Lucen reversed stance, pulled mana back, swung into a sharper arc. The blade cut deeper, heat flared hotter, but only for a moment, before dissipating without explosion.
He blinked. "Controlled." The noise was soft, not like the big surges from before.
Varik glanced at him: "That's the difference between breaking something and bending it."
For an hour, they moved through drills. Varik critiqued stance shifts, wrist angles, mana flow. Lucen replaced brute arcs with tight precision. Each cut less flamboyant but more thorough. Every strike left a clean seam, not chaos.
"Good" became a rare compliment. And Lucen felt the sword grow familiar, not as a weapon but as an extension of thought.
—
At midday, they broke for water. Lucen leaned against a pillar, sweat drying on his shirt. Blue-black streak from yesterday's run traced his neck.
Varik watched him. "Your systems note growth in mana metering and finesse."
Lucen rolled his neck. "Feels less like wrestling with energy."
