The walls stretched upward. The ceiling vanished behind rows of wooden beams.
Light came from above, filtering through lattices, falling to the floor in long strips. The stone beneath their feet was smooth, gray, faintly gleaming. Along the walls stood racks of weapons.
Wooden swords lay in perfect order — no tilting, no crooked lines.
The students stood in formation.
Their uniforms were identical: dark-blue fabric, straight sleeves, a high collar. Embroidery in the shape of waves traced the edges. Arms lowered, fingers pressed against their sides. Faces tense.
No one moved.
Silence settled instantly. It needed no time to arrive; it was already there when he entered the hall.
August Stahl.
He moved unhurriedly. The cloak at his back made no sound, his steps soft but audible. His hair was pulled back, not a strand left loose. At his hip — a long blade in its sheath, the hilt dark. He stopped at the center. Hands behind his back. His gaze swept the rows.
"Welcome," he said. His voice carried no strain, with a slight tightening at the last syllables. "To the school you'll be unfortunate enough to call your own."
He stepped forward.
"You are here to master a delicate art. Most of you don't even know how to hold a blade properly. Some can't even stand. And a few, I suspect, can't even think."
His eyes lingered on one of the students. The boy froze.
"I don't expect you to truly grasp the beauty of the sword. That comes later. If it comes at all."
The hall was still quiet. No one moved.
"But... if you're not the usual pack of idiots I'm forced to train, you might actually stand a chance."
His eyes flicked toward the weapon rack, then returned.
"Still, you've made it here. And not just anyone gets in. Which means there's at least some potential. At the very least, 'I can hold a sword.'"
His hands stayed behind his back. His shoulders didn't shift. His voice never rose.
"How touching. So much effort. So much tension. So much silent hope in your eyes."
He allowed himself a faint smile.
"We'll see how much of that remains in an hour."
He didn't give his name. No rank. No title. No explanation for why he stood here.
But the students knew.
August Stahl — one of the King's Eight Swords. One of Asura's finest. He needed no introduction. His gaze was enough.
His movements were slow, but never heavy. There was no haste, no strain. Only precision. He moved the way water flows in a narrow channel — without resistance, yet with direction. Everything in his body followed that current: the turn of his head, the shift of his feet, the pauses between words.
The Water School, in all its beauty. And in all its cruelty.
Passing one of the students, he slowed slightly. His nose twitched, as though he had caught a scent that didn't belong here. His gaze dropped, sliding over the body.
A boy with sandy hair stood crookedly.
Knees not fully straightened. Back slouched. Eyes forward, but unfocused. At his waist — a bow knot, one loop pulled askew.
August stopped.
"Name," he said, his voice still even.
As if unable to believe he was being addressed, the boy blinked slowly, ran a hand through his hair, and yawned.
"A! I'm Paul of House Notus, sir… Ow! What was that for?"
The chestnut-haired boy beside him jabbed him sharply with an elbow.
The movement was restrained, but precise. His eyes were taut. Fingers clenched into fists. His back straight as a drawn string. His whole face trembled with strain—jaw tight, lips pressed thin, nostrils flaring slightly with each breath.
He said nothing, but every muscle in him screamed one thing: stop.
August snorted. Not loud, but pointed. As if, for a moment, the hall itself had grown dirty.
He straightened, stepped aside to face them both. His cloak shifted, then hung still. His hands stayed behind his back.
"Notus," he repeated. "What a… delightful coincidence."
He went quiet, staring straight ahead.
"Every group has one. One fool. One hopeless case. One clown who thinks a joke is a shield."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Sometimes I almost believe you're cultivated on purpose. Raised in some private greenhouse. Watered with drink and sheltered from common sense."
Some students stiffened. Shoulders tensed. A few glanced away.
"Count yourself lucky, Notus. You're here only because someone vouched for you…"
He stepped closer, his eyes falling to the boy's belt.
"But even I am not sentimental enough to look at that," he said with a nod toward the crooked bow.
A pause.
"Fix it. Or I'll fix it for you."
Turning away, August walked toward the dais at the end of the hall. Behind him, a faint scuffle broke out.
Philemon, pale-faced, stepped up to his brother. His hands shook, but they moved quickly. He ripped the bow from Paul's belt, pulled the ribbon straight, tightened it. His fingers worked the cloth with furious precision. The knot settled neat and centered.
What the fuck are you doing, you idiot! he hissed through his teeth. The words were barely audible, but a few syllables bounced off the walls and reached August.
He didn't turn.
He had taken his place. The steps beneath him were smooth, the platform level. He turned to face the hall. His voice rose—not much, but enough to make students flinch, a few even covering their ears.
"Lilia. Step forward."
No pause. No hesitation. The girl broke rank in one step and dropped to one knee.
"Yes, Father."
August's gaze lingered on his daughter.
"The recruits this year…" he said slowly, "are astonishing."
His eyes swept the hall.
"I was certain the last class was rock bottom. But it seems incompetence has no bottom… Step forward."
He raised his hand. Fingers extended, then twitched faintly. No words. Just a gesture.
Paul didn't move.
He stood in line, eyes darting, as if trying to see who the summons was for. Then he froze. Turned toward Philemon. His brother didn't explain—he simply shoved him hard in the ribs.
Paul staggered, steadied, looked back at the master. Then he walked. His steps weren't confident, but they weren't hesitant either. He came closer, eyes fixed on August, as if on something you must never turn your back to.
August hadn't moved. His eyes hadn't shifted. He looked at Lilia. She was still kneeling.
"Rise."
She stood. Back straight. Head lowered.
Her arms hung at her sides. Fingers clenched slightly, almost unseen. Her breath wasn't uneven, but it shortened a fraction. She didn't look up.
"You've long stood in the shadows. And it seems you're content there."
"..."
Lilia gave no answer. Only clenched her fists tighter.
"You are my daughter. That binds you. But you've yet to prove you can stand first."
He stepped down one stair. Not closer, but somehow towering.
"If you fall—I fall with you. And as you know, I do not fall. Yet you insist on testing how firmly I stand."
Lilia's chin quivered. She drew a sharp breath through her nose. Stepped aside without lifting her gaze, moving toward the weapon racks.
August turned to Paul. The boy had stopped a few paces away.
"No killing blows. Everything else is permitted. If you lose—you leave. Not out the door. You simply vanish. I won't even remember you came."
Lilia approached the rack.
Her movements were exact, unbroken, as if rehearsed.
The hilt settled into her hand instantly, an extension of her fingers. The second blade she grabbed without looking—the one at the edge. Her arm swung back, a short arc, and the sword flew.
Paul caught it on the third try—first batting it with his palm, then fumbling at his knee before finally straightening up with it in hand.
"So uh…" he turned toward August. "I don't know the Water style, right? Am I allowed to—"
August waved his hand.
The motion was sharp, dismissive. No explanation, no permission. Just a gesture, as though brushing aside unwanted noise.
Paul shrugged. Turned sideways, tried a swing. Too wide, twisting his torso. Somewhere behind him, someone coughed quietly.
Lilia was already in position. Knees bent, blade lowered, weight gathered. Fingers gripped steady, no tremor. Her eyes stayed on the ground.
She waited for the signal.
***
Her legs surged with power.
The lunge was sudden—no warning, no wasted windup. Lilia closed the distance in half a step. Her blade cut sideways. Paul barely managed to raise a guard.
Clack.
Wood struck wood, shock jolting his wrist.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Three more followed.
Short, sharp. Not meant to break through, but to shift. His blade was forced aside, then higher, then down. His guard intact, but angles broken.
Paul began to retreat. Step by step, heels scraping stone. Still holding—catching, yielding, twisting his body.
Clack.
On the third strike, he lunged forward. A thrust, quick and true. A gap in her guard—he saw it. His aim locked under her shoulder.
But the blade met air.
Malgra's Fin.
Her body dipped low, shoulder rolling, foot sliding. The movement spiraled—beneath his sword, behind his back. A Water School technique.
She didn't stop.
Without straightening, she struck upward.
This should have ended it.
Her strike cut clean toward his ribs. The line perfect. His guard broken. The blow carried force enough to shatter. The whole motion built for that.
But just as the blade neared its mark—Paul's shoulder dipped.
A lightning-fast motion. His wrist slid forward, sharp and precise, as if the air itself had parted for him.
Sundering Flash.
A Sword God technique.
Clack.
Her blade was knocked aside in a jolt—his move short, but exact. The strike veered off before it landed.
Paul was still midair, already twisting. His heel hit stone. His other foot drove forward. He didn't pause. He struck again.
Flow.
But his blade didn't connect.
Lilia had read it. Her sword curved with his line, deflecting it outward.
They froze.
Both standing. Swords apart. Silence suspended. The hall held no sound.
"Hm…"
From the side, August's voice slipped out, barely audible.
Lilia flinched. Her pupils widened a fraction. Her breath quickened, shortened. Her heart pounded so hard it echoed in her temples. A dull rush filled her ears, rising from deep inside her skull.
He saw. He's watching. He thinks I'm slow. That I can't handle it. That I failed. I failed. I…
Her hands clenched tighter. Feet braced against the stone. Eyes unblinking.
Now. It has to be now. Before he speaks again. Before he steps forward. Before he…
Paul didn't wait.
He lunged with a sharp growl. He didn't know why Lilia froze, but he saw the opening. And he wasn't about to waste it.
His blade dropped, the angle cutting down, then snapped up in a sudden strike.
Sundering Flash.
Lilia reacted late.
Her sword lifted—The current—but it wasn't clean. The motion stuttered, incomplete. Her arms shook. Fingers clenched unevenly. Breath caught in her throat.
He's watching. He knows. I'm failing. I…
The thoughts drowned out everything. She heard them over the clash, over the jolt in her wrists. The world blurred.
Clack—wood struck wood. Paul was already moving.
He planted his foot hard. The sole slammed into stone. The tile cracked beneath him. Force ran through his body—hip, spine, shoulder. The blade surged upward.
Anchor Shift.
A northern technique. Power gathered in an instant, traveling from ground to steel.
Strike.
The motion carried through, heavy and complete, from low to high.
Paul's blade smashed into Lilia's. Her guard broke. The angle was wrong, her grip faltered. Her sword flew up. The strike missed its target, but the force was enough.
Lilia crashed backward.
Her heels slid across the floor. Her back hit stone, then her hip. She landed hard, propped on her hands. Her sword lay aside.
Silence filled the hall.
Paul stood still, breathing hard, looking down at her.
***
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound of slow, deliberate applause spread through the room. Each beat of palm on palm dull, heavy.
"Not bad," said the voice. "You're not quite as useless as you first seemed."
August was approaching. Walking unhurriedly. His gaze fixed on Paul. His face held nothing—no surprise, no approval. Only a kind of interest, like an object worth examining.
"Techniques of the North, and…" he grimaced slightly, as though the word itself tasted foul, "…the Sword God school."
Another step. He stopped a few paces away. His voice hadn't risen, but sank lower.
"Curious."
Paul shuffled back a little, scratching his head.
"Well, I'm… a versatile man, sir. Today one thing, tomorrow another. Adaptability, you know."
He smiled. His eyes flicked sideways, hoping the joke would pass for an answer.
August didn't respond. Silence stretched.
"North's techniques. Sword God's tricks. And all of it—without foundation."
August halted before him.
"Grabbing at everything doesn't make you a master. It makes you a catalogue of mistakes."
His tone was steady, every word measured.
"You're not a student. Not a fighter. Not even a craftsman. Right now you're nothing more than someone who's seen too much, understood too little, and confused one thing with another."
He didn't raise his voice.
"No style. No center. No root. And without root—you fail. Always."
He paused, then turned slowly. Head first, then shoulders, then his whole frame.
His eyes settled on Lilia.
"…and the price comes just like this."
The tone hadn't shifted, but weight filled it. Like a sentence that needed no reading.
Lilia stayed on the ground. Her chest rose unevenly, breath coming fast and ragged, as though the air itself was too heavy and each inhale too deep. Her fingers curled against the stone. Her shoulders had begun to tremble.
"Disappointing," August said. "As always. Every day I see you behind where you should be. And every day I confirm that all your strength amounts to nothing more than not falling behind."
He turned away. Faced Paul again.
"Weakness is the enemy. Pain is the ally…"
His gaze locked on Paul's.
"And discipline is the only thing that keeps you between them."
August walked past. Without looking back, he headed toward the rows of students. His voice carried again—measured, weighty—speaking of daily structure, entry forms, the school's demands.
But Lilia no longer heard him.
The sound receded. His words dissolved into the rush of blood. No thoughts remained. Only emptiness.
Her body didn't move. Her hands still pressed to the floor. Her shoulders trembled, not from pain, but from the hollow pressure filling her chest.
Paul edged closer.
"Hey… you're okay, right?" he muttered, extending his hand.
His palm was open, loose, uninsistent.
"I mean, honestly, I didn't know you were that… aggressive. Should've guessed sooner. All that silence—it was obviously just hiding the fire."
He leaned a little closer, lips twitching upward.
"Listen, this might be bad timing," his voice dropped, almost a whisper, "but if you ever feel like throwing yourself at me again… I won't complain."
He didn't finish.
Lilia's head snapped up. Her lip had split, a thin line of blood trailing toward her chin. Her jaw was locked, teeth clenched tight. Her eyes fixed on him, straining against the last of her control.
"I'll kill you."