The next morning arrived with a heavy stillness, broken only by the rhythmic chanting of essence users and the quiet hum of power building within the Academy's ancient walls. After their daily physical routines led by Zara, the students were split. Those with personal instructors were dismissed to continue their individualized training, while the rest remained for an intense session on essence control and refinement, led by Agrona.
A hush fell over the group as she walked between them, her silver-gray robes trailing softly along the polished stone. With practiced grace, she handed each student a delicate, vibrant green leaf.
"This exercise," she said, her voice calm yet firm, "will test your control more than your strength. Channel your essence through the leaf—not around, not over—through it. If you apply even a sliver too much, it will crumble. Too little, and it won't respond at all."
The students closed their palms around the leaf, brows furrowed as they concentrated. Essence, by nature, responded to intent and emotion—it was the language of willpower. Yet guiding it through something as fragile as a living leaf without damaging it required a surgeon's precision and a poet's patience.
Some failed immediately, the leaf curling into blackened dust between their hands. Others gritted their teeth, sweat beading at their foreheads, managing to keep the leaf intact but failing to elicit any response. It was a grueling task, designed not for power, but for delicate mastery.
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Meanwhile, elsewhere within the heart of the Academy, a very different kind of training was underway.
Within the soundproofed, rune-lined walls of the principal's private training hall, Roy stood opposite the dwarven master, Dvalin. The young warrior was bare-chested, his steel sword resting in a low stance, his breathing calm but alert. Across from him, Dvalin paced slowly, a wooden sword resting lightly in one hand, as if it weighed no more than a feather.
"The blade," Dvalin began, circling him like a predator assessing prey, "is a mirror. When you hold it, it reflects not your face, but your essence. Your intent. Your clarity."
He suddenly stepped to the side, letting Roy's incoming slash cut through nothing but air.
"What difference do you feel when you use it—and when you don't?" he asked calmly.
Roy exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Without activating it… I feel like a gun—raw power, unchanneled, blunt. But when I activate my ability, it's like becoming a railgun. Efficient. Precise. I don't need full strength to make every strike count."
A blur. Dvalin's wooden sword flashed upward, deflecting Roy's next slash, and with a sudden pivot, he brought the butt of his sword up under Roy's wrist—disarming him in one flawless movement.
The steel blade clattered to the ground.
"Good," Dvalin said, tone flat but approving. "You're beginning to grasp it."
He raised his weapon and pointed it directly at Roy's chest, not in threat, but as a lesson.
"Right now, you feel powerful. That's natural. But you are still only scratching the surface of your innate ability. You're using it like a brute tool, not as a refined edge. It's like stepping into a Mechavaris-class suit and using it only to throw punches—ignoring the built-in weaponry, the thrusters, the integrated targeting systems. You're wasting potential."
Roy retrieved his blade as Dvalin nudged it toward him with a tap of his foot.
"You've reached the second wall of your awakening," Dvalin continued. "Where it helps you refine your aura, yes. Your strength is becoming finer. But refinement is not mastery. Not until your ability accepts you."
He stopped in front of Roy, eyes sharp as chisels. "An innate ability is not truly yours until you know its name. Now tell me, Roy—what is the name of your ability?"
Roy knelt to retrieve the blade, his fingers curling slowly around the hilt. For a moment, he didn't answer.
But something flickered in his eyes.
A thought.
A whisper.
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Across the Academy, within a tall building styled like a traditional dojo, Denwen stood surrounded by weapons. The walls were lined with polished racks—katanas, spears, flails, maces, chakrams, glaives—each displayed with reverence. At the center stood Vorden, hands clasped behind his back, his presence calm yet commanding.
"Brawler arts," Vorden began, his voice low and precise, "is the art of unpredictability. It is the synthesis of martial schools, blended into something unique. Even another brawler cannot fully read your next move—because not even you know what it will be."
He paused, turning his steely eyes toward Denwen. "You've mastered four martial styles. You're near mastery on your fifth. That alone places you among the elite."
Denwen bowed slightly, respectful but curious.
"Sir, I've always wondered," he asked. "How many martial styles are you a master of?"
Vorden let out a short laugh, not mocking, but full of pride.
"A grandmaster in thirteen," he said without blinking. "And I've mastered many more—but how many styles do you think exist?"
He raised a brow, a wide grin on his face.
Denwen smiled in return, humbled but inspired.
"Now," Vorden continued, picking up a nunchaku from the wall, "the strength of the brawler arts doesn't lie only in martial styles. A brawler must be proficient in almost any weapon. Enough to use it as if it were a natural limb."
He twirled the weapon with staggering speed, switching hands, spinning it behind his back, over his shoulders, under his arms—fluid and lethal, a dance of precision and intent.
"Nunchaku require hand-eye coordination that borders on clairvoyance. You cannot hesitate. You must know where the strike will land before you swing."
He stopped and grabbed a spiked club with his off-hand.
"Now, here's where things get fun."
With both weapons in hand, Vorden turned as a combat puppet activated, charging toward them. In one seamless motion, he looped the nunchaku around the head of the club and spun it like a chain-linked extension, then—boom—he struck forward.
The force of the nunchaku's momentum, propelled by the weight of the club, smashed through the puppet's defenses and obliterated its head in one thunderous impact.
Shards of enchanted wood flew across the dojo.
"Looks overpowered, doesn't it?" Vorden said, casually placing the weapons back.
"But there's a reason not everyone becomes a brawler. Few can master even two martial arts, let alone combine them. Fewer still can extend that mastery to weapons. And combining weapons… that's ten times harder. You're juggling rhythm, weight, balance, and awareness. One misstep, and the weapon will punish you instead of your enemy."
________________________________________
Denwen had the rest of the day to train.
He tried his hand at several weapons. The sword? Serviceable, but it lacked the brute satisfaction he desired. The spear? Too elegant. The glaive? Too long.
But when he picked up a hammer, something clicked.
The weight. The sheer force. The uncompromising violence of a swing—it spoke to him.
He shifted between hammers, maces, and clubs, losing track of time as he tried different stances, swings, and combinations. Each movement felt new, foreign—but familiar at the same time. He was learning what his body craved. And it craved impact.
Only when his stomach growled violently did he snap out of his trance. The dojo was dark now, only the runes along the wall glowing faintly. He glanced at the time and cursed.
"Cafeteria's gonna close."
He dashed toward the corridor, sprinting across the hallways. The Academy at night was a quieter beast—still alive, but subdued. Moonlight bathed the granite halls, and magical lanterns pulsed dimly overhead.
As he turned a corner, a sudden pulse of essence made him freeze.
A figure dropped soundlessly into the hallway from the window above—cloaked in black, landing like a shadow come alive.
Denwen's instincts flared. He took a defensive stance without thinking, his aura beginning to surge, eyes narrowing as the figure raised both hands slowly.
"No need to panic, boy." A familiar voice cut through the tension.
The hood came down, revealing Dame's sharp gaze and rugged face.
"Good reaction," he said, nodding slightly. "You're getting quicker. But relax. I'm only here for official business. But be careful son, you never can tell what could be roaming around this late" Dame said walking away
Denwen exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his limbs—but his heart still thundered in his chest.