Chapter 13 Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Sin Power
Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Sin Power
Arwen
The second I step into the Wrath training arena, I’m hit with the smell of dirt, sweat, and burnt ozone.
Home.
It’s smaller than the Apex Arena back home, less bloodstained, too… but the layout is almost identical. Dirt-packed floors, rune-lined stone walls, and semicircle seating up above, except instead of spectator stands, we’ve got stiff academy desks.
Gladiator arena meets exam room. Welcome to Wrath education.
I breathe it in and almost forget I’m not allowed to do anything in this class.
My chest tightens. My palms itch for something—anything—to ignite.
But all I have is the echo of what I lack.
This area is for Wrath faction members, for me, and knowing I’m going to spend the entire period sitting on my hands because the evil universe still hasn’t seen fit to give me a power.
I belong here, but instead of fighting, I am a glorified spectator.
At least I’m not alone.
I spot Brix right away, stretched out in his desk like he owns the place — one foot on the seat in front of him, arms behind his head, brown curls in his face and looking about five seconds from falling asleep.
Holly’s beside him, her short curly hair woven into braids and pulled back tight, her goggles already perched on her forehead like she’s just waiting for the chance to burn something.
And Sly, of course, slouching just enough to make it look casual, flips a coin between his fingers like he's bored with reality itself.
I drop into the empty seat next to Brix with a sigh and kick my bag under the desk.
“Tough morning, little sinless?” Brix mutters, low enough so no one else hears.
I shoot him a glare for the nickname he thinks is cute. “Eat rocks.”
He grins. “So, real tough, then.”
I don’t answer. I’m still too annoyed about Professor Gabriel and our un-bonded, emotionally stunted, leather-book-scented disaster of a situation. And now here I am, in my element, surrounded by my people — and powerless.
I barely have time to wallow before the temperature in the room spikes. The air pulses with energy, and the runes on the walls glow a deep, throbbing red. Class must be starting.
The instructor walks in, and he is... huge.
Not just tall, but wide. Like someone dropped a slab of wrath into a man-shaped mold and forgot to add a personality.
He has a scar that cuts across one cheek and disappears into the collar of his uniform, and when he speaks, it’s with a voice that makes the walls tremble.
“Name’s Instructor Marrik,” he booms. “You’ll call me Sir, or Instructor. Anything else, and you’ll be running laps around SinVail until your knees give out.”
Charming.
“Welcome to Wrath Combat Training. Some of you think you’re already soldiers.
Commanders. Big Balled Generals. You’re not.
Not yet. But you will be. Because Wrath doesn’t just fight — we win.
Every faction dispute. Every raid. Every skirmish with the Sloth Rebellion.
We are the tip of the blade and the muscle of Vail. ”
His eyes sweep over us, lingering just long enough on each face to make it feel like he’s measuring our worth.
“In this class, you’ll learn to push your sin powers to the edge. To fight smart. To strike first and fast. Wrath isn’t about rage. It’s about control. Precision. And when to turn loose.”
I sit a little straighter. The words hit deep, even if I can’t put them to use. Yet.
Marrik’s tone shifts. “Where’s the Sinless?”
And there it is. I raise my hand but refuse to cower at his blunt question.
“You observe. You take notes. You wait. You stay quiet. This class doesn’t pause for wishful thinking.”
The words burn, but I keep my face blank. I don’t need pity. I need a spark.
Sly catches my eye from a few desks over and raises one brow, like he’s daring me to deck the instructor. Holly leans over and brushes her fingers against my arm for half a second. No words, but I get it — you’re still one of us.
Marrik turns back toward the pit. “Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with. You—brunette, goggles. Down here.”
Holly stands without hesitation, sliding her goggles over her eyes like a knight lowering her visor.
“Let’s make this fun,” she mutters as she passes us.
Brix grins. “Ten seconds before he regrets calling on her.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. No power, no problem. Watching Holly fight is the next best thing.
And if I can’t light something on fire, I can at least feel the heat from hers.
I swear the temperature jumps ten degrees the second Holly steps into the ring.
One second she’s adjusting her gloves like it’s nothing, and the next—boom—a pillar of flame roars up from her hands, licking the ceiling before slamming down into the dirt like it’s got a personal vendetta against gravity.
Her control is terrifying. Beautiful. She shapes the fire like it’s an extension of her, sending waves and spirals across the pit as Marrik barks commands.
He doesn’t praise her. Of course not. But when she finishes, he gives the barest nod and mutters, “Functional. Aggressive. Needs tempering.”
I'm guessing that's a standing ovation coming from him.
The rest of the class is a blur of fire, fists, and sheer fury.
Next is Brix, who gets called up with a grunt and a lazy salute.
The second he moves, I remember why Wrath takes him seriously.
He doesn’t explode with flashy power—he flows.
He ducks, flips, strikes with surgical precision like he’s been fighting in that pit since he was born.
I’ve seen him fight before, but not like this.
Marrik tosses impossible challenges at him that increase in difficulty—dodging fire runes, catching daggers midair, identifying threats blindfolded—and Brix just… does it.
His enhanced senses aren’t flashy, but watching him fight? He has to be one of the best combat students at the academy. I bet he will dominate the arena fights here.
“Underrated,” Marrik mutters. “But efficient. Weaponize that instinct and you’ll kill gods.”
No big deal.
Then there’s Sly.
Marrik doesn’t even call on him. He just appears in the pit, bored with waiting his turn.
What follows is less of a demo and more of a performance.
Sly doesn’t throw a single punch, but somehow nothing can hit him either.
He ducks, weaves, vanishes and reappears using his super speed sin power to maneuver like shadows.
Marrik tries to trip him up with a power mimic—standard training rune that mirrors your moves—but Sly just grins and uses it against itself, trapping the mimic in its own pattern like he choreographed the whole thing in advance.
“You’re annoying,” Marrik says when it’s over. “But effective.”
I sit there, watching it all, heart pounding in my chest like I’ve been in the pit with them.
My friends aren’t just talented.
They’re legends in the making.
And I’m the deadweight sitting in the stands with a notebook and no spark.
But as the rune-wards dim and class wraps, I’m not just jealous. I’m fired up. I will catch up. Sin power or not.
One day, that pit is going to be mine. It’s all I can think about as I head to my next class.
I’m snapped out of my thoughts as soon as I walk in the door. While Wrath’s training arena felt like home, Pride’s training room feels like a museum that I have no business stepping into.
Everything gleams. The floors are smooth black marble veined in gold, polished so well that I can see my scowl reflecting back at me. High ceilings hold large screens that cycle through depictions of past Pride Champions locked in elegant battle poses.
The seats aren’t desks; they look more like cushioned thrones, arranged in a perfect circle that somehow screams both power and exclusivity.
There are no runes carved in stone here.
No, Pride uses crystal embedded in the walls—subtle, glowing with refined energy like even the warding spells are too sophisticated to shout.
It’s all so… clean. Intellectual. And cold.
I sink into a velvet-backed seat near the edge of the circle and try not to fidget. I don’t belong here. I feel it in my bones. In the way the Pride students glance over at me with thinly veiled curiosity—like I’m some social experiment no one volunteered for.
Of course, Camille and Daphne are in this class.
They spot me instantly, whispering behind glossy hands with matching smirks. Camille’s eyes sweep over me like I’m the punchline to a joke she hasn’t told yet, and when she leans in to speak, her voice carries just enough to draw attention.
“Didn’t know Wrath sent observers now. Or are you here to clean the floors?”
Daphne giggles like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all week.
“I can’t start until I have the proper materials. Want to run and grab me some scissors?” I ask, pointing at Daphne’s hair.
“You little bitch.” Daphne says, pointing at me. “The rules might protect you in the halls, but I can destroy you in this classroom.”
I turn and walk away. I’m not here to throw punches; I’m here to observe.
The instructor enters—flanked by pride constructs that float beside him like sentient statues, shaped like lions carved from mirrored obsidian. His robes ripple with enchantment, changing color slightly as he moves, and he doesn’t even look in my direction. Not once.
“Today’s lesson,” he says, his voice nasally and sharp, “will focus on control and projection. You do not possess Pride sin power—you are Pride. Your power should enter a room before you do. If it doesn’t, you’re doing it wrong.”
Students nod like that’s gospel. I don’t follow. I try to shrink into my seat and fail.
The universe won’t allow it, and my chest gets heavier as he continues speaking.
“Atticus Willshire, a sophomore at the academy will aid my classes. He’s an invaluable resource for the Pride faction, and you’d be wise to listen to his advice.”