The sun had barely risen when I stepped into the commander's personal training ground.
A place sealed away from most of the fortress, hidden behind thick steel doors. The air inside was sharp, cold, almost suffocating. Everything here screamed of authority and power.
The walls and floor were forged from reinforced alloys, layered with mana-absorbent crystal. Each step echoed faintly, as though even sound itself was swallowed in this place.
This was no ordinary ground for soldiers. No, this was a sanctum built for monsters.
The equipment lined neatly against the walls gleamed under the pale light, every piece crafted with precision. These weren't for the average knight to swing around. Even a weaker SS– rank awakened could go all out here without leaving a scratch on the room. Anything higher… well, that was a luxury reserved only for the very few who ruled above.
I entered the training ground.
The commander was already there dressed in full uniform, standing like an immovable pillar in the center of the field. His gaze locked on me the moment I stepped in.
"Now that you're done looking around…" his voice carried, sharp and steady, "let's begin your training."
He walked toward the racks at the edge of the ground, where weapons rested in neat rows. Without hesitation, he picked up a plain sword.
He swung it a few times, the air splitting with each motion.
Then, stepping back into the center, he leveled the blade at me.
"The sword style I will teach you…" his tone deepened, "is the Iron Tempest Style. A Four-Star Sword art."
"The main focus of this style is overwhelming offense," Commander Arvell said, his voice steady but edged with force. "It's about turning sword and aura into a tempest that crushes everything—offense and defense alike."
He raised his blade and stepped forward, aura surging around him like a storm ready to break.
"This style consists of five forms. The first—Steel Gale Slash."
With a single swing, his sword carved a wide arc through the air. A wave of compressed aura exploded outward, tearing across the training ground. Dust and grit lifted in its wake before the shockwave slammed into the far wall, rattling the ground beneath my feet.
I staggered, heart thudding in my chest. That was only a demonstration—yet the force alone was enough to shake me.
Commander lowered his blade, his expression unreadable. "What you just saw was only a fraction of its true power. The more aura you pour into it, the more devastating it becomes. At full force, this strike can cut through battalions in a single motion, scatter formations, and break momentum before the enemy even realizes what happened."
He swung again—once, twice, thrice—each strike unleashing a sharp burst of aura. Horizontal, vertical, diagonal. Every arc left a trailing wave that crashed into the walls with deafening cracks, each one capable of shattering men and steel alike.
"Adapt it," he said firmly, turning his gaze on me. "Change its rhythm, its angles. Steel Gale Slash isn't just destruction—it's a storm you command."
The commander adjusted his stance, lowering the sword until it pointed straight ahead.
"The second form," he said evenly, "is called Iron Breaker Thrust."
His grip tightened. Aura began to coil and condense at the tip of the blade, shrinking into a single point of pressure so dense it seemed the air itself bent around it. The atmosphere grew heavy, every breath sharp with the metallic taste of raw energy.
Ripples of force spread outward as the tip glowed faintly, vibrating with restrained destruction.
Then, with a sudden step forward, the commander executed the thrust.
BOOM!
The blade didn't pierce the wall—it unleashed a beam of compressed aura, erupting forward in a straight line. The impact shook the chamber, sending dust and stone fragments raining down as a smoking hole carved itself into the exact same spot he had struck before.
"This strike," the commander's voice cut through the silence, calm but edged with authority,
"is designed to shatter armor… and tear through defensive barriers alike."
"Third form—Raging Tempest."
The commander's voice echoed across the training hall as he stepped forward. His sword gleamed under the faint light, and with a subtle shift of his stance, he began.
At first, it was just clean, precise swings—then faster, sharper, his movements blurring. In mere moments, steel howled through the air, a storm of blades swirling around him. The sword arcs overlapped, weaving into a wall of shimmering death. It wasn't defense by holding ground—it was defense by obliterating anything that dared to approach.
I swallowed hard. It was… perfect. An unbreachable fortress, a tempest that shredded everything in its reach.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the storm ceased. The commander lowered his sword, not even winded.
"This," he said, his tone calm but firm, "is the perfect defense through overwhelming offense. No one can breach it… unless they're SS-rank." His gaze pinned me like a nail. "These are the forms you will learn from now on. The last two… are too destructive to demonstrate here. You'll only learn them when you've mastered these first three."
I nodded quickly, heart pounding.
"Now," Arvel said, sheathing his sword, "you've seen them. Begin with the first form. Drill it until your body remembers."
I clenched my fists. "Yes, Commander."
But then he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"…From what I can see, you can't use aura properly, can you?"
"Ah—shit." The curse slipped out before I could stop it. My stomach sank. In all the excitement, I'd forgotten. Two whole months of trying, and still no progress.
"You don't need to panic," Arvel said, cutting off my spiraling thoughts. "You carry the blood of the Thorne family. A lineage of spearmen renowned for their aura. Not one of your blood has ever failed to awaken it." His voice hardened. "From what I can tell, you never trained aura properly back in the main house."
I grimaced. He wasn't wrong. Back then, Kael—the old Kael—had stopped training after his awakening.
"You already gained insights from fighting Gareth," Arvel continued. "You stand before the last hurdle. Push through it, and aura will answer you."
With that, he turned and strode toward the exit. The heavy training ground doors closed behind him with a resounding thud, leaving me alone in the vast hall.
The silence pressed in.
I stared at my hands.
"…Aura, huh."
I sat down on the cold ground and closed my eyes, steadying my breath.
It was time to try again—to touch aura.
Aura… unlike mana, it was not something drawn from the vast atmosphere.
It was born from within the body itself, a physical manifestation of life force and raw energy.
Mana came from the world outside. The core acted as a vessel, gathering it, shaping it, expanding its capacity as one's rank grew higher. With enough mana, one could summon storms, freeze rivers, or bend flames.
Aura was different. It was inward, not outward. The core did not simply store it—it refined it, releasing it back into the body to harden flesh, sharpen reflexes, and multiply strength. If mana was a tool for shaping the world, then aura was the weapon that sharpened the self.
And that was the greatest truth: both were powerful, but both rejected each other.
Mana and aura could never flow together.
Five hours.
That's how long I'd been sitting cross-legged, trying to force aura into existence.
Nothing.
Not a flicker. Not even the faintest trace.
"Why the fuck can't I do it?" I muttered, slamming my palms against the ground. My body trembled with exhaustion, sweat rolling down my back until my clothes clung to me like rags.
The silence pressed in, heavy and mocking. My breath hitched, ragged, and I finally gave up—dropping flat onto the ground, staring at the dim ceiling as if it held answers.
But it didn't.
When despair threatened to swallow me whole, a voice slipped through the stillness, calm and sharp.
"What are you doing?"
I jolted, turning my head.
Noctharion.
I'd almost forgotten he was here. The bastard always appeared and vanished like a shadow, unbound by time or presence.
Grinding my teeth, I forced myself up on an elbow.
"I'm trying to manifest aura," I spat out, bitterness leaking into every word. "But no matter what I do… nothing works. Not a damn thing."