Clang! Clang! Screech!
The clash of steel echoed through the training room, sharp and heavy, ringing in my ears. Sparks scattered as my blade met the commander's, neither side giving an inch.
But this time… it was different.
This time, I wasn't just getting beaten down.
Six months. That's how long I've been training under Commander Arvell and Noctharion. Six brutal, relentless months. And in that time, I've grown more than I ever imagined.
Not in rank—I was still stuck where I was—but in something far more important. Experience. Skill. Instinct.
Training under the commander had been terrifying at first. Back then, I couldn't even see his strikes—just the blur of steel and the crushing weight that followed. But now? Now I could read them. I could parry. I could push back.
Of course, he was still holding back—limiting himself, suppressing his monstrous S-rank power. But even restrained, his movements carried the sharpness of someone who had stood at the very peak. His experience alone was suffocating.
Today, our spar had gone even further. Aura.
His sword glowed with a silver edge, sharp and refined. Mine burned with a faint, unstable violet.
We moved across the training ground like shadows clashing, our blades sparking with each collision. My entire body was wrapped in aura, reinforcing my speed and strength just to keep up with him, while the commander only bothered to coat his sword.
And still… the gap between us felt like a mountain.
The commander took a single step back, raising his sword.
With one casual swing, a wave of silver aura erupted from the blade, ripping through the air and surging straight toward me.
The pressure alone was suffocating. That gleaming tide wasn't just an attack—it was a declaration of his strength.
But I was ready.
Gripping my sword, I focused. Aura stirred within me, flowing into the blade with absolute precision. Thanks to the sigils etched deep within my soul, my control over aura was sharper than most could ever dream of. Even the commander's mastery couldn't compare in terms of refinement.
In seconds, my sword shimmered with a vibrant, pulsating purple aura—alive, dangerous, hungry.
The silver wave roared closer.
"Now!"
I swung my blade downward.
The clash was instant. My aura sliced through the commander's wave as if it were nothing but mist, tearing it apart and sending shards of silver scattering into the air. And then, with equal ferocity, my own strike surged forward—a purple wave of power screaming toward him.
The commander didn't flinch.
With a calm expression, he simply raised his sword, made a single, effortless motion—
And the purple wave split cleanly in two, fading into nothing.
"No matter how many times I see it, your aura control is astounding," the commander said, his sharp eyes never leaving me.
"I was right. The bloodline of Thorne never fails."
I didn't answer. My blade pressed forward, every strike met with a casual parry, every movement of mine reduced to child's play in his hands. He believed my control came from my family bloodline—and who could blame him? Every Thorne was born a monster, a master of aura.
But I knew better. What I carried was something far beyond blood. Something I could never reveal.
So, I only nodded.
Day after day, we sparred—six hours at least. His sword cut down my excuses, his speed stripped away my hesitation. When my body finally gave out, I moved to the training yard with the other knights.
Daren, Nicholas, and John. Before, I could barely hold my ground against them. Now, I defeated all three with ease. They lay on the ground, chests heaving, eyes wide with disbelief.
"What the hell is your secret?" Nicholas gasped.
I only gave them the same story I told the commander—a half-truth wrapped in discipline. Even then, their awe was real. John, still clutching his sword, swore through ragged breaths that he would surpass me one day.
After them came Noctharion. From him, I learned the art of mana sense. Now, I could feel every heartbeat, every flicker of mana within the fortress itself.
The fortress was massive—closer to a small city than a stronghold. Extending my mana sense across its entirety would have been impossible; the drain alone could empty my core within a minute.
Maintaining such a vast range was reckless. That's why I kept it limited—about a kilometer around me, just enough to catch anything unusual.
I had even learned to keep it active during the spar with the commander. It was one of the reasons I could keep track of his movements at all. His speed was beyond me, but with mana sense, I could feel the faint disturbances in the flow of mana around him. That gave me a split-second advantage, a chance to predict where his blade would strike.
An overpowered skill—no doubt about it.
Noctharion was the one who set me on this path. First he taught me to feel and shape pure mana. Now he was showing me how to control elements.
Mana is everywhere — the foundation of everything. Every thing in this world contains mana, and if you can control pure mana, you can control anything. That's what Noctharion told me.
It sounded simple. It wasn't.
Each element has its own nature and temperament. Fire is rash and violent; water is patient and adaptive; earth is stubborn; air is fickle. To learn an element you don't just force it — you have to understand it. You have to make it understand you.
I can already use fire. My family's spear style relies on it. But Noctharion rewired my base, and now I had to learn from the beginning — not just how to fling flames, but how to be the element that commands them.
I sat cross-legged on the cold floor of my room, facing Noctharion. His presence loomed like a shadow pressing down on me, calm yet suffocating.
"Now that you've gained decent control over mana," he began, voice steady as ever, "we'll move to the next step."
My eyes twitched. Decent? I'd been grinding every single day for the past six months—hours upon hours of endless practice, bleeding, sweating, breaking myself just to mold mana to my will. And all he called it was decent.
For a moment, I wanted to jump at him, to throw every curse and strike I had bottled up inside. But then I remembered who he was—what he was. The benefits he could offer me, the power he held. I clenched my fists and swallowed the frustration.
Not that I could actually do anything to him anyway.
"We'll start with fire," he continued, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're already familiar with it. That will make things easier."
Kael, start controlling your mana. Focus it in front of you," he said.
I did as commanded. Drawing my breath steady, I willed the mana to gather before me. In seconds, a pale sphere of pure mana condensed and hovered in the air, humming faintly as if alive.
"Good," Noctharion said, his sharp eyes glinting. Then, with a tone that carried weight, he added, "Now… convert this pure mana into fire."
My brow furrowed. Convert it?
"How?" I asked, genuinely confused. Controlling fire came to me like instinct, as natural as breathing. But converting raw, pure mana into an element? That was something I had never even heard of.
Noctharion seemed almost amused by my hesitation, as though waiting for the question. "You have to change the nature of mana," he said simply.
"Nature?" I echoed, trying to grasp it.
"Yes, nature." His voice dropped, calm yet firm. "The mana you're holding is pure—so pure that it is natureless. That, in itself, is its nature. It can become anything you will it to be. Fire, water, lightning… it is all the same in its origin."
I swallowed hard, staring at the floating sphere. Change its nature?
"To change it," Noctharion continued, his gaze boring into me, "you must understand the essence of the element you seek. Not its form. Not its appearance. Its truth."
He stepped closer, the weight of his presence suffocating. "So, Kael… tell me. What is fire?.
"What is fire…?" I muttered to myself.
Noctharion stood before me, his dark eyes steady, silently waiting for my answer.
I had used fire before—called upon its flames in battle—but I had never stopped to truly understand it. To me, fire was simply…
"Fire is something that burns," I said at last, my voice uncertain. It sounded more like a question than an answer.
Noctharion tilted his head slightly. "Is that all?"
His calm words struck deeper than a shout.
"Then… can you tell me?" I asked, almost pleading.
But his response was not the one I hoped for.
"No, Kael," Noctharion said. "Each person carries their own meaning. The same flame can be a thousand things, depending on whose eyes witness it. It is perspective—what you see, and what you choose to see."
His gaze sharpened, and his voice turned heavy with certainty.
"For me, fire is destruction. But that is my truth. It will not help you. You must find your own."
Silence pressed in around me. His words coiled in my chest, leaving me with only the question echoing in my mind.
What is fire… to me?
What does it truly represent?