Oblivion's Throne-Chapter 92: Ephemeral Flames

"Feel this? Try to replicate this feeling when using internally controlled Sigil like Spark for external manifestation," Aryan explained, turning his hand as the flames pulsed in time with his breath. "There is a difference between redirecting force inside your body and exerting it outside."

Orion nodded and raised his own hand. He activated Spark again, feeling the familiar surge of energy ripple through his palm. But when he tried to force it to manifest Ephemeral Flame, the effect was a bit sluggish—like trying to push water uphill. Instead of an immediate ignition, the flame sputtered and died.

He scowled and tried again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, the activation took seconds too long—nowhere near fast enough to be useful in battle.

Aryan's voice was as sharp as ever. "Why do you think it dissipates that quickly? You are using a flame that embodies entropy, not only that but you also you wast precious time during transitions, and you somehow expect to summon it's effect?"

Orion clenched his teeth, his fingers twitching with frustration. "You make it sound easy."

"It's not," Aryan admitted, his eyes cold. "Which is why we're going to repeat it. A hundred times."

A muscle twitched in Orion's jaw, but he swallowed his frustration. There was no arguing with Aryan—not unless he wanted an even more brutal punishment.

He braced himself and tried again.

Twenty minutes later, Orion was drenched in sweat, his muscles aching with every failed attempt. The activation time had improved marginally, but nowhere near what was needed in a real fight.

Aryan stepped toward the combat simulator, pressing a series of commands into the interface. The room shifted, the training chamber's walls flickering as automated turrets emerged from the ground, locking onto Orion.

"Coat your palm. Modulate the flow density." Aryan ordered, stepping back. "That's the only way to disperse the attacks. If you fail, you'll feel the backlash."

Orion barely had time to curse before the first bolt fired.

Instinct took over—he raised his arm and tried to summon the flame mid-movement.

Too late.

The energy bolt slammed into his shoulder, sending him skidding backward. Pain lanced through his nerves, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself up.

"Again," Aryan called, his tone unwavering.

Orion growled, wiping blood from his lip. He tried again. And again. Every single time, the activation lag cost him. Either the flame didn't form fast enough, or it sputtered out entirely.

His breath came ragged now, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. This is impossible.

Aryan exhaled through his nose, his disapproval evident. "You're treating it like a separate move. That's your problem."

Orion's fingers curled into a fist. "What the hell does that mean?"

Aryan flexed his fingers, reigniting the flame with effortless control. "You're initiating Spark as an independent phase, then attempting to transition into ephemeral flames. That's a gap. That microsecond of delay disrupts the continuity, and in combat, that's the difference between survival and annihilation." He let the fire pulse in his palm. "Do it as one continuous motion."

Orion took a steady breath, resetting his stance.

No pause. No hesitation.

The turret locked on again. The next bolt fired.

He didn't think—he just moved.

This time, as he activated Spark, he let it use Ephemeral Flame rather than trying to force it. The moment the fire engulfed his palm, the energy bolt struck.

The flame flared—and the attack dissipated harmlessly against it.

For the first time in over an hour, Orion won.

Aryan's lips curled slightly. "Better."

Orion stood there, panting, sweat rolling down his forehead. His body ached, but adrenaline kept him standing.

"Alright," he said, shaking out his sore fingers. "I can do it now. I can synchronize the movements now."

Aryan tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "You can barely do it standing still."

Before Orion could register what that meant, Aryan moved.

A sudden burst of speed—no warning, no mercy. Orion reacted on instinct, attempting to ignite the flame mid-motion.

The result?

Catastrophic failure.

The transition collapsed entirely, leaving his defense wide open. Aryan stopped just short of striking him, the sheer force of his presence alone making Orion's breath hitch.

"That," Aryan said, his voice quiet but unwavering, "is precisely why your execution remains suboptimal for combat deployment. Your sequencing lacks autonomic efficiency—until the response is reflexive, you're a liability on the field."

Orion clenched his fists, frustration boiling in his chest. I did it perfectly a second ago—why the hell can't I do it now?

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Aryan turned away. "Until you can coat your hands in flame without stopping your movements, it's useless to you." He started walking off, leaving Orion standing there, simmering with barely restrained fury.

"Fix it," Aryan added over his shoulder, delivering the final blow.. "Or you'll die the moment a real enemy sees that execution lag."

Orion's breath shuddered as he exhaled, his body trembling from exertion. His mind raced, trying to process everything.

He had done it once. That meant he could do it.

But doing it under pressure? That was an entirely different beast.

His fingers twitched, the remnants of Ephemeral Flame flickering weakly before dying out completely.

Orion wiped the sweat from his brow. He wasn't done. Not by a long shot.

Orion's body was trembling from exertion, his breath ragged. His hand twitched, the last embers of Ephemeral Flame flickering before dying out completely. The pain in his ribs, shoulders, and arms had long since become a dull, throbbing background noise—insignificant compared to the frustration boiling in his chest.

He had improved. But he felt it wasn't enough.

Aryan gave him a long look before exhaling sharply. "You're already past your limit."

For a moment, Aryan said nothing. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he powered down the training module. "You're not getting anything else out of this today."

Orion's fists clenched, but he forced himself to swallow his frustration. He knew Aryan was right—his movements were slowing down, his execution was degrading. Pushing forward now would only ingrain bad habits.

His muscles ached as he walked toward the exit. Only when he stepped outside did he check the time.

His stomach twisted. He had missed dinner. Again.

They had already finished.

With a tired exhale, he turned away and walked toward his private quarters.

Orion dragged himself into his quarters, body sore, mind heavier than ever. The adrenaline had long since worn off, leaving him exhausted.

The moment he stepped inside, the shower's sensors activated, adjusting the water temperature automatically. Steam curled around him as he stepped under the cascade, the scalding heat biting into his bruised skin.

He closed his eyes.

For a fleeting second, everything melted away—the failures, the frustration, the suffocating weight of expectations.

All that remained was the sound of water, the rhythmic falling against his shoulders.

But as always, reality crept back in.

He ran a hand through his soaked hair, exhaling sharply. His ribs ached where the bolts had struck him. He knew he should eat something, rest, let his body recover.

He turned off the water, stepping out of the shower. He barely glanced at his own reflection as he grabbed a towel and ran it over his hair.

Then his personal interface chimed.

Orion frowned. He hadn't been expecting any messages. His neural HUD flickered to life, displaying the sender's name.

Princess Aurelia