The world beyond the barrier did not feel ruined.

  That surprised Itsuka.

  He had expected screams in the air. Rot thick enough to choke on. A sky permanently bruised. That was how the instructors described the wilds—like a wound that never closed.

  Instead, the land was… open.

  The forest stretched wider than Ophora’s guarded outskirts, trees growing without symmetry or permission. Aether flowed freely here, not bound into channels or regulated into polite currents. It moved like breath. Like blood.

  Itsuka stood still for a long moment, letting the barrier’s absence settle into his bones.

  No hum.

  No pressure.

  No invisible hands pushing him back where he belonged.

  Just space.

  He exhaled.

  The hunger came quietly.

  Not a voice.

  Not a command.

  A direction.

  Itsuka turned his head slightly, eyes tracking a disturbance between the trees—a subtle wrongness, like a note played half a step off. He hadn’t heard anything. He hadn’t smelled rot.

  He had simply known.

  His feet carried him forward.

  The demon was small—low to the ground, its body twisted and lean, claws scraping softly against stone as it fed on something already dead. It hadn’t sensed him yet.

  Itsuka didn’t rush.

  He watched the way it moved.

  The way its Aether leaked, unstable, jagged.

  The way the space around it felt full.

  When it finally noticed him, it shrieked and lunged.

  Itsuka stepped aside.

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  His blade came up once—clean, precise—and the demon fell apart in a scatter of ash and dark residue.

  Silence followed.

  Itsuka stood over the remains, breathing evenly.

  Then—

  Something shifted.

  Not outside him.

  Inside.

  A pressure bloomed behind his ribs, warm and dense, like a weight settling into place that had always been waiting. His pulse skipped once as energy spread through him—not violently, not painfully.

  Just… there.

  His senses sharpened.

  He could hear the forest again—not just sound, but spacing. Distance. Movement far beyond normal range. His muscles felt lighter, faster, like they obeyed him a fraction of a second before he asked.

  Itsuka swallowed.

  “…So that’s what it feels like,” he murmured.

  Power.

  Clean.

  Immediate.

  Undeniable.

  He waited for something else.

  Pain.

  Sickness.

  A backlash.

  None came.

  Instead, the warmth stabilized—then quieted.

  Satisfied.

  Itsuka laughed softly under his breath.

  “That’s it?” he asked the empty woods. “That’s what they’re afraid of?”

  The hunger did not fade.

  It deepened.

  He moved again.

  The second demon was larger—thicker plating, heavier steps. It charged the moment it saw him, reckless and loud.

  Itsuka met it head-on.

  This time, he didn’t think.

  He flowed.

  He ducked under a swing he would’ve misjudged days ago. He twisted past a claw that should’ve caught his shoulder. His blade found the demon’s throat with surgical certainty.

  It died faster than the first.

  The absorption followed immediately.

  Stronger.

  Itsuka staggered one step—not from pain, but from the sudden density of it. Power rushed through him in a wave that made his breath catch, his heart thudding once, hard.

  The world sharpened again.

  Colors brightened.

  Edges clarified.

  Fear thinned.

  Itsuka laughed aloud this time.

  “Oh,” he said, breathless. “Oh, that’s better.”

  He didn’t rest.

  He hunted.

  By the time the third demon fell, the process felt familiar.

  Natural.

  The warmth no longer startled him. It poured in, layered over what was already there, reinforcing it. He felt faster now—sure of his footing in a way training had never given him.

  When he finally stopped moving, chest rising steadily, he realized something else.

  He wasn’t tired.

  Not even close.

  Itsuka stood alone on a rocky outcrop, looking back toward where Ophora would be—where the barrier shimmered faintly against the far horizon, barely visible from here.

  He felt no pull toward it.

  No longing.

  Only distance.

  “They think walls keep people safe,” he said quietly.

  The wind moved through the trees like a breath held too long.

  Itsuka flexed his fingers, feeling power respond instantly, eagerly.

  “But safety isn’t a place,” he continued. “It’s strength.”

  He looked down at his hands.

  Steady.

  Unshaking.

  Certain.

  “With power,” he said, voice firm now, settled, “I will never be unsafe again.”

  The forest did not argue.

  Somewhere deeper in the wilds, something stirred—drawn not by noise or blood, but by the quiet certainty of a predator who had just learned what he was.

  Itsuka stepped forward.

  And did not look back.