Rage already knew what was coming the moment he stepped onto the field. His body no longer ached from cavalry training, but that didn't mean he was eager for what awaited him next. Another day. Another trial. Another chance for someone to break him apart and piece him back together in a form they deemed acceptable.
A familiar presence approached, a shadow draped in crimson.
"Still alive?" Ignia said with a hint of amusement that made his stomach drop. She walked beside him with her hands on her hips. Her armored boots kicked up dust with each step. "Too bad. I was sure you would have quit by now."
Rage scoffed. "Sorry to disappoint."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll make it up to me." She smirked, then, as if just remembering something, held her hand.
"Balmung."
Rage blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Hand it over."
Rage frowned. "Why?"
"Do not rely on it," she said, her voice was firm. "A warrior's strength is not in the weapon. It is in the one who wields it. If you cannot fight without Balmung, you do not deserve to use it."
"But you let me use it during Deltia's training."
"That was different." She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.
Rage exhaled sharply. "Yeah, right. Or maybe you just enjoy watching me suffer."
Balmung obeyed, shifting back into its greatsword form. Rage handed it to Ignia, and she lifted it onto her shoulder as if it weighed nothing.
"Enough. Stop talking. Start moving."
Then she gestured toward a lone figure waiting near the sparring rings. "Your new instructor."
The air changed instantly. The noise of the training grounds seemed quieter. The tension grew as if something or someone heavier than the morning mist had arrived.
Boots hit the ground with steady steps. Each step was careful and strong, carrying the weight of many battles and victories. The woman approaching was no ordinary soldier.
She was something carved from the bloodiest stories.
[SYSTEM] Branwyn Lv.52
[SYSTEM] class : Armswoman
[SYSTEM] neutral
She was made of steel and strength, a warrior whose presence felt like a battlefield. Her armor, made of dark plate and reinforced leather, shone in the morning sun. It was not for show, but cared for and ready for battle. A fur-lined cape hung from her shoulders, black against the red marks on her armor, like the memory of past fights.
And then there was her face. It did not match the violence in her stance.
Branwyn was beautiful in a way war did not allow. She had sharp features and high cheekbones. Her gaze was piercing. Her hair was dark chestnut with streaks of silver. It was tied back in a braid that fell past her shoulder. Loose strands framed her face. There was no warmth in her beauty. Only strict discipline showed.
Her eyes were slate gray. They studied him carefully. Not impressed. Not unimpressed. Just evaluating.
Rage felt something stir in his chest. Awe, fear, and maybe something darker. His knees almost gave out. His instincts told him to fall forward, forehead to the ground, and accept his place beneath this powerful woman.
He had just started to shift when --
"Try anything stupid, and you'll see the hole again," Ignia's voice cut through the moment like a blade.
Rage froze. His mouth, ready to say something he would regret, shut quickly.
"She's all yours," Ignia continued, lazily stretching. "Try not to make her regret taking this assignment."
Branwyn let the silence hang for a moment before she spoke, her voice was low, even, but carrying the weight of someone accustomed to issuing commands.
"We begin now."
No greeting. No ceremony. Just the cold statement of fact.
Rage exhaled. "Of course."
Branwyn did not waste time. As soon as Rage stood before her, she threw him a wooden training sword. No ceremony, no warning. She expected him to know what to do with it.
"Show me what you've got," she said, arms crossing over her chest, her tone carried nothing but cold disinterest.
Rage barely caught the sword. The weight was different from Balmung's gauntlet form, but a sword was a sword. Right?
He exhaled sharply and moved into a stance he thought was good. Footwork. Control. "I have done this before. Just with claws." Deltia's training had taught his body to move, to dodge, feint, and counter in smooth sequences. A sword was not much different.
Or so he thought.
He lunged.
Branwyn moved once.
Rage hit the dirt face-first.
The sword was no longer in his hands. He didn't even feel her disarm him. One second, he was attacking, the next, she had stripped him of his weapon and tossed it aside like it was nothing.
He pushed himself up. "What the hell."
"If that's what you've got, you should've stayed in the stables," Branwyn cut in, her tone was unimpressed.
"Sloppy."
Rage scowled, rolling his shoulder as he stood. "I wasn't ready -- "
"A warrior is always ready."
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Your stance is too open. Your weight is off. You put power into the swing but no control."
Rage clenched his fists. "So what do you want me to do?"
Branwyn smirked. It wasn't a kind smile. "Learn properly."
"From the beginning."
What followed was hours of pure, mind-numbing repetition.
She made him hold his stance. Knees bent, weight even, grip firm. If he wobbled, she kicked his legs out from under him.
"Balance," she snapped. "If you can't hold yourself upright, how do you expect to hold your sword?"
"That's what she sai -- "
The flat side of Branwyn's sword smacked against his face before he could finish. A sharp, ringing impact -- not enough to break anything, but more than enough to shut him up.
"Focus." Her tone was as sharp as the blade she hadn't even needed to draw.
Rage gritted his teeth, swallowing whatever dumb remark was forming next.
Then came footwork drills. Moving forward, stepping back, lateral movements. Rage thought he was getting it until Branwyn tripped him mid-step, sending him sprawling again.
"Predict your opponent," she said coolly, arms folded as he groaned on the ground. "Or enjoy kissing the dirt."
He had trained movement under Deltia before. Reflexes, dodging, striking in unpredictable patterns. But this was different. Claws had been part of his hands. Fast. Natural. The sword was heavier and slower. It made him commit to every motion. With Deltia, his body moved on instinct. Here, every step needed discipline.
And discipline was Branwyn's domain.
By the time she handed him the sword again, his legs felt like lead. But there was no stopping. No resting. Just another command.
"Try again."
He did.
She dismantled him effortlessly.
Every. Single. Time.
His wrist twisted wrong. She wrenched the sword from his grasp.
He overcommitted to a strike. She let him fall forward, using his own weight against him.
At one point, she didn't even bother dodging, she just smacked his sword aside like an annoying twig and sent him stumbling back.
Frustration burned through him, but there was nothing he could do but endure. Adapt.
And so he did. Hour after hour. Day after day. Until the bruises became familiar, until exhaustion was just another part of waking up. The sword no longer felt like a foreign weight in his hands, but that didn't mean he was any closer to victory.
He was still failing. But now, at least, he was failing slower.
His footwork had improved. He wasn't tripping as much, wasn't leaving himself as wide open. He could anticipate some of Branwyn's attacks, but reacting fast enough was another matter entirely.
Branwyn circled him like a wolf assessing a wounded animal. "Better. But your strikes are still trash."
She struck, and Rage barely blocked. Then she twisted her wrist, and his sword flew from his hands.
"Too rigid," she said. "You think a sword is just about swinging? Idiot."
Rage gritted his teeth and picked up the sword again. The days blurred into one another, a relentless cycle of drills, bruises, and the ever-present sting of Branwyn's critique.
***
By the time a week had passed, the bruises hadn't stopped, but the beatdowns were no longer completely one-sided.
Rage's movements were not instinctual yet, but they were improving. He could last longer. He could counter. Not every time, but enough that Branwyn had to start trying in their sparring.
When she feinted a strike, he didn't fall for it this time. He adjusted, countered, almost landed a hit.
Almost.
Branwyn stopped just before her blade touched his throat, a flicker of something like amusement in her eyes.
"You're not useless," she admitted.
Rage exhaled sharply, exhaustion gripping him.
Then she smirked, turning away. "You move like a beast trying to wield a blade. Sloppy, but fixable."
***
The next morning came like a death sentence.
Rage was still sore from Branwyn's relentless sword training, but there was no time to recover. The Queen's hellish curriculum had no room for weakness.
As expected, Ignia was waiting for him at the training grounds, arms folded, smirking like she already knew what fresh misery awaited him.
"Still breathing?" she mused. "Shame. I was hoping Branwyn would break you faster."
Rage barely held back a groan. "I'll take that as a good morning."
"It's not." She tilted her head toward the far end of the grounds. "Your next instructor's waiting."
Rage followed her gaze and felt his stomach drop.
[SYSTEM] Durnhelm Lv.54
[SYSTEM] class : Spearman
[SYSTEM] neutral
A tall man of muscle and steel stood near the weapon racks. He adjusted the grip on a large war spear. His armor was heavy and built for battle. It looked rough and strong rather than carefully made. A dented shoulder plate sat on one shoulder. Its surface was marked from many fights.
His face matched the armor. It was rough and shaped by years of violence. A thick beard covered his jaw and had streaks of silver. He did not look old. He looked like a man who had spent decades fighting men bigger than him.
He turned to face them, his movements were slow and deliberate, like a war machine shifting into motion.
Ignia grinned. "Durnhelm, meet your new student."
The man's gaze landed on Rage like a weight, flat, uninterested, mildly disappointed.
"That's it?" His voice was like crushed stone, deep and unimpressed. "You brought me a twig?"
Rage bristled. "Nice to meet you too."
Durnhelm snorted. "You won't be saying that in an hour."
He lifted the war spear onto his shoulder like it weighed nothing, his scarred fingers tapped against the worn shaft.
"You'll learn to use this," he said. "Or you'll wish you hadn't been born."
Rage barely had time to scoff before the lesson began.
Durnhelm did not greet him. His stare was a judgment. It weighed on him and made it clear that Rage was not worth noticing. When he spoke, his voice was rough and hard. It sounded like a man shaped by the battlefield.
Their first spar wasn't a test. It was a lesson in failure.
Something felt off. Durnhelm didn't move. He stood there, completely still, his grip on the spear almost lazy. Like none of this required effort. That should've pissed Rage off. Instead, it made his stomach tighten.
Rage's instincts, sharpened by clawed combat and speed, were useless here. He lunged anyway, fast, direct, decisive.
It didn't matter.
Durnhelm didn't move backward. He didn't need to.
The spear flicked forward, slamming into Rage's gut like a battering ram. The impact sent him staggering back, breath ripping from his lungs. He barely had time to suck in another before the spear came again. This time, a brutal horizontal sweep. He ducked, narrowly avoiding getting his skull cracked open but Durnhelm had already stepped in.
The shaft drove into Rage's side like a steel rod, knocking him off-balance. He twisted, instinctively reaching to counter, but the moment his footing faltered, Durnhelm pivoted. The spear's butt struck the back of his knee, and Rage felt the ground vanish.
His back hit the dirt. Hard.
The world spun. He gasped, but before he could even lift his head, cold steel pressed against his throat.
His weapon, where the hell was his weapon? He hadn't even realized he'd lost it.
Rage stared at the sky. His chest rose and fell, his body aching. One moment he was fighting. The next he was here on his back. His muscles would not move. Every nerve was overwhelmed by the force of the hit.
The worst part? This wasn't even the hardest he'd been hit.
Above him, Durnhelm loomed, barely looking winded.
"You're thinking like a brawler," the veteran muttered, rolling his shoulders. He stepped back, letting the spear slide away from Rage's throat. "A spear is not a fist. Not a blade. It's an extension of control."
Rage groaned from the dirt, rolling onto his back, ribs screaming in protest. He coughed, tasting dust and frustration.
"Control, huh?" he wheezed. "And here I thought we were bonding."
Durnhelm sighed, completely unamused.
"Get up. Again."
And so he did. Again. And again.
He wanted to curse and throw the spear down. He wanted to walk away. Every instinct told him to close the distance, to claw, punch, and fight like he always had. But that would not work. He knew it now. That made him angrier than anything.
Each time he thought he had learned something. A small change. A better angle. A fraction of a second saved. Each time Durnhelm still beat him. A thrust too slow. A stance too stiff. An instinct that worked in a fight but failed against the spear.
Every mistake ended the same way. His back hit the dirt. His weapon was gone. The dull ache of the hit sank deeper into his bones.
Days bled together. The routine was as harsh as the instructor. Stance drills lasted for hours. His legs screamed under the weight of exhaustion. He had to hold his ground with the spear in hand. Durnhelm moved around him, waiting for the smallest mistake. When his arms shook, the blunt end of the spear hit his ribs. The air left his lungs. His fingers loosened just enough for the weapon to fall.
And then he was on the ground again.
"Your hands are slow," Durnhelm noted. "Your legs? Weaker than I expected."
Rage coughed, propping himself up. "Thanks. Always wanted to know what dying feels like."
Durnhelm's stare remained flat. "Dying is quicker. Get up."
Rage gritted his teeth and pushed himself upright, muscles screaming in protest. The spear felt heavier every time he picked it up, his fingers cramped from repeated disarms.
And yet, the day never ended.
***
The mornings were full of sweat, sore muscles, and constant failure. Every instinct told him to use the spear like a sword. He put too much force into the swings and not enough into control and precision. Durnhelm's voice cut through his tiredness.
"You're not wielding a weapon. You're flailing a stick."
"I dunno, feels pretty deadly when you hit me with it."
"That's because I know what I'm doing. You don't."
Rage said nothing. There was no point. No witty remark, no sharp comeback would change the fact that Durnhelm was right.
There was no victory here. No satisfaction. Just survival. Get hit, get back up. Lose the spear, pick it back up. Endure. That was all this was. And if he couldn't even do that, then maybe he really didn't deserve Balmung.
Pain and repetition slowly taught him something. The spear was about range and control. It was about knowing when to strike and when to hold back. At first it felt like fighting with a weight on his wrists. Each thrust was slow. Each step was wrong.
But repetition was a cruel, effective teacher.
His grip stopped slipping as much. His footwork, while still uneven, no longer sent him sprawling at the first sudden movement. The first few days, Durnhelm had knocked his weapon away with every exchange. By midweek, Rage was managing to hold on -- if only for a few seconds longer.
He learned to brace before impact, not after. To adjust his stance before striking, rather than scrambling to recover. To feel the shift in balance, the split-second window where attack became defense.
Durnhelm still crushed him effortlessly. But by the week's end, Rage had begun to move with a fraction more intent. He was still slow, still imprecise but he no longer felt entirely useless.
The world blurred through the haze of training, an endless cycle of bruises, corrections, and exhaustion. But somewhere in that storm of repetition, his body started to adjust.
It was not much. He still lost. He still fell. But now there were moments. Small wins where he was not completely helpless. That had to mean something. Right?
He was learning to read the weight of the spear in his hands, to recognize Durnhelm's feints before committing to a counter. His reflexes, once tailored for close-range combat, were beginning to adapt to a weapon of reach.
He still wasn't winning, Durnhelm made sure of that. But he was starting to last longer.
"Better," Durnhelm finally admitted. "Barely."
Rage wiped sweat from his face. "I'll take it."
By the time the week closed, Rage found himself knocked down fewer times than before. Not by much, but enough to notice. Progress, as frustratingly slow as it was, had begun to take root.
A slow clap echoed from the edge of the training grounds.
"Well, well. He's still alive," Ignia mused, arms crossed as she leaned against a wooden post. "Color me impressed, Durnhelm. Thought you'd break him by now."
Durnhelm barely spared her a glance. "He's stubborn. That's all."
Ignia tilted her head, eyes flicking to Rage. "You look like hell."
Rage groaned, propping himself up on one elbow. "Feel worse."
"Good." She pushed off the post, stretching lazily. "Don't get comfortable. You've got another training tomorrow."
Rage exhaled sharply, already dreading the answer. "...With who?"
Ignia smirked. "You'll see."
She turned to leave, tossing one last warning over her shoulder.
"Don't be late."
***
Morning came as it always did, cold, indifferent, and far too soon.
Mist lay low over the training grounds, curling across the earth. The first light barely touched the horizon. Its warmth did little to fight the cold. Rage exhaled, watching his breath fog in the cool air. His muscles still ached from yesterday's training. Each step reminded him of Durnhelm's harsh lessons. But there was no time to think about that now.
Because she was waiting for him.
Ignia stood in the center of the clearing, arms crossed, stance relaxed. She looked rested and smug. She seemed to enjoy watching him struggle.
"Finally decided to show up?" she called. "I was starting to think you'd died in your sleep."
Rage sighed. "Maybe I should've."
Ignia smirked. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't let you go out so peacefully."
He dragged himself forward, forcing stiff legs to move. The morning chill did not bother him. His muscles already burned. He stopped a few paces away and rolled his shoulders. "So. What's today's torture?"
Ignia lifted a hand and gestured lazily to the shadows beyond the mist. "Not me this time."
A figure emerged, stepping into the pale morning light.
[SYSTEM] Ashenrae Lv.48
[SYSTEM] class : Assassin
[SYSTEM] neutral
She moved silently, smooth and controlled. A long cloak draped over her, its edges worn but neat. The hood covered most of her face, leaving her features in shadow. She was tall and poised. Every movement was careful and deliberate. Pointed ears peeked through the fabric, marking her lineage.
For a moment, she did not move. She did not breathe. The air around her felt heavy, like the world waited for her to act.
Even hidden, she carried a quiet power. Her presence demanded attention without a word. The space around her felt different. Every motion, or lack of it, was exact and controlled. She was dangerous and precise. She was calm, lethal, and in full control.
The name fit her like a sheath to a dagger.
Ashenrae stopped just short of Ignia, tilting her head as if assessing him. Her voice, when it came, was smooth but edged with something unreadable. "This is him?"
Ignia nodded. "Unfortunately."
Rage folded his arms. "Yeah, I agree."
Ashenrae didn't react. If anything, she seemed vaguely unimpressed.
"I hope you're not as slow with daggers as you are with spears," Ignia mused. "Otherwise, this'll be a very short lesson."
Rage opened his mouth to fire back, but the air shifted before he could.
A new presence arrived, silent, but not unseen. He felt her before he saw her, a familiar, quiet weight pressing against the edges of his awareness.
Then she was there.
Deltia said nothing as she approached, her expression unreadable as always. But her tail swayed just slightly, the motion was slow, deliberate. She stopped beside Rage, gaze flicking once to Ashenrae before shifting to Ignia.
Ignia arched a brow. "Well, look who decided to show up."
Still, Deltia said nothing. Instead, she shifted, her tail brushing lightly against Rage's side as she passed. The motion was quick, almost absentminded -- but he caught the way her ears flicked, the way her gaze lingered just a second too long on Ashenrae before she turned away.
A mark. A silent claim.
Then she was gone, vanishing into the mist as easily as she had come.
Rage blinked. "...Did she just -- ?"
Ignia smirked. "Don't think about it too hard."
Ashenrae, for her part, didn't react. If she noticed, she gave no indication. Instead, she turned to Rage, her expression was unreadable beneath the hood.
"Pick up a blade." She said. "We begin."
Rage exhaled, gripping the dagger as its weight settled in his palm. Different from a sword. Different from claws. Lighter. Meant for precision over force.
The moment he took a stance, Ashenrae moved.
She was fast.
Too fast.
The first exchange lasted barely a breath. Her blade flashed, slipping past his guard before he could register the attack. A sharp sting grazed his side. Not deep, not meant to wound. A lesson.
"Too slow," she murmured.
They reset. Again.
Ashenrae's movements were a study in efficiency, every step, every shift, flawless. Where Ignia overpowered and Deltia overwhelmed, Ashenrae dismantled. There was no wasted effort, no unnecessary aggression.
And Rage was falling for every trap.
By the fourth exchange, sweat beaded at his brow. By the sixth, his breath came harder. The seventh, he barely saw the strike before she stopped just short of his throat.
Break.
Rage staggered back, rolling his shoulders, shaking the tension from his hands. His body screamed for rest. But the sun was still high.
The next round was worse.
Rage barely had time to adjust before Ashenrae struck again. A flicker of motion, her blade darted toward his shoulder. He twisted, parrying just in time, but the force of impact sent a tremor up his arm. Before he could recover, she pivoted, slipping past his guard and tapping her dagger against his ribs.
"Dead," she murmured.
This time, he took the initiative, launching forward with a feint before redirecting into a downward slash. Ashenrae didn't even blink. She stepped into his space, trapping his wrist mid-swing, her own blade ghosting past his throat before he could react.
"Dead."
Frustration burned through him, but he had no time to think about it. The next attack came faster. Her strikes grew sharper with every motion. Rage tried to keep up, taking shorter steps and moving tighter, wasting less energy. Still, the difference between them was huge.
Breaks came in short, uneven intervals. A few stolen breaths, just enough time to shake the tension from his hands before Ashenrae called him back in.
Minutes stretched into hours, the sun creeping higher, then dipping lower. His body ached, his reflexes dulled, but stopping was never an option.
Every mistake was a lesson. Every failure, a mark on his body. His ribs throbbed from the dull strikes she didn't bother pulling. His legs burned from the constant resets. His arms felt like lead.
Yet Ashenrae remained the same -- precise, untouchable, unreadable.
By sundown, he wasn't fighting to win. He was fighting to endure.
***
The smell of roasted meat and spiced ale filled the queen's castle hall. It was different from the dust and sweat still on Rage's skin. The long table held knights, commanders, and Firekeep's best warriors. They all ate together for the nightly feast. Rage barely noticed anymore. Same faces, same routine, same seat at the far end, right in the middle of it.
Rage sat hunched over his plate, sore and battered, half-listening to the idle conversations around him. Food dulled the ache in his limbs, but exhaustion made every bite feel like a chore.
Across from him, Ignia laughed and drank as usual. She seemed unconcerned with anything else.
Until the hall doors opened.
A hush rippled through the room as a hooded figure strode forward, silent and deliberate.
[SYSTEM] Nyxara Lv.44
[SYSTEM] class : Assassin
[SYSTEM] neutral
Her presence was quiet, but it drew attention. She did not need to announce herself.
She approached Ignia without hesitation, stopping just short of her before producing a sealed scroll.
Ignia took it, breaking the wax seal with a flick of her thumb. She scanned the contents, her smirk fading into something sharper. Serious. Focused.
She looked up, voice cutting through the hall's murmurs.
"Vera," she said.
Silence. Even those who had been drinking paused mid-sip.
Ignia continued, her tone turning cold. "She's making a move. In one week."
A heavy pause. Then she tossed the scroll onto the table, leaning back in her seat.
"Tomorrow," she declared, "we march to at dawn."
[SYSTEM] Queen Ignia : Loyalty 87%
[SYSTEM] Deltia : Loyalty 78.1%
[SYSTEM] Corruption: 12.8%