Suddenly, a sharp voice echoed from the balcony above, cutting through the heavy tension of the arena.
"Okay. That’s it."
It was Alice.
Agastya immediately uncoiled his tense muscles, dropping his fist and slowly stepping back.
Kael stared up at Agastya, his dark eyes narrowed in deep, analytical suspicion. "Who are you, really?"
Agastya swayed slightly, wrapping an arm around his bruised ribs. The adrenaline was beginning to recede, leaving behind a crashing wave of agonising pain.
"You already know," Agastya rasped, his voice broken and hollow from the trauma to his jaw.
"A normal baker does not fight with that kind of lethal precision," Kael stated flatly, rubbing his throat.
Thud.
Thud.
Thump.
Heavy boots struck the metal floor. Alice and the rest of the Vanguard team had simply vaulted over the balcony, dropping to the arena floor with bone-shaking force but absorbing the impact effortlessly.
"Let it be, Kael," Alice’s voice commanded as she strode forward, her silver boots clicking sharply. "Everyone in this world has their own secrets."
She stopped right in front of Agastya. The captain looked up at him, her silver eyes suddenly devoid of any warmth. The ambient air around her seemed to drop by ten degrees, radiating a suffocating, localised killing intent.
"I don’t know much about you, Astragan. But understand this: if you ever betray us, or if you become a threat to this team, I will kill you myself without a second thought."
Agastya met her freezing gaze and offered a single, shallow nod. He thought, respecting the cold pragmatism of a true leader. ‘Now they are suspicious.’
Kael stepped closer to Alice, lowering his voice to a hushed, clinical murmur. "Captain, I don’t think it is wise to keep him. He is a total unknown. What if—"
Alice raised a gloved hand, silencing him. "If High Command gave the order to place him in our Vanguard, there is a reason behind it." She glanced back at Agastya, noting his flawless balance despite his battered state. "And seeing his baseline skills... I think he only needs to be polished. The weapon is already forged."
Dictor strolled up beside them, cheerfully clapping his hands together. "Well! That was quite the show! Though our rookie seems to have ruined his wardrobe."
Agastya looked down. The crisp white shirt Markques had given him was completely drenched in dark sweat and fresh blood, the fabric torn at the seams from the sheer kinetic force of the fight.
"Does anyone here have an extra shirt?" Dictor asked the group.
Kael shook his head negatively.
Torin crossed his massive, tree-trunk arms, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. "I have a spare in my locker, but I fear it will fit him like a circus tent."
Dictor flashed a brilliant, mocking smile. "I didn't ask you, Torin, seeing as you are already the size of a domesticated elephant."
Torin scowled, taking a heavy, threatening step forward. "Listen here, you skinny—"
"Enough," Alice interrupted, completely ignoring their bickering. Without changing her blank expression, she reached into her spatial ring, seemingly pulling a folded, pristine white shirt from an unseen spatial pocket. She tossed it to Dictor. "Give him this."
Dictor caught it with a nod and turned toward Agastya.
Agastya watched the exchange through blurred vision. He felt the exact moment his biological limits were breached. His ribs screamed with every shallow breath. His jaw felt like shattered glass, and his legs were turning to lead.
‘Well,’ Agastya thought, a faint, bloody smile touching his lips. ‘Since the Captain has officially concluded the test... I suppose I don't have to hold this back anymore.’
He let go.
Agastya’s body instantly went completely limp. The last of his strength vanished, and he tipped forward, plummeting toward the hard synthetic floor.
He never hit the ground.
The orange-haired lady, Eliza, simply vanished from where she stood. There was a faint pop of displaced air, and a fraction of a second later, she materialised directly beside Agastya. She caught him smoothly under the arms, stabilising his dead weight before gently lowering his unconscious body to the floor.
Dictor blurred across the remaining distance, stopping to stand over them. He looked down at the battered, bloodied baker.
"You going to heal him up, Eliza?" Dictor asked, his tone losing its joking edge.
Eliza’s hands already glowed with a soft, warm, golden Aetheric light as she hovered them over Agastya's shattered ribs. She nodded, her expression shifting into deep, professional focus.
"Of course," Eliza said softly, her eyes fixed on Agastya's battered frame. "It’s my job to put our team back together."
She knelt on the synthetic floor and gently pressed her palm against his sternum. A vibrant, emerald-green light flared to life around her fingers. It didn't just glow; it flowed. The Aether poured from her skin like luminous, heavy water, seeping directly through Agastya’s torn shirt and into his chest.
Beneath his skin, the effects were instantaneous and visceral. The cracked bone of his jaw violently snapped back into alignment with a sickening crunch that made Dictor wince.
The deep laceration on his cheek actively knitted itself together. The severed tissue and blood vessels were dividing and multiplying at a terrifying, hyper-accelerated speed. The agonising fire in his ribs faded into a deep, numbing coolness as the fractures fused shut.
A moment later, Agastya’s eyes snapped open. He gasped loudly, his lungs finally expanding without the agonising bite of broken ribs.
He looked up, his vision clearing as he found Eliza smiling down at him.
"Now that your insides aren't scrambled," Eliza said, her voice warm but clinical, "we can't have you wearing that ruined shirt. It's a biohazard."
She murmured a single, resonant syllable. It was a minor Aetheric incantation. The green light shifted to a pale blue and rippled over his body. The drying, rust-colored blood plastered to his skin instantly dissolved into fine mist, evaporating into the air along with the sweat and grime of the fight.
"Well, now you're at least presentable," Dictor said. He offered a large, calloused hand.
Agastya gripped the marksman's forearm and allowed Dictor to haul him to his feet. He tested his weight. His muscles felt weak, drained from the sheer caloric exhaustion of hyper-regeneration, but the pain was entirely gone. He turned to the orange-haired medic.
"Thank you," Agastya said quietly, offering a polite bow of his head. "For taking care of me."
Eliza shook her head, dismissing the formality. "No need for that. We're on the same team now."
Dictor tossed the folded, pristine white shirt Alice had provided against Agastya’s chest. "Take off the rags, Astragan, and put that on."
Agastya looked down. His original shirt and trousers were perfectly clean, but the shirt itself was shredded beyond repair, the fabric hanging in jagged ribbons across his torso.
He nodded, quickly shrugging off the ruined garment and pulling on the fresh white shirt, followed by his tailored dark coat. It fit perfectly.
Captain Alice Regina watched the exchange with an impassive, calculating gaze.
"Now that the baseline assessment is over," Alice announced, her voice carrying the absolute authority of a commanding officer, "go home and rest. But remember this: you report back to this branch tomorrow morning at exactly 0900 hours. Do not be late."
Agastya nodded, straightening his coat. "Understood, Captain."
Alice turned her gaze to the marksman. "Take him back to his district, Dictor. Ensure he is provided with the initial stipend and everything outlined in his recruitment contract. His family needs to be secured before he begins active duty."
"As you command, my lady," Dictor replied, offering a theatrical, sweeping bow.
‘His family.’
The words echoed in Agastya's mind. The adrenaline had completely worn off, allowing his rational thoughts to break through the fog of combat and Vanguard politics, finally.
At that exact moment, Agastya realised he was missing something vital.