Chapter 6: Midnight Practice

The night air felt like a cold blade against Bima’s skin as he slipped through the cracked masonry of the side gate. The academy grounds were usually forbidden after curfew, but the desperation that had been gnawing at his gut for three years had finally outweighed his fear of expulsion.

"Okay," Bima whispered, his breath hitching in the dark. "Just one session. If I can prove to myself that the flow isn't dependent on that handkerchief, I won't have to rely on… whatever that connection with Kirill is."

He crouched low, his boots scraping softly against the gravel of the training arena. He didn't want to bring the silk out. He wanted to do this on his own. He wanted to feel that surge of power without the constant, pulsing reminder of the stranger in the rafters.

"Don't look for the boost," Bima muttered to himself, clenching his fists. "Just find the rhythm. The diagram. The conduits."

He closed his eyes, centering his breathing. He reached into the void of his own mana core, searching for that cool, steady river he had tapped into the night before.

"Where are you?" he groaned, his brow furrowing as the familiar, sputtering spark of his usual incompetence tried to ignite. "No, not the heat. Stop it. I don't want the ignition."

He could hear the distant, mocking echo of the silence. It was as if the academy itself was waiting for him to fail, its stone pillars and dark archways standing as silent, judgmental sentinels.

"Focus, Bima," he hissed, his hands trembling. "You did it with the fern. You did it with the stabilizer. You’re not the 'Nothing-Ball' boy anymore."

He raised his right hand, keeping his left hand firmly shoved into his pocket, away from the handkerchief. He tried to visualize the meridians, the way the ancient book had shown him—flowing, weaving, never stalling.

A flicker of light appeared. It was small, a pathetic, pale blue glow that hovered inches above his palm.

"That's it?" Bima scoffed, his voice sharp with frustration. "I need more than a nightlight. I need to heal. I need to mend."

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the energy forward. "Come on. Just open the channel. Let the mana flow."

The light flickered, dying out completely. Bima let out a jagged sigh, his shoulders slumping. "It doesn't work. Without the silk, I'm just back to being a drain on the reserves."

"You’re being impatient, little bird," a voice murmured from the darkness above.

Bima jumped, spinning around to look toward the rafters, but there was nothing there but shifting shadows. "Kirill? Is that you? Stop lurking!"

"I am merely observing," the voice drifted down, cool and detached. "You are trying to draw the water from a well that hasn't been primed yet. You rely on the catalyst because you refuse to trust your own internal capacity."

Bima grit his teeth. "I don't need your advice. I told you, I'm doing this on my terms."

"Are you?" Kirill’s voice carried a hint of amusement. "Then why is your hand still gripping the fabric in your pocket, even as you try to deny it?"

Bima looked down at his left pocket. He had been so focused on the fear of failure that he hadn't even realized his fingers were white-knuckled around the silk. He yanked his hand away as if he’d been burned.

"It’s a crutch," Bima snapped, his voice echoing too loudly in the hollow arena. "It’s not a necessity."

"Then let go," Kirill challenged. "If it is unnecessary, leave the silk on the ground and perform the mend."

Bima hesitated. He looked at the patch of dirt where he stood. If he left the handkerchief there, he would be truly alone with his mana. It was the prospect he feared most—being stripped of his only bridge to true power.

"Fine," Bima whispered. He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and laid it carefully on a flat stone. The moment it left his touch, the air around him felt colder, thinner.

He turned his back to the stone and focused on his palm again. He reached deep, trying to summon the flow, but his mind was clouded by the anxiety of the separation. The mana in his chest felt chaotic, sluggish, and heavy.

"Move," he commanded, his teeth gritted. "Just move!"

A sudden, sharp bolt of energy sparked from his fingers—not the soft, healing light of the restoration, but a jagged, unstable jolt of raw power. It hit the ground, missing his target by a wide margin, but the impact was violent.

CRACK.

A localized explosion of force slammed into the base of the central security ward—a massive, glowing rune embedded in the floor of the arena designed to detect unauthorized magic use.

"Oh, no," Bima breathed, his face draining of color as the rune pulsed a violent, rhythmic crimson.

A siren began to blare—a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the stone floor and echoed into the night. It was the security alarm.

"You really do have a talent for attracting disaster," Kirill said, his voice now sounding distant, as if he were already moving away. "I suggest you run, unless you’d like to explain to the Night Wardens why you’re here."

"Run? Where?" Bima hissed, looking around wildly. The crimson light was growing brighter, casting long, frantic shadows across the arena.

"The ventilation duct behind the eastern statue," Kirill whispered. "And leave the handkerchief. You don't need it to escape, do you?"

"Why are you helping me?" Bima shouted, scrambling toward the statue as the heavy thud of boots sounded in the corridor outside.

"I have invested far too much time in your development to watch you get expelled for something as mundane as a curfew violation," Kirill’s voice faded. "Go!"

Bima didn't wait. He sprinted toward the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He reached the statue, his fingers scrambling to find the latch for the ventilation grate. It was stuck.

"Come on, come on!" he pleaded, his mana flaring in a surge of panic. He forced his energy into the mechanism, and with a metallic groan, the grate swung open.

He dived into the narrow, dusty passage just as the heavy iron doors of the arena groaned open. Through the gap in the grate, Bima watched as a pair of armored boots crunched into the arena floor.

"Report!" a gruff, authoritative voice boomed.

"The alarm triggered in the training yard, Commander," another voice replied, sounding annoyed. "Probably just a stray spell from a rogue student. But the residual energy… it’s strange. It’s not a standard combustion flare."

Bima held his breath, his chest tight. He watched as the two guards approached the spot where he had been standing. They stopped right next to the stone where the silk handkerchief still lay.

"What’s this?" the Commander asked, leaning down.

Bima felt a cold sweat break out across his brow. If they found the handkerchief, they would know he was here. They would trace the aura.

"It’s a silk square, sir," the guard said, picking it up. "Fine weave. Expensive. Doesn't look like student issue."

"Check the perimeter," the Commander barked, ignoring the fabric for a moment as he scanned the arena. "If there’s someone here, they’re still close. That alarm didn't trip itself. I want the gates locked down."

Bima pressed his back against the cool metal of the vent, his eyes wide. The guard was still holding the handkerchief, turning it over in his gloved fingers.

"Sir," the guard said, his voice dropping. "This thing… it’s humming."

"Humming? Give me that." The Commander took the silk. As soon as his hand touched it, the embroidery flared with a brilliant, golden light that pulsed through the room, momentarily blinding the guards.

"What in the blazes!" the Commander shouted, dropping the handkerchief.

In the chaos of the sudden, blinding flash, the guards stumbled back, shielding their eyes. Bima took the opportunity to crawl further into the darkness of the vent, his hands shaking.

"It’s a distraction," the Commander growled, drawing his sword. "Someone is playing games with us. Search the rafters! Check the storage bays! If you find whoever left that here, don't bother taking them to the Dean. Bring them to the cells!"

Bima huddled in the dark, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He was inches away from being discovered, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against the metal floor of the vent.

"I'm an idiot," he whispered to the darkness. "I’m a total, absolute idiot."

He stayed there, motionless, listening as the boots of the guards echoed through the arena, searching every corner. They were getting closer to the statue, closer to the vent.

"I need to get out of here," he muttered, turning to crawl deeper into the labyrinthine network of the academy. "And I need to get that handkerchief back."

He glanced back one last time. The golden light of the silk had faded, but it was now firmly in the grip of the Commander, who was clutching it with a look of intense, predatory curiosity.

"That was a mistake," Bima murmured, a new, cold clarity settling over him. "I didn't just lose my teacher. I lost my only link to the path."

He pushed forward into the dark, his eyes fixed on the narrow sliver of moonlight ahead. The night was far from over, and the realization was dawning on him that the test wasn't just about his magic—it was about how much he was willing to lose to survive.