The class continued with students picking their desired weapons.
Kael Ashford didn’t know how to wield any of them, but since his class was that of a swordsman, he decided to pick up a sword.
(I don’t know anything about swords... Better start with the basics.)
He stepped into one of the open spaces and mimicked the stance he saw others doing.
Then, he swung.
Once.
Twice.
By the fifth swing, his shoulders were already sore. By the tenth, his back hurt. Sweat rolled down his neck, soaking into his training clothes.
His arms trembled.
(This is harder than I thought.)
It wasn’t because his body was weak or unused to training—it was the exhaustion from the morning laps that still lingered in his limbs.
Nearby, other students were also practicing with their weapons.
Most of them were far better than he was.
A few hit the wooden practice dummies so hard that the statues cracked—one even snapped in half.
"Whoa! Did you see that?"
"He broke the dummy with just a wooden sword!"
"That’s insane..."
Kael looked down at his own sword. His grip was loose. His feet kept slipping. His swings were slow and unbalanced.
(I can’t even swing properly...)
Still, he didn’t stop. He kept going. Again. And again!
He would figure it out—eventually.
Then he heard a voice behind him.
"You’re wasting energy."
Kael turned. It was Professor Sylvia. She had been watching him for a while, arms crossed, silently observing.
"Your stance is too stiff," she said.
"And your position is wrong."
She stepped forward and gently adjusted his hands on the wooden hilt.
"Grip here. Not too tight. Let the sword move with your body, not against it."
She showed him how to loosen his knees, pivot his feet, and swing with rhythm rather than raw strength.
"If you use force without flow, you’ll tire out before landing a proper strike."
Kael listened carefully. He followed every word and movent.
"Now try again," she said.
Sylvia looked at Kael and tilted her head slightly.
(He doesn’t even know the basics...)
Every student—even the lowest-ranked one—was better trained than most people outside the academy.
Yet here stood Kael Ashford, a swordsman who didn’t even know how to swing properly.
Still, Sylvia didn’t question him.
She saw sothing else in him.
Determination.
Slash! Slash!
This ti, the swing felt lighter. Not perfect—but better.
Sylvia nodded once.
"Good. Practice like that. Slowly. Don’t rush to be flashy."
Then she walked away, leaving Kael to continue on his own.
Across the ground, Cecelia and Elysia trained side by side. Elysia’s sword moved in fast, precise arcs, each strike controlled like a practiced dance.
"Wow! Elysia, that was beautiful!" Cecelia said, laughing.
Elysia smiled faintly, her sword raised and ready for another round.
She adjusted her stance and moved forward again. Their swords t with a clean clack of wood against wood.
They weren’t the only ones improving. Around them, students shouted techniques, helped each other, and sparred in pairs.
Kael kept to himself.
Not that he had a choice. It wasn’t like he had any friends to spar with—even if he wanted to.
Still, he focused on his own training. Trying to understand how swords worked, how to move his body better, how to breathe.
Swing. Step. Breathe.
He followed everything Sylvia had taught him, slowing his movents to focus. Each swing now
felt slightly stronger and more balanced.
After a few hours, Sylvia clapped her hands.
"That’s enough for today. Clean your weapons and return them to their original place."
The students began putting their weapons away. So chatted excitedly. Others groaned from soreness.
Kael leaned against the wall, catching his breath.
He glanced down at his hands—blisters already forming.
But he didn’t care.
This is how it begins.
One swing at a ti.
He stood up and headed for the exit of the training ground.
Behind him, Cecelia’s voice rang out.
"Elysia!"
The silver-haired girl glanced over her shoulder.
But instead of responding, her gaze briefly shifted to Kael.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Hmph."
She snorted and dragged Cecelia forward, overtaking Kael on the way out.
Kael was too exhausted to even notice.
Professor Orwen’s Class
"Take your seats," said Professor Orwen, his voice calm but firm.
Once everyone settled down, he began.
"Today, we’ll be discussing the nature of mana flow," he said.
"Most of you know mana is the energy we cultivate. But very few understand how unstable it becos without proper control."
He waved a hand, and a glowing diagram appeared in the air.
"Mana exists in every living being. But controlling it—shaping it—requires awareness of your body, your breath, and even your thoughts. If your mind is restless, your mana will scatter. If your body is tense, your flow will block."
Kael sat quietly at the back, taking in every word. He didn’t understand everything—but he listened carefully. It was important.
The rest of the class continued with diagrams, theory lessons, and so guided breathing exercises.
When evening ca, the students gathered again at Ground Zero for their usual punishnts—laps.
It was just as exhausting as always.
Kael ran harder than before, managing 76 laps before dropping to one knee.
His shirt was soaked in sweat, but he didn’t stop until Sylvia blew the whistle.
Still not enough.
Later that night...
After dinner, Kael returned to his dorm.
But he didn’t go to bed.
Instead, he knelt once more on the wooden floor. A single candle flickered beside him. He placed both hands on his knees.
Mana restoration... breathe in... stabilize... feel the core.
He was learning to sense the mana inside him. Weak and flickering, but still there.
He was tired. His body ached from training and running, but he knew none of it mattered unless he learned to control mana.
"Huuu... Hah..."
The ripple inside his chest shimred faintly—still fragile, still weak—but a little more stable than before.
Kael exhaled slowly.
To survive... to fight... I need this.
And so, once again, he continued his late-night mana training, alone in the dark, chasing a future only he could see.
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