I adjusted my stance, mimicking the form Commander Arvel had shown me.
The sword rose above my head. I focused, aura surging into the blade until it thrummed faintly in my grip. When I was sure—when the pressure in my chest felt ready to burst—I slashed downward.
Shrrrk—!
A wave of violet aura tore free, exploding outward. It ripped across the training field, carving a line into the ground before slamming against the far wall with a dull boom.
I froze.
"…I… succeeded?" I muttered.
My heart thumped wildly. I had expected failure. I had expected hours—days—of practice before producing even a flicker. And yet, I had done it in one try.
To be sure, I adjusted my grip and swung horizontally.
Shrrrk—!
Another wave of aura surged across the field.
I just stood there, stunned.
Then, slowly, a smile spread across my lips. So I really do have talent in aura…
But the thought didn't sit right.
A nagging itch tugged at the back of my mind until I finally opened my status window. My gaze fell on the line that explained everything.
>Crown of the Aural Sovereignty
Allows perfect internal and external aura control.
Grants passive adaptation to all aura types, aura-based combat techniques, and resistance to aura suppression.
The user can manipulate surrounding aura like a natural extension of the body.
My smile faded.
Right. This wasn't just me. This was the sigil.
I had acquired it when I absorbed the beast core. Back then, I hadn't paid much attention—after all, I couldn't even use aura at the time. But now that I'd awakened… its effects were obvious.
Even worse, it wasn't the only thing.
> Eye of the Origin
Allows flawless memorization and instant replication of any observed movement, spell, or technique.
Grants passive analysis of enemy patterns and instinctive adaptation in combat.
No wonder I could copy Commander Arvel's form so easily.
No wonder it felt so natural.
I tightened my grip on the sword, staring at the faint shimmer of aura still clinging to the blade.
These sigils… they're too overpowered.
And right now… I had only awakened three out of the nine sigils.
Nine sigils. Nine ranks. From F all the way to SSS. One sigil for every step I climb.
If the first three already hold this much overwhelming power… then how terrifying will the others be when they awaken in the future?
Just thinking about these things makes a shudder crawl down my spine. Excitement burns in my chest. I can't wait to break through to the next rank, to see what sigil lies ahead.
But for now… I need to focus on the Commander's sword art.
I wonder how he'll react once he learns I can already use the first form with ease. The thought makes me smirk. With that in mind, I returned to training, repeating the technique again and again until sweat clung to my skin and my muscles screamed.
By the time I stopped, the day was gone. I lay sprawled on my bed, the mess hall food still heavy in my stomach. It filled me, but it was nothing compared to Liana's cooking. I missed the warmth of her meals… but there was no point dwelling on it now.
My thoughts drifted back to the Commander. He hadn't come to check on me. Not once.
No matter how talented I might seem in his eyes, mastering a sword art isn't simple. Even geniuses take weeks, sometimes months, to grasp the rhythm of a true technique. Only protagonists—the "chosen ones" blessed by their damn systems manage it overnight.
I clenched my fist.
Right now, I had something that could keep me close to his pace. Not equal, not even close. He can pull out a five-star art from his system whenever he pleases. Lucky bastard.
The curse slipped past my lips before I could stop it. Yet when I thought of what awaited him in the future, pity stirred in me. His path might be paved with brilliance, but it was also soaked in tragedy.
No. I had to focus on myself.
When I was strong enough, then I could think about others.
My first goal was survival.
Mine. Above all else.
…Maybe Liana too.
But first me. Always me.
Tomorrow, I would begin with the third form.
Step. Step.
Next day, I'm back in the commander's private training yard. Same packed dirt. Same dull weights. Same breeze that never reaches the skin. I run through the first two forms a few times to wake the body up flow in, flow out, breath syncing with cut. Easy. Familiar.
Then I square up for the third form.
The third form isn't about one strike. It's a storm you build around yourself a controlled cyclone of edge and aura. If my mind slips even for a blink, it bites me back.
I plant my feet shoulder-width, left slightly forward. Inhale through the nose, hold, and let aura thread down my spine, through the shoulder, into the blade. Not a flood. A drip. If I pour too much, the ring blows out. If I pour too little, it collapses and eats my ankles.
First sweep horizontal. I cut from right hip to left, keeping the tip level, and bleed a thin sheet of aura off the edge. That sheet hangs where I leave it, like a pale crescent. Second sweep vertical. I carve down and let the aura peel away in a straight ribbon. The trick is the angle of the wrist; tilt too far and the ribbon kinks.
Third, fourth, fifth diagonals. Each pass plants another "phantom blade" in orbit, all of them spinning because I'm feeding them momentum with tiny pulses from my core. Breathe out on the pulse. Breathe in on the draw. Hips turn, heels pivot, spine stays tall. Every step is a hinge.
I keep going figure eights, tight arcs, short jabs to stitch gaps. My aura answers, humming along the edge, and the air around me starts to ripple. One by one, the crescents catch and link, then the whole ring stirs. The yard goes quiet in that way it does when danger is about to happen.
There swords.
Not metal, but they look and feel like it: narrow, translucent blades whipping around me, points forward, edges out, forming a waist-high cyclone. The "barrier" is real now anything lunging in would meet a wall of edge. At the same time, if I step, the ring tilts with me, so it's defense and offense both. I can feel each blade as a thread tied to my fingers fifty, sixty, more each asking for attention.
I get… a little enchanted.
The pattern is beautiful clean geometry, perfect spacing—and the second I admire it, my focus wobbles. Breath hitches. One thread slackens. Then two. The orbit stutters.
A blade veers wide and clips my shoulder. Another drops and slaps my thigh. A third ricochets inward and kisses my ribs hard enough to thud bone.
"—Fuck," I grunt, teeth clacking.
Pain spikes bright and hot. The ring unravels, aura snapping back in messy whiplashes that sting like hornets. I stagger a step, catch myself, and swallow the urge to curse again.
Don't lose focus.
I reset. Feet. Spine. Breath. I roll the ache out of my shoulder and start over, slower this time. The third form eats control for breakfast; it wants everything breathing, stance, wrists, even where my eyes rest. I keep my gaze soft, just ahead, so I'm feeling the ring more than staring at it. No admiring. No counting. Just feed, guide, release.
Horizontal. Vertical. Diagonal. Stitch. Pulse.
The aura blades bloom again, tighter this time. I keep them on two radii—inner ring to catch, outer ring to cut. When one drifts, I tug its thread with a tiny exhale and it slides back into line. When another surges, I starve it of power for a heartbeat so it doesn't overtake its neighbors.
Sweat runs. Forearms burn. Every mistake costs me a welt, and yeah it hurts like hell. Feels like everything I do is going to involve pain from now on. Maybe that's the point.
I hold the storm for five breaths… six… seven.
Then I tilt my hips forward, let the ring lean with me, and walk the cyclone three steps to test stability. The blades hiss, obedient, the air shivering around my calves. Better. Not clean yet, but better.
I let the aura taper off, one thread at a time, until the last blade flickers and fades. My arms tremble. My thigh throbs where I got smacked. I'm breathing hard, but I'm smiling.
Again.
This third form… it drained me completely. My body felt hollow, my breath ragged—but at least now I understood it.
I'd gotten the hang of it.
What I needed was time. Time to sharpen the edges, to grind down the roughness until every movement flowed without thought.
Right now, I still had to concentrate focus, strain, force the aura into shape. But with enough practice…
With enough practice, I'd reach the point where I could unleash it without hesitation. No wasted effort. No delay. Just pure instinct.
That was the goal.