Martial Demons Ascension

Rhyka had, if he was honest, completely let go of the neat, step-by-step plans he'd made the night before.

Not because they weren't important but because the one thing he actually wanted had shoved everything else aside.

Flex on his classmates.

Rectify the situation.

And, if possible, aura farm them into the ground.

That thought had set up camp in his head and refused to leave Every time he pictured their faces, their smug expressions, the memory of their laughter he could feel his jaw tighten Having his pride stomped out like that, left in the dirt for everyone to see, was an outcome he could not accept It wasn't just about revenge it was about rewriting the script entirely.

By the time he was done imagining the look on their faces when he turned the tables, the morning had already come.

He pushed himself out of bed, still sore from the previous day's training but with enough energy to move without dragging his feet The floor was cool under his soles as he crossed to the small counter that served as his kitchen.

He reached for the ceramic bowl stacked on the shelf above his head, setting it on the counter with a dull thud From the cupboard, he pulled out a small basket of eggs four left inside, their shells a pale brown with faint speckles He cracked them one by one on the edge of the bowl, thumbs splitting the shells cleanly, yolks dropping into the bowl with a wet plop.

A fork clinked against the side as he whisked the eggs, the golden yolks folding into the whites until the mixture was a uniform yellow He reached for the seasoning jar salt, pepper, and a faint mix of dried herbs and shook in just enough to scent the air A small cube of butter went into the pan, the flame beneath it already warming the metal The butter hissed and melted into a glossy pool, carrying a rich, almost sweet aroma.

When the eggs hit the pan, they made a soft sizzling sound. Rhyka used the spatula to pull them gently from the edges toward the center, folding the soft curds over themselves. Slowly, they fluffed up, the steam rising in light wisps.

While the eggs finished cooking, he slid two slices of bread into the small iron toaster set over the second burner The bread began to brown,edges crisping slightly, the scent mixing with the warm smell of the eggs.

By the time the toast was done, the eggs were light, soft, and steaming. He slid both onto a plate, the bright yellow of the eggs sitting neatly beside the golden-brown toast.

Next came the tea.

He filled the kettle with fresh water from the jug and set it over the flame As the heat built, the faint metallic hum of the kettle deepened into a soft boil He spooned the tea leaves into a wide mug, letting the sharp, earthy aroma rise as he measured them out.

The water hit the leaves with a hiss, the scent immediately blooming strong, dark, and almost smoky Rhyka didn't just leave it there. He reached for the small wooden box where he kept his extras: a small jar of cream, a pouch of sugar crystals, and a ceramic jug of milk.

A spoonful of sugar went in first, dissolving into the heat A splash of cream followed, swirling into pale spirals across the surface before fading into a rich brown Finally, a touch of milk, just enough to soften the bitterness without drowning it.

He stirred it once, the spoon clinking softly against the mug's sides The smell was perfect deep, sweet, and balanced.

Plate in one hand, tea in the other, Rhyka sat down at the small table by the window. Morning light slanted through the blinds, striping the table in narrow bands of gold Outside, the settlement was just starting to stir faint voices, the clatter of a cartwheel, the bark of a dog in the distance.

But Rhyka's focus wasn't on the sounds outside. It was on the food in front of him, and on the one dominating thought in his mind:

He was going to walk into that classroom, stand where everyone could see him, and erase every trace of the humiliation he'd suffered.

One bite of egg, one sip of tea and he could already taste it.

Rhyka decided there was no rush If he was going to show up, he was going to do it on his own terms not dragging himself in like everyone else, but arriving when he felt like it.

The first step was a bath.

He gathered a clean towel from the small shelf near his bed, along with a fresh shirt and trousers the air in his room was still cool from the night, and the faint morning light coming through the window made the steam rising from the washroom doorway look even more inviting.

Inside, the stone tub was already half full from the water he'd left heating earlier he added more hot water from the kettle until the surface steamed when he stepped in, the heat wrapped around him instantly, loosening the stiffness from the previous day's training the water carried the faint scent of soap he'd scrubbed into it earlier, and as he sank down until it reached his shoulders, the tension in his back eased.

He stayed there a while, letting the heat soak into his arms and legs he ran a cloth over his skin slowly, methodically, not rushing when he leaned back against the edge of the tub, his mind wandered briefly to what was waiting for him at the school the thought made him smirk slightly.

By the time he stepped out, the water had cooled slightly, leaving a faint warmth on his skin he dried himself off with the towel, pulled on his clean clothes, and ran his fingers through his hair until it sat the way he wanted.

Next came getting his things together.

It didn't take much he wasn't going to carry half his room with him a couple of notebooks, a pencil, and a folded piece of spare paper in case he needed to write anything quickly he slid them into his worn satchel, checking the strap to make sure it wouldn't give out on him halfway there.

That was all he really needed.

It was still early Too early for him to make his grand entrance.

So he slung the satchel over his shoulder, stepped outside, and decided to take the long way around The village was waking slowly shop shutters creaking open, a few early risers sweeping doorways, the smell of bread baking drifting from the small bakery near the center.

He walked without hurry, hands in his pockets, letting his eyes wander over the familiar streets A couple of chickens pecked near the edge of a yard Somewhere down the road, a blacksmith was already at work, the faint metallic ring of hammer on metal carrying through the still-cool air.

Rhyka wasn't walking for exercise he was buying time He wanted to show up when people were already there, talking, settled in. The later he arrived, the more heads would turn when he walked in.

And that was exactly what he was planning for.