The next day, after breakfast, San and Shin left the dining hall with Baelor. They walked through the long corridors, whose details San had begun to memorize: that marble statue of a winged lion at the third turn, that stained glass window that painted red and blue shapes on the marble floor every morning.

  They reached a door San had not noticed before. It was made of dark oak, carved with intertwined tree leaves, its brass handle polished and gleaming like gold.

  Baelor opened the door.

  They entered a spacious room, completely different from anything San had expected.

  The room was divided into two sections, in fact. On the right side, three luxurious leather barber chairs stood, dark brown in color, each facing a large mirror with a gilded frame. On the adjacent marble tables, combs of bone and silver were lined up, scissors of various sizes, shaving brushes with soft bristles, and small ceramic bowls filled with creams and shaving foam. The scent of aromatic oils filled the place: sandalwood, lavender, and something else slightly spicy, reminiscent of cloves.

  As for the left side of the room, it was completely different.

  There, on long wooden shelves extending from floor to ceiling, hundreds of glass vials were lined up. Small and large vials, transparent and colored, some containing white powders and others yellow, red, or blue liquids. Their labels were written in precise handwriting, bearing names of ingredients San had never heard of. Beside them stood marble mortars and pestles, precise scales, and complex glass apparatus for distillation. The scent of dried herbs and medicines mixed with the smells of the barbershop, creating a strange yet somehow comforting blend.

  A pharmacy, San thought. And a barbershop at the same time. They have barbers in their house.

  He remembered his small apartment in his previous world. The only thing he owned for grooming was a cheap electric razor, which he used about once every two weeks, trimming his beard quickly in front of the bathroom mirror.

  "Please, have a seat," said one of the attendants, a middle-aged man dressed in pure white clothes, his voice polite and soft.

  Shin sat on one chair, and San sat on the adjacent one. The leather of the chairs was soft, slightly warm, enveloping them like a gentle embrace.

  Immediately, an attendant stood behind each of them. The attendant behind San was a young man in his twenties, his hair blonde and precisely cut. He looked at San through the mirror and smiled.

  "Choose any hairstyle you want, sir," he said, gesturing with his hand to a thick leather-bound book on the side table. "We can execute anything you desire."

  San opened the book. The pages displayed countless hairstyles: short cuts, long cuts, wavy, straight, each photographed from several angles.

  San looked at his hair in the mirror. It was long, unkempt, Then he looked at Shin, who was flipping through the pages with interest, his eyes gleaming.

  This lucky Asian, San thought. Teenage girls definitely like him. With that face, and that height... even if he shaved his head completely, he'd still be handsome.

  He smiled a sarcastic smile to himself.

  —

  After half an hour, the three stood before the large mirror at the room's door.

  Shin's hair was cut very short on the sides, almost touching the scalp, while on top it was slightly longer, with a front lock styled elegantly upward, giving him a sharp, confident look. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine.

  As for San, his hair was different. The sides were cut, but not very short, leaving a slight length. On top, the length was medium, touching his fingers when he raised his hand to run through it. It was styled to the left side, falling slightly over his left eye like a light curtain. His beard was graduated, medium in length, defining his face better than he had expected. He looked slightly older. And more serious.

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  As for Baelor, he sufficed with simple adjustments: trimming the ends of his hair slightly, and tidying his short beard.

  San looked at Shin. Shin looked at San. They smiled.

  —

  After that, Baelor led them to the bathhouse where they had bathed on their first night in the palace.

  The water was warm, as usual. Light steam rose, and the scent of herbs filled the place. The three lay in the wide water, each in a corner, their muscles gradually relaxing beneath the warm surface.

  Baelor said, his voice echoing between the marble walls of the bathhouse: "It's good for a person to relax like this. Especially since your next training... is not physical."

  San looked at him. Baelor had his eyes closed, his head resting on the edge of the pool, appearing as if he were sleeping. But San knew he never slept. Not really.

  —

  When they finished, they dressed and went out to the garden.

  The garden was vast, stretching behind the palace like an endless green carpet. Lemon and orange trees were arranged in orderly rows, and flowerbeds of red, violet, and yellow painted natural scenes. In its center, there was a shaded area under a massive tree, its dense leaves creating a green ceiling shielding from the sun's rays.

  There, Elena and Clarissa were sitting.

  Elena wore simple athletic clothes, grey in color, her blonde hair tied back. She looked serious, focused. Clarissa wore a similar outfit, but black, and she was sitting on the grass, her eyes closed.

  Beside them stood a man.

  He was in his late forties. His face was lean, his eyes deep and intelligent, his short grey hair covering his head like snow. He wore a long linen-colored robe, simple, devoid of any decorations.

  Everyone sat on the grass. Elena and Clarissa were already seated. Shin sat cross-legged, and San sat close to him. Baelor left.

  The instructor began to speak. His voice was deep, calm, as if reading from an ancient book.

  "Each of us has cursed energy. We are born with it," he said. "Of course, the amount differs between us. And even the pathways through which this energy travels in our bodies differ from person to person."

  He raised his hand, drawing invisible lines in the air.

  "The pathways. They connect to the brain. Scientists say that when we are small children, we choose the way our pathways move. Unconsciously. Without knowing."

  He looked at them one by one.

  "And for this reason, humanity divided into two types."

  He paused.

  "The first type: Closed Pathways. These are the ones whose pathways have not opened an ability for them. Some are permanent, some temporary. In both cases, we call this category Enhancers."

  San looked at Clarissa. She was sitting, listening attentively. He remembered the power of her movement during training. He remembered how she launched like an arrow.

  "The Enhancers' complete training is about controlling their cursed energy. For this reason, usually, a good Enhancer has strong control over their energy. They use this control to increase their strength, speed, defense."

  The instructor continued:

  "The other type: Open Pathways. They are the ones whose pathways open completely, resulting in them possessing their own unique technique."

  His voice became more serious.

  "Techniques are different, diverse. But they have one rule: It is forbidden for two to possess the same technique. If a person can release a fireball from their hand, another cannot come and release a fireball from their hand as well. This is not possible."

  He paused to let the words sink in.

  "The other thing: Those who possess a technique, a panel will appear before them from their cursed energy. A transparent panel, appearing when they want. Or when a development occurs with them."

  He looked at the group: "Have you seen this panel before?"

  Elena nodded. Shin nodded. San nodded.

  —

  The instructor asked them to close their eyes.

  "Focus," he said, his voice like a distant whisper. "Think of negative things. Bad things that happened to you. People who wronged you. Moments you wanted to cry but couldn't."

  San breathed deeply.

  "Imagine these negative things... moving through your bodies. Flowing through the pathways. Traveling... to the palm of your hand."

  San closed his eyes.

  And remembered.

  He remembered his previous life. He remembered the hospital, the long nights, the patients who died at his hands despite all his attempts. He remembered the director who looked at him with disdain because he didn't bow to him. He remembered the nurse he loved, then discovered she was laughing at him with her colleagues. He remembered loneliness. He remembered the small, cold apartment. He remembered a thousand nights he slept hungry. He remembered a million looks of contempt.

  He focused on his hand.

  And not a single second passed.

  Until a halo was emanating from his hand.

  Tending toward blackness, moving in an undulating form, seeping from between his fingers like thick smoke, then flowing over the back of his hand, penetrating the skin, emerging from the other side. It was alive, moving like an independent entity, yet it was part of him.

  He opened his eyes.

  The instructor was silent. His face was slightly pale.

  "This..." the instructor said in a low voice. "This has never happened. The most genius student I ever trained... needed minutes."

  San looked at his hand. The halo was still emerging, dancing like black fire.

  He thought: Of course I succeeded quickly. Perhaps because I've seen negative things millions of times. I don't need minutes. I am negativity itself.

  "Now," the instructor said, regaining his calm. "Focus. Make the halo cover your arm. Like a glove protecting it."

  San closed his eyes again. Focused. Tried to direct the energy, force it to spread, to cover the skin.

  In less than two minutes, he opened his eyes.

  His right arm was covered with a light layer of undulating energy.

  The instructor said: "Not perfect. But it will suffice for the purpose."

  He pointed to a nearby tree. It was an old oak tree, its trunk thick as a stone pillar.

  "Go. And strike the tree with it."

  San stood. Walked toward the tree. The grass under his feet was soft. The air was fresh. But he felt nothing except his focus on his arm, on that energy enveloping it.

  He stood before the tree. Raised his right hand.

  He struck.

  The sound was dry, deep. The tree's branches trembled, and some leaves fell.

  San looked at the place of impact.

  The bark had shattered. The wood beneath had cracked, and a deep scar appeared in the trunk of the old tree.

  Then he looked at his hand.

  Nothing. Not a small scratch. No pain. Not even redness.

  He raised his hand, turned it, examined it from every angle. It was as if he had struck nothing with it.

  He grasped his arm. Turned his head toward the instructor, who was approaching with quick steps.

  "Are you hurt?" the instructor asked, his voice carrying genuine concern.

  San looked at him. And the smile that traced his lips was wide.

  "Hurt?" San said. "Quite the opposite. This... is amazing."