The sun — once a merciless tyrant in the afternoon sky — had mellowed into a palette of salmon pink and rose gold, its warm light now slipping through the tall glass windows of the training hall like a whispered apology for the earlier heat.
It bathed the empty space in soft hues, painting beauty across the silent walls.
But that kind of beauty… it's never meant for someone lying facedown on the floor, gasping like a fish out of water.
That someone, in case you're wondering, was me.
My body was sprawled across the cold, unforgiving ground, limbs twitching, chest heaving with every shallow breath. Sweat clung to me like a second skin, soaking my training clothes until they clung heavy and damp.
I didn't move. I couldn't. And, honestly, I didn't want to.
This is what happens when you pick up the sword again after months of doing absolutely nothing. All that stamina, the muscle memory, the discipline you once bled for — gone. Poof. Like it never existed in the first place.
Right into the trash bin of poor life choices.
Ooo, Edward… you depressing little slug. I hope you're proud of what you've become.
With a groan that sounded more like a death rattle than anything human, I rolled over and pushed myself off the ground. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, as if I had just broken some sacred contract between flesh and willpower.
My arms shook. My legs barely supported my weight. I felt like a marionette whose strings had been tangled by a sadistic toddler.
The training hall was empty now — still and quiet, abandoned by the other students who probably had the good sense to stop before total collapse.
I had no idea what time it was anymore. The only thing I did know was that my body had clocked out several breakdowns ago, and I was still forcing it to clock in.
Eventually, I dragged my exhausted limbs out of the hall. One slow step at a time.
Back to my room.
First thing I did?
Shower.
A hot one. The kind that made every ache feel slightly less world-ending, and every ounce of effort feel worth it — if only for a moment.
Then dinner. Barely. Just something quick and edible to fool my stomach into silence.
After that?
I collapsed onto the bed, face-first.
No dramatic reflections. No late-night pondering about my past life or unresolved trauma. Not even a witty comment about how pathetic I felt.
Just sleep.
Because honestly, that's all I wanted.
---
By the time the first rays of dawn hinted at rising, I was already up.
Not because I'm dedicated.
Not because I'm passionate.
And definitely not because I believe in training montages.
I just… woke up. My body moved on its own, as if it still remembered what it used to be. Before the slump. Before the apathy.
Back at the training grounds, I gripped the sword again — cold steel against raw, calloused hands. And I swung.
Over.
And over.
If you're wondering what's up with all this sudden determination — like, "Brother, don't tell me you actually want to win or something?"
Nope.
Don't be weird.
I'm just doing what I feel like. That's all.
So don't bother asking questions, because I don't have answers — and even if I did, I wouldn't feel like sharing.
---
After morning training, the rest of the day fell into routine.
Classes happened.
They went like usual — some vaguely interesting, most painfully dull. Nothing worth remembering, honestly.
And if any of you have the itch to know every subject this academy teaches… here's some advice for you: don't be a nerd, man.
This isn't one of those stories where every subject is somehow plot-relevant and the protagonist uses algebra to save the world.
No one's out here memorizing textbooks for fun. We only start taking class seriously when exams are around the corner — and even then, it's just controlled panic disguised as revision. Until then? It's mostly background noise while we wait for something interesting to happen.
The only remotely interesting thing worth mentioning happened during lunch break — Kevin started dumping more Leon trivia on me.
Who's Kevin, you ask? Yeah, that's my info-dumping mob guy. I never asked for his name — he just told me himself.
So here's some more stuff about Leon that apparently makes him special.
According to Kevin, he has the potential to reach SS-rank. Yeah, that absurdly rare title reserved for freaks of nature or protagonists with thick plot armor.
Right now, he's sitting pretty at third place in the overall first-year rankings. Out of 400 students. Or, well… 397 if you don't count the dead ones. (And no, I'm not being dramatic.)
He even showed me a few clips of Leon's fights from earlier matches. Gotta admit — the guy's got moves. His swordplay's sharp, smooth, and way too polished for someone our age.
After watching the last clip, I turned to Kevin with a look.
"…Why didn't you tell me all this when I first asked?" I asked, with a hint of curiosity lacing my voice.
He looked up, blinking like he couldn't believe I was just now asking that question.
"I was about to. But you just left yesterday."
…Yeah. That did sound like something I'd do.
Hm. Can't blame him for that.
He rambled on after that — something about internal rankings, dorm rumors, and a teacher nicknamed the 'Crimson Executioner' (which sounds like someone with issues, if you ask me).
And you know what? Credit where it's due — Kevin's got talent. He's a walking encyclopedia with no off switch. Fully living up to the nickname I've given him: the info-dumping mob.
---
After classes wrapped up, I headed back to the training hall.
Again.
Still dragging this worn-out body with me like a sack of bad decisions.
And yeah, I skipped a big chunk of the day in this narration. But let's be real — if you came here expecting a daily log of Edward Brightwill's meals and toilet breaks, you're reading the wrong story.
Anyway, I kept training.
Little progress today. My swings were a bit less sloppy. My footwork slightly steadier. But I still wasn't there yet.
The sword still didn't feel like an extension of me. More like a metal stick with commitment issues.
My stances kept collapsing. My grip wavered. I kept missing the follow-through — every move slightly off from where it should be.
It's frustrating. It really is.
Because I remember how it used to feel. That clean motion. That weightless precision. That rhythm between breath and blade.
Now? Every swing feels like I'm dragging a memory that doesn't want to be remembered.
Eventually, after another disappointing set, I set the sword down and reached for my water bottle, taking a long, slow sip.
And that's when I heard it.
Footsteps.
Light, deliberate, echoing across the silent hall.
I turned, sluggishly, and saw a girl approaching.
Bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun, she looked almost otherworldly — so beautiful that it felt wrong to look away.
Her long, night-black hair shimmered, and her ruby-red eyes sparkled with mischief.
A playful smile curved on her pink lips as she closed the distance between us.
The training hall fell into a hush, broken only by her sweet voice.
"Well, well. It's quite the rare sight to see you, Edward, completely immersed in training," she said, with a teasing lilt in her tone.
She was the last person I wanted to see me in this half-dead state.
Of course it had to be her.
Because the universe clearly has a sense of humor..
Yelena Valeblanc.
Rank 1. Class favorite. Untouchable.A walking storm dressed in nobility and grace.
And the reason why Edward — the original one — had become the outcast he was.
----
Author's Note:
Hey, quick shoutout before you go.
To DaoistydUqU3 — you're officially my favorite person on the internet today. Whether you're reading in silence or actually dropping comments, just know that your support means more than Edward would ever admit out loud.
Seriously, thanks for sticking with the story. You made this tired writer's day.
More story (and suffering) coming soon.
—Your author, slightly sleep-deprived but emotionally grateful.