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Book Three Chapter 7: Killing Two Stones With One Bird
🕑 Added 2025-07-23 04:07:01 +0000 UTCJulian pointed. In the upper landing, looking down on everyone like kings surveying revolting peasants they meant to slaughter, stood two cadets with bright blue hair and custom black silks that shimmered faintly under the lounge lights.
They shared more than fashion. Similar noses. Similar eyes. Matching cheekbones and sneers so perfectly rehearsed it was hard to believe they weren’t genetically sculpted for disdain. Every inch of them radiated curated arrogance, from their razor-cut jawlines to the smug tilt of their shoulders. They looked like their boots didn’t squeak, but like they clicked, like punctuation marks on statements no one else was allowed to speak over.
When they caught Vaeliyan looking, he didn’t blink.
He raised his hand.
And flipped them the bird.
The reaction was instant. Rage flooded their faces, twisting their perfect symmetry into something feral. Controlled postures cracked. A twitch in the jaw. A flex of fingers. But only Class One and Julian saw how fast Vaeliyan moved, so fast he blurred, a blink and done. He was already standing still again, hand by his side, expression flat, by the time the rest of the lounge even registered a shift.
Julian gave a short, knowing laugh, quiet, sharp, perfectly pitched for deniability. "That’s one way to start a fight. If you can manage to win, you’ve probably made enemies for life."
Vaeliyan shrugged without an ounce of concern. "If this little scuffle becomes that important to them, then I think I can live with that."
He rolled his shoulders, eyes still on the pair above. "So… are they bringing their whole squad? Or is it just going to be those two chucklefucks trying to make a scene?"
Julian tilted his head thoughtfully, clearly running internal stats. "Depends. They like to fight dirty. Two-on-one is more their speed, especially if they think it'll send a message. But that might make them look weak, and nobles hate that. Taking on a first-year like that doesn’t exactly scream confidence. Even they know optics matter."
"I call dibs," Vaeliyan said instantly, like it was owed.
"Damn it, Vael," Xera muttered, groaning. "I thought we were doing homework as a squad."
Vaeliyan grinned, slow and sharp. "I think we still are. Deck didn’t say we all had to fight. Just that we had to get into a fight and make a commotion, right? I want to do the fight bit. You all do the commotion bit. Spread some chaos. Throw some insults. Start a rumor."
"I mean, he’s right," Lessa said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she glanced toward the nearest pit. "And if Deck says we failed, we just say that back to him. He didn’t specify. And isn’t that basically the main idea behind what he’s trying to teach us? If the rules are vague, twist them until they break."
Julian muttered, half-impressed, half-terrified, "You people are going to burn this place down. I love it."
"We’d never," Slyen said with mock innocence, her grin gleaming. "That would be cheating."
"Which is literally why we’re doing this," Xera added, popping her collar dramatically. "Cheating 101. First rule, don’t get caught. Second rule, if you do get caught, argue semantics until they want to gives up."
Rokhan cracked his knuckles nearby, glancing up at the upper landings. "So do we start the betting now, or wait until fists are flying?"
Julian held up a hand subtly. "Wait. Make it look like we’re just hanging out. Let them make the first move."
He lowered his voice. "Any of you good at crying?"
The twins, Xera, and Ramis nodded in sync, expressions already starting to contort into believable distress.
"Perfect," Jurpat said, voice low, measured, already halfway into performance mode. "We wait. Let them start it. Let them shove first, throw the first insult, make the first swing. We trigger the mob right after that—timing has to be surgical. We act shocked, scared, betrayed… like we were just hanging out and got jumped for no reason. No one’s going to question a bunch of first-years getting smacked around by upper-class pricks, especially if a few of you look terrified and we’ve got tear-tracks to sell the drama. Ramis, start working up a sniffle. Xera, I want full quiver-lip. Twins, dead silent like you're holding back the breakdown. Sell the fear. Sell the helplessness. This isn’t just a scuffle, it’s theater. Like in the holos. If we do this right, we don’t just win the fight, we win the crowd, the narrative, and Deck’s undying approval. So wait until it kicks off. Then bring the house down."
Elian smirked slightly. "It really helps that Vael is so gods damned short. It'll make it look like they're picking on a kid."
Vaeliyan’s head snapped around, his tone flat and dangerous. "What the fuck did you just say, Lord Sarn? Did you want me to beat your ass again along with those two assholes?"
Elian held up both hands, mock-surrender in his eyes but a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Just pointing out the optics. Just think about it, you're what, six-two six-three? That’s practically child-sized for the Legion. From a distance, it’ll look like they’re beating on a lost puppy. I know you're terrifying, Vael. I swear."
Vaeliyan grunted but didn’t say anything after that. He was already watching the Cadets descend.
Class One started acting like they were betting on the matches in the pits.
The Cadet Lounge wasn’t ready for what was about to happen next.
The two asshats in gaudy, custom-tailored uniform silks strutted toward Vaeliyan like peacocks in heat, and by the gods, their outfits were a war crime against fabric. The material shimmered like it was spun from midnight and money, all rich dark base tones, blacks, deep purples, and lustrous silvers, but then a unicorn exploded mid-sewing. Iridescent streaks of neon blue, toxic green, and shimmering violet ran through the design like someone had been drunk, angry, and colorblind all at once. They didn’t just look expensive, they looked offensively rich in the worst possible way, like they’d been dipped in privilege and then airbrushed with ego.
"We demand you get on your knees and lick our boots, first year," one of them snapped, his voice high with condescension.
Vaeliyan stared at them, head slightly cocked, like he was inspecting a stain that might’ve once been alive. Genuine confusion filled his expression, and his eyes narrowed just a touch as if trying to comprehend the request like it was written in an unfamiliar dialect of dumbass. His brow furrowed, his mouth parted, but he said nothing at first. Then slowly, like translating an alien joke, he blinked. "Why would I do that? Wait, is this some kind of fetish thing? Do you both get off on people licking your boots? Wait... and in public? You into voyeurism too? Hey, no kink shaming here, live your truth, but I’m just not into that."
"Listen here, first year," the taller one hissed, clearly the dumber of the two, "you will lick our boots or regret it."
Vaeliyan held up a hand. "Okay, but what the hells did I do to you?"
"You know what you did. Don’t play dumb with us."
Vaeliyan smiled lightly. "The only dumb thing here is whoever told you blue was your color. I mean seriously... you both look like fashion shows that got canceled after it got hit by a hurricane."
That did it. The bigger one on the left lunged, trying to grab him. Vaeliyan sidestepped easily, ducking under the arm like dodging a lazy tree branch.
"I’m giving you till the count of three," the skinnier one threatened, voice cracking under pressure, "to lick my and my brother’s boots or suffer consequences you cannot even imagine. Do you have any idea who we are, first year?"
Vaeliyan blinked again, eyebrows raised like he’d just been asked to recite ancient philosophy. "No. Should I? You just look like a pair of sideshow rejects who lost a bet."
The skinnier one lunged. Vaeliyan dipped low and casually tipped his boot as he moved, and the kid went skidding face-first into Ramis, who flew back like he'd just taken a roundhouse to the chest from a hydraulic war mech. He collapsed hard, flailing, eyes rolling back, arms going limp in a dramatic sprawl that would’ve made stage actors jealous.
The twins immediately burst into sobs, high-pitched and synchronized, like they’d just witnessed the final scene of a tragic opera where everyone dies.
Jurpat and Roan threw their hands up and backed away in horrified shock, like they wanted no part of what just went down. Their retreat looked so natural it could’ve won awards.
Xera dropped beside Ramis like a devoted widow, cradling his head in her lap. Her crying was soft, almost reverent. A single tear tracked down Ramis’s cheek like the pain was too immense to scream, like grief itself had numbed him.
Elian spun, pointing an accusing finger and bellowing, "They attacked him! They attacked that poor boy! And I think... I think they murdered his friend!"
Vaeliyan, entirely unphased, grabbed the cadet who had lunged at Ramis and yanked him upright by the collar like lifting trash from the curb.
Sylen surged forward, clutching Vaeliyan’s arm like a desperate sister in a stage tragedy. "Cousin! My dearest cousin! Please I know he injured your lover, but you can’t kill him! You’ll be expelled, and the family... the family can’t survive a black mark from the Citadel! This is our last chance to rise from poverty!"
Torman, ever the drama queen in waiting, stepped forward with solemn grace. "My lady, if your cousin must fight for the honor of his beloved, then let him do it in a place of tradition and witness. Let him not sully his hands on the unworthy here."
Sylen turned tearfully to Vaeliyan, her hand trembling as it touched his cheek. "Yes, cousin. If you must fight for your lost love... do it in the pit. So that none can question your honor, nor stain your path."
And as the crowd gasped, staff began to murmur, and bets subtly started forming, Julian slipped quietly into the shadows, eyes gleaming. His grin was razor sharp, a satisfied slash of teeth. The fox had lit the temple... and now he was waiting for the fire to spread.
"You bitches. In the pit. Now." Vaeliyan growled it like they’d just punted his puppy into traffic, like they’d stomped on something precious and then laughed about it in front of a crowd. His voice didn’t rise; it didn’t need to. It rolled out low and guttural, like gravel over steel, like the kind of noise you make when you're holding something inside that’s dying to be let out. It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t a dare. It was a sentence passed. A headsman’s toll in syllables, ringing loud enough to silence a room without ever needing to shout.
The two overdressed asshats blinked like they were buffering.
At first, they didn’t even seem to register what was happening. Their expressions flickered through surprise, disbelief, and then delight. Slowly, they turned to one another, eyes gleaming. They had been gifted an opportunity. One of those rare moments where the prey marched itself onto the trap and begged for its neck to be broken. A first-year had called them out. A short one. In public.
Oh, they were going to enjoy this.
They weren’t just going to beat him. They were going to humiliate him. They’d break the whelp in full view of everyone, then move on to his so-called friends, starting with the paling boy one lying on the floor. The lounge was already shifting, cadets parting and drawing near, a tide of spectators forming around the promise of blood. The brothers, for all their swagger, preferred their cruelty in private. They liked precision. Slow ruin. Not a spectacle.
But they couldn’t back down now. Not with so many watching.
"Fine," said the skinnier one, spitting the word like it tasted bad. His voice had the cadence of someone trying to sound above it all. "No Skills. No weapons. No armor. Just fists and bones. That way you might at least make it interesting before we break your spine."
A shout from the second tier: "That sounds like bullshit! Two of you versus one first-year? Where’s the honor in that?"
Vaeliyan cracked his neck slowly, like he was warming up. "It’s fine," he said, almost cheerfully. "Hand to hand it is. Now get your tacky, snail-trail-looking selves into those pods so I can properly separate your teeth from your fucking heads."
The taller one’s face twisted in practiced contempt. "You clearly don’t know who we are. This will be the end for you, whelp. When we’re done, you’ll beg for the pain to stop. You’ll cry in front of your class. You’ll crawl back to your dorm knowing you should’ve bowed when told."
Vaeliyan raised an eyebrow. "Who the fuck are these melodramatic fuckwits?"
Laughter rippled through the onlookers. And then someone near the pit, just loud enough for the whole damn room to hear, shouted, "They’re the Stone brothers! Victor and Wallace Stone!"
Vaeliyan stilled. Then smiled. Slowly. Sharply. The kind of smile that said he’d just realized he was holding a loaded weapon.
He stepped forward, just a pace, leaned in enough for only the brothers to hear him over the noise.
"This is great," he whispered, grin like razors. "I get to kill two Stones... with one bird."
The pods hissed open.
And the pit, greedy and waiting, opened its mouth.
The pit churned and flickered with light as the terrain settled, reshaping itself like a creature twisting in sleep. Snow spiraled down in lazy spirals, gathering in drifts. Wind howled in sporadic bursts, cutting sideways with an edge like razors. Beneath it all, the ground groaned, fractured sheets of ice overlaying jagged stone, brittle frost clinging to every crevice. A frozen wasteland had taken shape under the dome, jagged cliffs of simulated frost rising like broken teeth. It wasn’t just cold, it was bitter, old cold, the kind that crept into bone and never left. Breath curled from mouths like fog, vanishing too quickly to feel real.
Vaeliyan was already there. Already moving. He always loaded first. The moment the simulation finished rendering his avatar, his feet were shifting, body leaning forward. Ready. Eager.
But this time, he waited.
Just long enough.
Victor materialized in slow motion, his limbs flickering, still stabilizing. His stance hadn’t even settled when Vaeliyan struck. The first boot slammed into the side of Victor’s head, the sound sharp and clean like a crack of glass. His eyes went wide. His whole body stiffened. Then he collapsed, limp, twitching, unconscious before he fully registered the world.
Wallace arrived a breath later. Bigger. Broader. Built like a wrecking wall. But slower. Vaeliyan had wanted him first but took what he could.
Wallace’s eyes flicked to Victor’s crumpled form. That hesitation was all Vaeliyan needed. A fist drove into Wallace’s temple, snapping his head sideways. Not lethal. Not meant to be. But just enough to disorient. Confuse. Then came the avalanche: fists, knees, elbows, slamming into Wallace like a storm of fury. Every joint was a weapon. Every breath sharpened to pain.
Wallace managed to grab him once, slamming Vaeliyan into the icy ground with a crack that echoed through the simulation. Ice fractured. But Vaeliyan flowed like water, slippery and wild. He jabbed at Wallace’s face, drove an elbow into his shoulder, headbutted him with no grace, just violence. When he twisted free, he did it with a growl that didn’t sound human.
Victor stirred.
Dazed. Bleeding. Furious. He charged like a wounded beast, teeth bared.
Vaeliyan shifted. One step. A subtle nudge of his boot.
Victor tripped.
Right into Wallace’s path. Wallace, arm cocked back, fist drawn for a killing blow aimed where Vaeliyan used to be.
Crunch.
Victor dropped like a sack of meat. Neck twisted. Eyes unfocused. Limbs spasming. Then still.
Wallace screamed.
A long, furious wail.
His fists lit with glow.
Granite rippled over his arms, stone growing like bark in fast-forward.
Vaeliyan tilted his head. Blinked once.
"Oh, we’re cheating now? Cool," he said, his tone cheerful. "That means I get to do this."
And then it hit.
His Soul Skill surged. The pressure wrapped around his leg, winding tighter and tighter like a constrictor until the limb thrummed with force. He didn’t just enhance his strike, he turned his leg into a cannon, a weapon of condensed pressure and momentum. Each muscle fiber ballooned, overstuffed with layered strength, bloated with nanite pressure until the leg shook. It wasn’t a limb anymore. It was ordinance. A missile. He didn’t kick out with it, he launched from it.
He triggered Power Strike on top of it. Just because he could.
The result was obscene.
He kicked.
Wallace’s forearm detonated. Not fractured. Not broken. Gone. Stone and bone ripped apart, blood spraying in a high arc that painted the nearby cliff. Wallace screamed, high, sharp, primal.
Vaeliyan didn’t care.
He didn’t pause.
He hopped forward on his one remaining leg, blood trailing behind him in graceful arcs, like calligraphy in motion. He grabbed Wallace by the collar, yanked him down, brought him eye to eye.
"That makes two," he whispered.
Then he drove his hand, pressure-stacked and brutal, directly through Wallace’s face. Skull cracked. Brain liquefied.
The body dropped.
Match over.
The pit closed without fanfare. The cold stayed. The silence followed.
As if nothing had happened at all.
Outside the pit, the lounge was overflowing. Every booth, ledge, and spare inch of wall space had been claimed, cadets packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a press of uniforms and whispered anticipation. The holo dome glowed above them, suspended like a god's eye, showing the frozen wasteland within the pit where the match was about to unfold. What began as casual curiosity had sharpened into something electric. They'd heard rumors. They’d heard whispers about the Stone brothers and the little first-year who mouthed off. But no one expected what they saw.
Vaeliyan didn’t fight the Stone brothers like they were opponents.
He annihilated them.
Not like a cadet trying to win a match, but like a creature acting on instinct. Like they were placeholders for the worst days of his life. Like they had personally hunted down and strangled his mother, pissed on her grave, and told him to smile about it. He moved with the focused rage of someone who didn’t care what the simulation allowed. He didn’t want a win. He wanted obliteration. There was no grace, no pageantry, no flourish. Just violence. Cold, brutal, clinical, and somehow, at the same time, deeply personal. The kind of fight that made people rethink whether they wanted to keep watching.
Gasps cut through the air like blade strikes with the first hit. By the second, the lounge was almost silent. When Wallace screamed and Victor’s body folded into stillness, it was like watching a divine punishment enacted in real time. Cadets leaned closer. Some recoiled. Others grinned. It was horrifying and impossible to look away from. Like a train wreck where the train screamed back.
"Did he just kick that guy so hard his own leg exploded?" one cadet whispered, voice paper-thin with disbelief.
"And then just...hopped over like it was a minor inconvenience and put his hand thought the other guy’s skull?" someone else breathed.
"What the fuck is that guy on?"
"Yeah, and where can I get some?"
That broke the silence. A jagged, ugly laugh rolled through the crowd like thunder. It wasn’t the laugh of students watching a match. It was the laugh of wolves seeing blood on the snow. It said: we’re all monsters here, and we just found our new favorite.
The cadets who hadn’t known Vaeliyan before this moment burned it into memory.
Some with fear. Some with a sick kind of admiration. And a few with interest, the kind that grew in dark places. The kind that looked at brutality and thought: yes, more.
High-tier cadets, the upper years lounging in the high ledges and viewing boxes, leaned forward with fresh interest. Eyes narrow. Appraising. Like watching a wild beast in a cage someone forgot to lock. The Stone brothers were third-years. They were supposed to be beyond reach. And yet here they were, broken. Both irrelevant now.
Class One didn’t cheer. They didn’t clap. They watched in tense, slightly horrified silence.
Even Ramis, still sprawled dramatically across a lounge bench with a rag pressed to his temple like a dying noble, pretended to blink his way back to awareness and sat up. He looked toward the holo dome with wide eyes and muttered, “I mean... yeah, they were dicks. But that seemed a bit much. Even if we were trying to send a message. That’s not a message. That’s how you start a blood feud.”
"Vaeliyan gets like this sometimes," Jurpat said with a calm shrug, never looking away from the pit. "It’s part of his charm. Just be glad he’s not pointed at you when he’s in a mood to have fun."
"That was fun?" Ramis asked.
Jurpat didn’t answer. He just smiled.
The simulation shimmered, snow evaporating, walls fading. The frozen terrain dissolved as the system reset. The avatars vanished. The pit floor returned to stillness. But none of the cadets moved.
Not for a long moment.
They stood in a collective silence that could only come from witnessing something monstrous, something magnificent.
Most of them would remember this moment for the rest of their lives.
Some would never cross Vaeliyan.
And a few were already wondering how to get close enough to ask what it felt like, to destroy with that kind of joy.
