The morning air was sharp, tinged with the scent of polished wood, stone, and the faint metallic tang of practiced blades. The Royal Academy's courtyard, which had seemed so vast yesterday, now felt like a cage to Han Wei-Lin. Every corner, every platform, every shadow seemed magnified, as if the academy itself were testing him. The mockery from the Entrance Trial clung to him like an invisible chain, whispering that he was nothing, that he would never rise above his weakness.
Yet, despite the lingering shame, Wei-Lin gripped his wooden sword tighter. The flicker of determination inside him refused to die. Every night of training, every drop of sweat, every bruise and blister he had endured over the past weeks—none of it had been wasted. Today, he told himself, today he would survive.
The courtyard had transformed overnight. Platforms marked with glowing runes had been raised, forming arenas for combat. Pits of sand and gravel created natural hazards, and instructors moved among them, their eyes sharp, nodding at some students while shaking their heads at others. The whispering crowd grew louder, anticipation buzzing in the morning air. Some students had already begun warming up, their movements fluid and precise, like dancers performing a deadly ballet. Wei-Lin's gaze lingered on them, his heart both heavy and hopeful.
"Han Wei-Lin," a sharp, commanding voice called. It belonged to Instructor Mei-Yan, known for her unforgiving demeanor. Her eyes, dark and precise, scanned the students like a hawk surveying prey. "Step onto the arena. Your opponent awaits."
Wei-Lin's stomach twisted. His first opponent was no ordinary student. It was Liang Zhi-Hao, a senior student whose name alone carried weight. Zhi-Hao was renowned throughout the academy for his sword mastery and martial prowess, and his presence exuded an aura of lethal precision. He moved with a confidence that Wei-Lin could only dream of, his eyes sharp, cold, and calculating.
The whispers of the crowd intensified. Some students smirked, some shook their heads, anticipating a quick defeat. Wei-Lin swallowed hard, his throat dry. His wooden sword, the same simple practice blade he had swung countless times in the courtyard, felt heavier than ever. He flexed his fingers, trying to shake the trembling that threatened to betray his fear.
Zhi-Hao's gaze met his, unwavering and sharp. "Don't waste my time, Wei-Lin. Step aside, and I'll end this quickly."
Wei-Lin did not move. He squared his stance, recalling every tip, every observation he had committed to memory from yesterday. He did not yet have the strength to match Zhi-Hao's skill, but he could endure. He could survive. And for now, survival was enough.
The bell rang, cutting through the murmurs like a blade. It was the signal—the duel had begun.
Zhi-Hao lunged, his sword a silver blur. Wei-Lin raised his wooden blade just in time, the impact sending a shockwave up his arms. Wood scraped against steel, the sound echoing through the courtyard. Pain shot through his forearms, but he held his ground.
The crowd gasped. Some whispered in disbelief. "Did he just block that?"
Zhi-Hao's eyes narrowed. "Interesting… for a beginner."
Wei-Lin's chest heaved. Each strike from Zhi-Hao was precise, testing every reflex, every instinct. He could not match the power or the fluidity of Zhi-Hao's movements, but he observed, adapted, and endured. Each parry, each staggered dodge, each narrowly avoided strike, taught him something new.
Minutes passed—or maybe hours. Wei-Lin had lost track of time. Sweat streamed down his face, his arms trembled, and his legs burned with the effort of maintaining balance and form. Every instinct screamed that he was outmatched, yet beneath the fear, the flicker inside him burned brighter.
Then came the spinning strike. Zhi-Hao, confident and unrelenting, attempted a sweeping arc aimed to end the match. Wei-Lin froze for a heartbeat. Time seemed to slow. His instincts took over. He shifted his weight, pivoting on his feet, and the blade barely grazed his cloak, sending a shiver down his spine.
The crowd erupted. Murmurs of awe replaced the earlier whispers. Wei-Lin's heart raced faster than his breaths, adrenaline flooding his veins. He felt a rush of clarity, a surge of energy he could not yet name. It was subtle, fleeting, but undeniable—a heartbeat of potential.
Zhi-Hao paused, studying him with narrowed eyes. "Interesting… perhaps there is more to you than I imagined."
Wei-Lin did not respond. He had no victory to claim. No cheers awaited him, only the pounding of his heart and the weight of exhaustion. Yet he had survived. And survival, he realized, was the first step toward growth.
The bell rang again, signaling the end of the trial. Wei-Lin staggered back, sweat and dust clinging to him, his wooden sword barely steady in his trembling hands. Zhi-Hao offered a nod—not of friendship, but of recognition. Wei-Lin was still a beginner, but he had endured where most would have fallen.
As Wei-Lin sank to his knees, exhaustion threatening to drag him under, he felt it—the first surge of something extraordinary. It was not strength, nor skill, nor magic. It was potential, fragile but luminous, a seed buried deep within him, waiting to grow.
Somewhere above the courtyard, shadows shifted. A subtle presence lingered, silent and observing, as though the academy itself were taking note of the boy who had survived. Wei-Lin did not notice it, nor did he understand its significance. But the air had changed—charged with the faint scent of danger and power.
Instructor Mei-Yan approached, her gaze appraising. "You have endurance, Wei-Lin," she said, her tone measured but not unkind. "Endurance can be a weapon if tempered with skill. You must refine it. Grow stronger. Only then will you survive the challenges ahead."
Wei-Lin nodded, swallowing hard. He could barely speak. His arms trembled, his legs ached, and his lungs burned with effort. Yet a fire kindled in his chest, brighter than exhaustion or fear. Every fall, every insult, every failure from the past had led him to this moment. And from this moment forward, there was only one path: forward.
He rose unsteadily, adjusting his grip on the wooden sword. Around him, the crowd began to disperse, whispers fading into the wind. Wei-Lin's eyes, however, were fixed on the horizon, where the spires of the academy glinted in the sunlight, hiding trials and dangers yet to come.
The courtyard, now quiet, seemed almost serene—but Wei-Lin sensed the storm beneath the surface. Somewhere, in the corners of the academy and beyond its walls, dangers were gathering. Students far stronger than him, beasts of unimaginable power, and perhaps even forces that defied comprehension. Yet the flicker inside him continued to burn, faint but unyielding.
I am Han Wei-Lin, he thought, every word a vow. And I will not be forgotten.
He took a deep breath, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. His hands still shook, his muscles screamed in protest, but his resolve had crystallized. The path ahead was long, filled with pain, betrayal, and relentless struggle. But each step he took now was a step closer to the day when he would stand among the strongest—not as a shadow, but as a force that could not be ignored.
And somewhere in the distant sky, where dark clouds gathered beyond the horizon, a presence stirred. Unseen, unimaginable, yet unmistakably watching. Wei-Lin had survived today, but the world would not remain gentle forever. The first trial was over, but the real journey—the one that would test his body, mind, and spirit—was only just beginning.
For the first time, Han Wei-Lin smiled, faint but resolute. The academy was vast. The challenges were many. But one truth burned brighter than fear, exhaustion, or doubt: he had taken the first step.
And he would not stop until he had claimed his place in a world that had long forgotten his name.