panic under control.
But even the children in the camp could feel it — this wasn't over.
The three friends sat in the shade at the cliff's edge.
Below them — the ruined streets of their hometown.
"We were nothing," Saiden said. "Just cargo boys."
"And we still survived," Zaynor said quietly.
"But not everyone did," Toren muttered, clenching his fist.
"Targus... the soldiers...
I don't want to see anyone else die.
No one should."
Silence again.
And then — a spark.
Somewhere deep inside. Small, but stubborn.
"The Academy," Saiden said suddenly.
"What?" Zaynor blinked.
"In two years, we'll be sixteen. Old enough. We're going. We'll join the Academy."
"Seriously?" Toren gave a dry laugh.
"Our families will lose their minds."
"Then we won't tell them," Saiden replied.
"Not until we're already in."
And all three... nodded.
There were no grand speeches.
No solemn vows.
Just tired hearts — filled with resolve.
At sunset, they walked the streets again.
The air still reeked of smoke.
The stones still echoed pain.
But inside them... there was more than fear now.
There was hunger.
For strength.
For change.
For answers.
"We'll Grow Stronger... So No One Else Has to Die."
A week had passed.
The city was slowly returning to life — though covered in scars.
Collapsed houses were being reinforced. The barriers, strengthened.
Mages came from neighboring cities to lend their hands.
But even in this... the silence wasn't peace.
It was tension — waiting.
Saiden, Zaynor, and Toren didn't sit still.
Early morning. Beyond the city limits.
The sun hadn't yet risen, and they already stood on the hill.
The earth beneath their feet was dry and dusty — just like their bodies after sleepless nights.
"Ready?" Zaynor asked.
"Yeah," Saiden replied.
"Good. Then let's begin."
They made a schedule.
Training — every morning, before dawn.
Then helping around the city — clearing rubble, carrying crates, delivering food.
Evenings were for theory — old chronicles, torn scrolls, and whatever books the fallen scholars had left behind.
"Still feel nothing?" Zaynor asked, watching Saiden.
"Nothing," he said.
"No warmth. No spark. Just... empty."
"Maybe your quirk is silence," Toren smirked.
"You'll put enemies to sleep with boredom."
"Or freeze them with a single word," Zaynor teased.
But Saiden didn't laugh.
He stood in front of a wooden target — cracked, nailed, splintered.
He clenched his fist. Pulled back. Punched.
Pain shot through his hand.
The board didn't even move.
"We're weak right now," he said, wiping blood from his knuckles.
"But if we start now... in six months, we'll be no worse than academy recruits."
Toren was training his connection to the earth.
He'd kneel, press his fingers into the ground, and whisper:
"Rise... come on, rise..."
Sometimes the dirt trembled.
Sometimes a shield would form for a second — weak, thin, but real.
"Better than yesterday," he'd mutter.
"Not as good as tomorrow."
Zaynor ran.
Every day — circles. Through rocks, trees, abandoned homes.
He sharpened his bursts of speed. Those quick, blinding dashes.
Sometimes his legs gave out.
Sometimes he'd fall face-first into the dirt.
One time — scraped his elbow bloody.
But he always got back up.
"If I can move faster than fear... maybe no one else has to die," he whispered.
And Saiden... he just hit things.
Fists. Stones. Plank against plank.
He had no strength.
No quirk.
Not even a flicker of power.
But he was there.
Every single day.
"If there's no gift — then let there be will.
If there's no magic — then let there be resolve."
On the sixth day, they ran into an old soldier who recognized them.
"You three... you're the ones from the warehouse battle, right?"
"Yeah," Saiden nodded.
"Strange. People died... and you're still standing. Training, even."
"Because we don't want to just stand and watch anymore," said Toren.
"Because someday... we'll be heroes too," Zaynor added.
The old man smiled faintly.
"Then start with the basics."
And so they continued.
Not because they were strong.
But because they never wanted to be weak again.
The city was healing.
The Gate — for now — was under the guardians' control.
And the three of them... they prepared.
Quietly. Stubbornly.
They didn't know what path lay ahead.
But step by step — they had begun to walk it.