The sun shone high over Cainã, spreading its golden light across the walls of the Dark Throne Fortress. The warmth was mild, yet enough to draw sweat from the skin of those training in the open field. The training grounds rang with metallic sounds: the clash of blades, the pounding of boots against packed earth, and, from time to time, the sharp cries of instructors correcting the soldiers' stances.
A month had already passed since Elian's arrival at the fortress, and in that time his routine had become relentless. Every morning was devoted to swordsmanship under the stern eye of Arcane Swordsman Haliel, Second Hierarchy — a Commander of Beelzebub.
"You're starting to get the hang of it, boy," Haliel said, calling a brief halt to their training.
He carried the weight of many battles etched into his body. Nearing sixty, his short, unevenly cut hair was almost entirely grey. His dark brown eyes observed with a firmness that conveyed both experience and severity. His voice was deep and commanding, bearing the gravity of a man who had waded through wars and survived them.
His training attire was simple but flawless: a red linen shirt with sleeves to the elbow, marked on the right arm with a lozenge containing three thorns — the insignia of his rank as a Commander of Beelzebub. Leather trousers, belted with a black strap, bore the Dark Throne emblem in its metal buckle. On his feet were black leather boots, worn by time but as steadfast as the man who wore them.
"Thank you, Commander Haliel," Elian replied, panting, discreetly wiping the sweat from his brow.
He wore a long-sleeved crimson tunic, also marked with the lozenge of the order, but hollow — the symbol of his status as a Neophyte. Across his chest the sigil of the Dark Throne shimmered faintly under the sun. His legs were clad in dark blue leather trousers down to his shins, where boots identical to Haliel's completed the uniform.
Since the day of his arrival, Elian had followed the same schedule without fail. Sword drills every morning; in the afternoons, lessons in magical philosophy, the history of the order and the kingdom, noble etiquette, and arcane customs. At first the repetition had irritated him. He had expected to set up his altar, to explore more complex spells, to deepen his mastery of the Gift of Vigil — the power he had received after conquering the Tunnel of Guilt. Instead, he had found discipline, sweat, and books.
Haliel, still at his side, raised his sword with the ease of a man lifting his own arm — the blade no longer a weapon, but an extension of his body.
"Back to training, boy," he said, leaving no room for protest.
Elian only nodded. He set his water flask on the stand beside the field and rose again, drawing a deep breath. The day's weight, compounded by the heat of the morning, already dragged at his arms, but he would not yield.
All around, the field pulsed with life. The ring of steel echoed ceaselessly. Soldiers and knights sparred in pairs, some against instructors. Dust swirled into the air with every movement, carrying the dry smell of earth, mingled with sweat and the faint metallic scent of steel.
Elian gripped his training sword. It was no wooden mock blade — it was real steel, blunted only at the edge and tip. The weight was true, and so was the pain of impact. The cold metal against his small hands was a reminder that, though still young, he was being forged like every other warrior of the order.
"Commander Haliel," Elian called, raising his sword but hesitating to take the stance he had been drilled into.
"Speak, boy," the veteran replied, his voice calm yet authoritative, unhurried.
Elian faltered. The question had burned within him since the first day, but was it right to ask? He did not want to sound insolent, but he could not suppress it. His golden eyes shifted to the right, where a pair of swordsmen traded blows. With every clash of steel, sparks of magic flared — bursts of fire, cutting winds, runes alight beneath their feet.
Haliel noticed. He followed Elian's gaze for a moment, watching the duel, then turned back to the boy.
"You want to know why we aren't using magic," he said, not as a question but as a fact.
"Exactly, Commander Haliel," Elian answered, his voice steady though tinged with indignation.
Since his arrival at the fortress, he had believed he would be trained in the fusion of spell and blade. Yet until now, he had received only corrections on stance, lessons in balance, grip, and breath. No spells. No magical drills. It gnawed at his patience.
Haliel rested the flat of his dulled blade on his shoulder, as if he had all the time in the world.
"Because you won't be able to do either."
The words struck Elian like a blow. He stared, incredulous.
"Could you explain?" he demanded, his voice caught between respect and restrained anger.
"Of course," Haliel said, unflinching. "To use magic, you need concentration. It is the only way to shape the ambient mana and purify your own until it takes form. Correct?"
Elian gave a reluctant nod.
"Then answer me, boy." Haliel stepped closer, his dark eyes fixed on Elian. "How do you expect to focus on forming a spell when you can't even hold your sword without losing balance?"
Sweat traced down Elian's temple, but not from the sun. It felt like an insult. He remembered well their first conversation: Haliel had praised his ability to conjure without incantations, calling it a rare gift. And yet here he was, trapped in endless sword drills, with no hint of magical practice.
Elian narrowed his eyes.
"Did you forget that I don't need chants?"
The field seemed to hold its breath. Around them, other swordsmen carried on, but Elian heard only his own ragged breathing.
"No, I did not forget," Haliel replied calmly, as if he had expected the question.
"Then why?!" Elian snapped, his frustration breaking through.
Haliel adjusted his grip, both hands closing firm around the hilt. A severe glint flickered in his eyes.
"I'll show you," he said, his deep voice carrying across the field. "Ready your sword, boy."
★★★
Haliel adjusted his stance, feet planted firmly on the packed earth. The training sword gleamed under the sun, heavy and unyielding.
"I want you to try conjuring," he said, raising the blade. "Use whatever spell you want."
Elian frowned. At last, the opportunity he had longed for. He gripped his sword in one hand and stretched his other palm toward the ground.
But Haliel gave him no time. He struck with a diagonal blow, swift as lightning. Elian raised his sword on instinct, the metallic clash rattling through his arms. His concentration shattered instantly.
"Try again," Haliel ordered, already preparing his next strike.
Elian growled, eyes fixed on the ground before him. A puddle of mud began to form, but before the spell could complete, Haliel spun his blade and delivered another blow. The impact jolted Elian backward, breaking the mana flow. The puddle unraveled before it had even taken shape.
"Focus!" Haliel's voice thundered.
Elian stepped back, drawing in a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat and raised his hand. Two stone lances began to form, spinning rapidly as wind infused them. But Haliel surged forward. In less than a second, the blunt tip of his sword struck Elian's wrist, knocking it aside. The lances dissolved into the air, shards of mana falling like sparks.
"Faster, boy! Faster!"
Sweat poured down Elian's face. Frustrated, he crouched low and summoned heat into his palm. Two spears of fire burst forth, fed by wind until they burned like voracious projectiles. But Haliel was already there. A sharp strike with the sword's edge landed against Elian's ribs. The boy lost his breath, staggering, the flames faltering before evaporating into smoke.
"Still don't understand?" Haliel asked, his voice deep, never once resorting to magic. "A single second of distraction is enough to get you killed."
Elian gasped for air, but his resolve did not break. His eyes blazed with defiance. He raised his sword, and with his other hand formed an incandescent bow. Heat surged instantly, a flaming arrow taking shape, wound with wind, spinning, ready to be loosed. The energy pulsed, vibrating in the air like thunder on the verge of release.
But Haliel struck again. His sword crashed into Elian's guard with brutal force, knocking him flat to the ground. The bow dissolved, and the fire arrow exploded against the boy's own body. Flames licked across his arm and shoulder, burning through the fabric of his tunic.
Elian rolled, smothering the fire with his body until only embers remained, leaving behind the stench of charred cloth. He coughed, breath uneven, lifting his golden eyes toward the veteran.
Haliel did not look tired. Not a bead of sweat marred his skin. He merely rested the sword against his shoulder and stared down at Elian, eyes dark and unyielding as steel.
"Do you understand now, boy?"
The entire training field had fallen silent. The gazes of the other swordsmen were fixed on Elian—not with scorn, but with the same incredulity he himself felt.
Haliel lifted his hand and murmured a brief chant. He cast Sanare Medio, and a pale baby-blue light coursed through Elian's body, mending his wounds. Burns closed, raw skin restoring its natural color. Fractures and bruises from the blunt strikes dissolved beneath the warm, soothing glow.
There was no cruelty in Haliel's expression, no shadow of sadism. Elian realized, at last, that this was not meant to humiliate him but to show—clearly and undeniably—that he was not yet ready to fuse sword and magic.
"It's not that I don't want to teach you to wield magic alongside your blade, boy," Haliel said once satisfied the healing was complete. His voice was steady, but not harsh. "It's that you must learn there are right moments—and the proper way—to use magic in a fight."
Elian lowered his head, breathing deeply. He understood. More than once he had let his impatience to prove himself cloud the basics. The sword still felt heavy in his hands; his body, too unseasoned to sustain both arts at once.
"But why are there people who fight without swords, using only magic?" he asked, still staring at the blade in his grip. "I thought I'd be here just training spells… not swordplay."
Haliel's lips curved into a faint, weary smile.
"You're right. There are magi who live by magic alone," he replied, pausing so Elian could absorb his words. "But… their chances in direct combat are slim. They will always need others to shield them."
"It's as the Commander of Beelzebub said," a woman's voice added from behind.
Haliel turned, raising a brow.
"Well, if it isn't Knight Iolanda."
Elian turned too, catching sight of the woman approaching. Iolanda walked with firm, measured steps, her long cape trailing softly behind her. Her presence drew eyes; every soldier on the field paused and inclined their heads in reverence. They were only Soldiers of Apollyon, magi of the Fourth Hierarchy, while she had already ascended to the Third: a Knight of Astaroth.
"A mage will always need support, Elian," she said, stopping before them. Her voice was calm, yet carried undeniable weight. "That's why I told Elder Marduk you should train both sword and spell. That way you'll have a better chance of surviving alone."
Elian absorbed every word. He knew that sooner or later he would face battles with no one at his side. He could not rely on magic alone—nor on luck.
"Are we finished for today, Commander Haliel?" Iolanda asked, her eyes lingering on Elian. "Elder Marduk wants to see him."
"Even if we weren't, I would release him," Haliel answered evenly.
Elian was taken aback by the deference. Haliel was part of Elder Marduk's faction, and his presence in the teleportation hall on Elian's first day had been no accident. Though he had only attained the rank of Commander of Beelzebub five years ago, his path already commanded respect. Few ever managed to surpass the sixth tunnel—and he had.
The first three tunnels were "relatively" more attainable, with lesser risks. Many who began at twelve could clear the first by fifteen or sixteen. But the fourth tunnel was a wall where countless failed forever. It was estimated that conquering three tunnels could take fifteen, twenty years… and most never advanced beyond that.
Which is why Elian knew: to see Iolanda, not yet thirty, already a Knight of Astaroth, was to witness a rare feat. Her presence carried not just prestige—it was living proof that discipline and the brutality of the tunnels forged legends in flesh and bone.
"Thank you very much, Commander Haliel," Iolanda said, bowing with respect.
"Thank you for today's lessons, Commander," Elian echoed, bending in a deeper bow than usual, as if trying to show all the gratitude he felt despite the exhaustion weighing on him.
Haliel only nodded, his dark eyes resting on the boy a moment longer, as though measuring not only strength but determination.
The two began walking, crossing the training field still alive with sweaty swordsmen and weary magi. The metallic ring of blades and the distant crackle of spells filled the air, until suddenly Iolanda stopped mid-stride, as if struck by a thought.
She turned, her black hair swaying lightly, and fixed Haliel with a serious look.
"By the way, Commander," she said, her voice firm yet courteous, "Elian will not be training tomorrow."
Haliel raised a brow. "Why?" he asked, though comprehension quickly flickered in his gaze. He let out a low chuckle and nodded. "Ah… I see. Good luck, Elian."
Elian blinked in confusion, looking between Iolanda and Haliel as if they spoke in riddles. That brief exchange of glances seemed to conceal something only the two of them understood.
Without another word, Iolanda resumed her stride. Elian followed, still puzzled, and together they made their way toward the pavilion where the Elders' offices were housed—the heart of the Fortress, where every corridor carried the weight of unseen eyes.