Chapter 216: The Moving Target

The heavy, iron-banded wooden dummy in the courtyard of Villa 1 was built to withstand the kinetic output of an enraged Sentinel.

Vane drove his star-steel spear into its center mass with a vicious, two-handed thrust. The sharp, kinetic impact cracked the heavy wood, sending a violent vibration traveling up the dark metal shaft and into his bones.

He exhaled a harsh breath, drawing the spear back into a readied stance. The humid spring air was stifling, clinging to his skin like a wet rag. Sweat matted his dark hair to his forehead, and his red eyes were fixed on the splintered wood, burning with a cold, analytical paranoia.

Your fangs are too dull. Nyx’s written warning looped endlessly in his mind, echoing with every thrust and parry. For the past two weeks, Vane had been trying to mathematically deconstruct the attack in the western woods. He had run the scenarios hundreds of times in his head, and every single time, the equation ended in a fatal error.

How do you break a Low Justiciar?

Nyx commanded the Dreamscape. The exact millisecond she perceived a threat, she could warp reality, enforce psychic dominance, or turn her physical body into an untouchable phantasm. To bypass that absolute defense, the attacker had to strike before her brain could even formulate the command to activate her Authority.

Vane’s tactical mind spun through the possibilities as he swept his spear in a low, punishing arc, smashing the side of the dummy. Was it a suppression Authority? A high-tier stealth artifact from the Independent Kingdoms that completely erased a person’s killing intent until the blade was already in their neck? An Authority that manipulated localized time?

He couldn’t wrap his head around it. The medical report Lyra had intercepted explicitly stated catastrophic blunt force trauma. But pure physical speed, unassisted by a conceptual Authority, was a magical impossibility. A human vessel would tear its own muscles and shatter its own bones trying to move faster than a Justiciar’s thought process. There had to be a conceptual trick, a hidden magical variable he was entirely blind to.

Vane gripped the spear tightly, his knuckles turning white.

His Low Sentinel core pulsed in response to his frustration. The dense, liquid-silver mana flowed smoothly through his expanding channels. He had only recently crossed the threshold into Rank 4. His physical vessel was still adapting to the overwhelming pressure, stretching and fortifying itself to accommodate the new tier of power. He was nowhere near his physical limit; in fact, he could feel a vast, terrifying cavern of potential waiting to be filled.

But raw potential did not keep you alive in the slums, and it certainly wouldn’t keep you alive against an anomaly that could crush an EX-rank Authority user. Execution was everything.

He channeled the Usurper. The phantom itch flared behind his ears.

A brilliant, conceptual blade of kinetic severance formed over the star-steel tip of his spear—the Silver Fang. He lunged forward, pivoting perfectly on his heavy boots, and sheared the top half of the iron-banded dummy clean off. The heavy wood hit the damp ground with a dull, heavy thud.

Vane lowered his weapon. The silver light faded from the blade.

It wasn’t enough.

Hitting a stationary target was a fundamentally flawed equation. A dummy didn’t dodge. It didn’t employ lethal countermeasures. It didn’t try to dictate the pace of the engagement or force him into a corner. If the predator roaming the academy relied on bypassing reaction times, Vane needed to train his instincts to move faster than his conscious mind.

“You are going to owe the academy a small fortune in property damage if you keep destroying their training equipment.”

Vane turned. Mara was sitting on the top step of the villa’s back porch. She was wearing her oversized grey tunic, her knees pulled up to her chest. She held a damp towel in one hand and a canteen of cold water in the other.

“I’ll put it on Anastasia’s tab,” Vane muttered, walking over to the steps.

He leaned his heavy spear against the stone railing. Mara tossed him the towel. He caught it, wiping the thick layer of sweat and grime from his face and neck. She handed him the canteen next, and he drank deeply, the cold water soothing his dry throat.

“You look exactly like you did back in Oakhaven when the Copper Hounds were sweeping our district,” Mara noted. Her golden-brown eyes were calm, but they carried the heavy, pragmatic weight of a fellow survivor. “You’re burning calories fighting ghosts, Vane.”

“The ghost put a Justiciar in a coma, Mara,” Vane said, lowering the canteen. “If I can’t figure out how it moves, I can’t fight it.”

“You can’t figure out how it moves because you’re standing in an empty courtyard hitting a block of wood,” she replied flatly. She gestured to the ruined dummy. “In the slums, if you couldn’t see the trap in the alleyway, you didn’t stand there trying to do math. You threw a rock to see what bit it.”

Vane looked at her. It was a simple, brutal piece of slum logic, but it cut perfectly through the tangled mess of magical theories in his head.

“You’re overthinking it,” Mara continued, resting her chin on her knees. “If you are worried that you aren’t fast enough to react to a real threat, then stop practicing your forms. Go pick a fight with someone who actually hits back. Let your body figure out the speed. Your brain is getting in the way.”

Vane slowly nodded. A cold, fierce clarity began to settle over his racing thoughts. She was entirely right. He was trying to solve a Justiciar-level assassination plot with Rank 4 logic, and it was paralyzing his instincts.

“Go to sleep, Mara,” Vane said, tossing the towel back to her. He picked up his star-steel spear. “I’m going to throw a rock.”

Mara caught the towel, a faint, satisfied smirk touching the corner of her mouth. She stood up and headed back inside the villa without another word.

Vane walked out of the courtyard. The night was quiet, the melting slush turning the academy paths into slick, treacherous mud. He headed straight for the spiraling glass pathway connecting the highest estates, his destination clear.

Valerica and Isole were out of the question. The daughter of House Sol and the exiled High Elf were far too protective of him; their subconscious would always pull their lethal strikes at the last microsecond to ensure his safety. Ashe was a pure brawler, which was excellent for endurance, but she lacked surgical precision.

He needed someone who fought with absolute, clinical detachment. Someone whose magic manifested instantaneously.

Ten minutes later, Vane pushed open the heavy double doors of Villa 2.

Isaac Glacium was in the central study, predictably awake. The Ice Mage was standing over a massive, illuminated map of the eastern territories, manipulating a complex, floating geometric formula made entirely of frost.

“It is past midnight,” Isaac noted, not bothering to look up from his calculations. “And you are currently tracking mud onto the imported marble.”

“I need a sparring partner,” Vane said, stepping fully into the freezing study.

Isaac raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, his pale eyes shifting to Vane. He took in the sweat-soaked dark hair, the heavy star-steel spear, and the intense, restless glow of Vane’s red eyes.

“Instructor Rowan’s practical drills commence in exactly six hours,” Isaac pointed out, his tone entirely clinical. “Conserving stamina is the optimal strategy for tomorrow’s evaluations, especially given the unstable footing in Sector 4.”

“Rowan’s drills are completely predictable,” Vane replied, leaning his spear against the heavy oak doorframe. “I need an unpredictable variable. I need to fight someone who can dictate the pace of a battle and force me to react instantaneously. If I am ambushed by whatever is hunting in the woods, my conscious reaction time is a fatal liability.”

Isaac considered this in silence. He didn’t ask about Nyx, and he didn’t ask for Vane’s theories. The Ice Mage understood the shifting dynamics of the terrarium better than anyone; he knew exactly why Vane’s survival paranoia was currently overriding his basic need for sleep.

Isaac waved his hand gracefully, dissolving the complex frost rune into a cloud of harmless, glittering snow that vanished before it touched the floor.

“You want to test your physical reaction speed against the instantaneous manifestation of absolute zero,” Isaac deduced, turning to fully face Vane.

“I want to see if my instincts can pierce your defenses before you freeze my spear to the floor,” Vane corrected, his voice dropping into a low, competitive hum.

Isaac stood up straight, smoothing the pristine cuffs of his academy uniform. A faint, cold glint of genuine interest appeared in his pale blue eyes.

“An incredibly arrogant hypothesis, Vane,” Isaac said, stepping out from behind his mahogany desk. “But an acceptable exercise. The underground training hall of this estate is heavily warded for high-density kinetic impact. Do not expect me to pull my constructs simply because you are tired.”

Vane picked up his star-steel spear. The silver mana was already surging in his veins, eager for the clash.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Vane said.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep