Asher's POV
The sun hadn't fully risen when I reached the outer training grounds, but I wasn't alone.
Darek was already there.
That alone told me today was going to be different.
He stood near the center of the yard, spear planted beside him, jacket discarded on the ground. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, chest rising and falling in steady, controlled breaths. Unlike his usual warm-ups—fast, loud, and aggressive—today he moved slowly, deliberately, like he was trying to listen to his own body.
I stopped a few steps away and watched.
His stance wasn't perfect, but it was stable. Knees bent just enough. Weight centered instead of leaning forward. Every inhale expanded his chest fully before he released it through his nose, jaw clenched as if he was holding something back.
"You're early," I said.
He flinched slightly, then shot me an annoyed look. "You walk too quietly now. It's unsettling."
"Rank 1 privilege," I replied. "Sneakiness comes free."
He snorted and wiped sweat from his brow. "I didn't come early. I just didn't leave."
That made me raise an eyebrow. "Didn't sleep?"
"Didn't want to." He rolled his shoulders, muscles shifting beneath his skin. "Every time I stop moving, my body feels like it's about to… I don't know. Tip over."
I nodded. "That's a good sign."
"Doesn't feel good."
"It's not supposed to."
I set my sword down and stretched slowly, letting my body settle into motion. Compared to Darek, everything felt smooth—too smooth sometimes. Watching him struggle through the edge reminded me of how close he was.
Close enough to be dangerous.
"Let's train," he said. "Properly. No holding back."
I tilted my head. "You sure?"
He grinned. "If I break something, I'll blame you."
"Deal."
We started with fundamentals.
No sparring at first. No techniques. Just movement.
Darek drilled spear thrusts—straight, repeatable motions meant to burn form into muscle memory. Each thrust came faster than the last, arms tightening, breath growing harsher. I could see it clearly now: the resistance. His body was pushing against an invisible ceiling, demanding more than it could give.
I moved beside him, practicing slow sword forms.
Slash. Step. Turn. Recover.
Every movement felt grounded, deliberate. The Sword Path didn't demand speed or strength—it demanded honesty. And Darek was being brutally honest with himself today.
After an hour, his movements began to lose sharpness.
Not sloppy.
Heavy.
He paused, leaning on his spear, chest heaving. "Something's wrong."
"No," I said calmly. "Something's about to change."
He looked at me sharply. "You felt this too?"
"Yeah."
I stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. His muscles were rigid, humming faintly with mana that refused to settle.
"You've pushed your body to its limit," I continued. "Now it's pushing back. That's the line."
He swallowed. "So what do I do?"
"Stop forcing it," I said. "Let it catch up."
We sat under the shade of a broken structure at the edge of the yard. Darek's hands trembled slightly as he drank water.
"I hate this part," he muttered.
"Everyone does."
"Feels like I'm failing."
I snorted. "If you were failing, you'd be comfortable."
That got a weak chuckle out of him.
After a few minutes, he stood again.
"I want to try something," he said.
I didn't stop him.
This time, he didn't pick up the spear.
He planted his feet firmly into the dirt, closed his eyes, and focused inward. His breathing slowed—not forced, not shallow. Just steady.
I stepped back, giving him space.
Mana gathered faintly around him, not violently, not explosively. It flowed along his muscles, threading through flesh and bone as if searching for somewhere to settle.
His jaw clenched.
Sweat poured down his face.
Then his body shuddered.
Not in pain.
In resistance.
The ground beneath his feet cracked slightly as his stance deepened instinctively, knees bending just enough to stabilize the surge. His breathing hitched once—twice—then steadied.
And then—
It stopped.
The pressure vanished.
Darek opened his eyes slowly.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at his hands.
Then he flexed his fingers.
His posture changed—not dramatically, but unmistakably. Weight settled. Movements sharpened. The restless tension that had clung to him all morning faded, replaced by a quiet, solid presence.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
"…Oh," he said softly.
I smiled. "Welcome."
He laughed—short, breathless, almost disbelieving. "That's it?"
"That's it."
He picked up his spear.
The difference was immediate.
The weapon no longer dragged his balance forward. It aligned with him, an extension instead of a burden. He swung once, experimentally, the air splitting cleanly around the shaft.
His eyes widened. "I don't feel tired."
"You're not," I said. "You're complete. At least for now."
He turned to me, a grin stretching wide across his face. "Rank 1."
"Rank 1," I confirmed.
He let out a loud laugh that echoed across the yard. "I did it!"
"You did."
Without warning, he lunged at me.
I barely had time to react before the spear stopped inches from my chest.
We both froze.
Then we burst out laughing.
"Okay," he said, pulling back. "Okay. Maybe not that excited."
We sparred lightly after that.
Not seriously—just enough for him to feel the difference. His movements were cleaner now, less wasteful. He still lacked my balance, but the gap had narrowed.
Significantly.
By the time the sun climbed higher, we sat side by side, staring out at the city.
Rank 1 had claimed another.
And this time, I wasn't alone at the starting line.
Whatever was coming next, we'd face it together.
At least until one of us pulled ahead.
End of Chapter 12 - "Shared Ground"