Azriel left the library with empty hands—the two volumes he had briefly opened remained on the reading table. He carried nothing away but the words already absorbed.
He walked the corridors back to his room in the same slow, unhurried pace, the boredom still clinging to him like faint dust.
The door to his room opened with a low scrape of iron bolts. He stepped inside.
The space was small and stark, more like a jail cell than a bedroom. No windows pierced the thick stone walls, leaving the room windowless and dim. A single iron door with a narrow viewing slit served as the only exit, bolted from the outside when the guards deemed it necessary. A lone mana-lamp hung from the ceiling, its weak golden glow barely reaching the corners, casting long shadows across the narrow cot, a plain wooden table, and a single chair. The floor was cold flagstone, the air stale and heavy with the faint scent of damp stone and old iron. Everything was functional, unadorned, and deliberately uncomfortable—designed to remind its occupant that this was confinement, not kindness.
He had spent only thirty minutes reading the 180-page book on Mana and Mana Circulation in the library, yet he had already finished it entirely. Without any help, without guidance or repetition, he had grasped the basics. More than that—he had fully understood the very concept and theory of mana: its flow, its circulation patterns, its nature as a living current that could be shaped, stored, and directed by will alone.
He sat on the edge of the cot, black eyes staring at the opposite wall without focus. The yellow vow-mark on his palm pulsed once—soft, steady, satisfied.
Then he lay down, fully clothed, and closed his eyes.
Sleep came instantly, deep and dreamless.
At dawn, before the first light could even dream of reaching the windowless room, Azriel's eyes opened. He sat up, calm, unchanged, the boredom still there like a quiet companion.
He stood, stretched once, and waited for the day to begin.
The iron door unlocked with a heavy clank from the outside. Two guards stepped in, armored and silent, their faces tense beneath their helmets. Without a word, they gestured for him to follow.
Azriel walked out between them, barefoot steps soft on the cold stone corridor. They guided him through the manor's winding passages, past shuttered windows and sleeping halls, until they reached an open courtyard at the rear—the training ground Michael had mentioned.
The sky above was still dark gray, edged with the faintest promise of dawn. The ground was packed earth, marked by shallow ruts and faint scorch lines from past mana drills. Wooden dummies stood in rows, some splintered from previous strikes. A low stone wall bordered the area, and a single mana-lamp post cast pale light over the space.
The guards took positions at the courtyard's edge, hands on weapons, eyes never leaving Azriel.
He stood alone in the center, waiting.
The boredom remained, patient as ever.
Somewhere in the manor, Michael would soon arrive.
And the training would begin.
Azriel had time to spare before Michael arrived.
He stepped into the center of the training ground, the packed earth cool beneath his bare feet. The sky was still a deep pre-dawn gray, the mana-lamps along the courtyard walls casting long, pale pools of light across the dirt.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then began.
The book on Mana and Circulation had been clear—mana was a living current, drawn from the world and cycled through the body in precise, rhythmic patterns. Breathing in, gathering; breathing out, guiding. Azriel had read the principles once, absorbed the diagrams and explanations in minutes, and even as his eyes moved across the page, his body had instinctively begun to mirror them—subtle shifts in posture, faint tightening of muscles, the quiet pull of something unseen flowing inward.
Now, alone in the courtyard, he let it happen fully.
He inhaled slowly.
Mana answered—thin threads of pale silver light drifting in from the air around him, drawn through his skin like breath through lungs. He guided it downward along his spine, then outward through his limbs in a steady loop: down the front, up the back, a simple, foundational circulation.
It was not perfect.
The flow stuttered at his core—faint tremors where the threads hesitated, as though unsure of the path. Tiny ripples disrupted the smooth cycle, causing brief flickers in the silver light that clung to his skin. But it was stable enough—basic, functional, already far beyond what a novice should achieve after thirty minutes of reading.
Azriel did not smile.
He did not frown.
He simply continued—patient, methodical—adjusting the flow with small, instinctive corrections until the stutters lessened, the cycle grew smoother.
The yellow vow-mark on his palm glowed faintly in time with each loop.
He was still circulating—eyes half-lidded, body motionless except for the subtle rise and fall of his chest—when Michael arrived early.
The knight stepped through the courtyard gate silently, armor muted in the gray light. He stopped at the edge of the training ground, arms crossed, watching.
Azriel's mana circulation was visible now—faint silver lines tracing the major pathways along his arms, torso, and legs, pulsing gently with each breath. The flow was a bit unstable—occasional flickers, minor hesitations at the dantian—but it was good. Shockingly good. Basic enough for a beginner, yet executed with the precision of someone who had practiced for years.
Michael's brow furrowed slightly.
He had expected clumsiness.
He had expected mistakes.
Instead, he saw competence—raw, instinctive, and unnervingly natural.
He stepped forward, boots crunching on the earth.
"Impressive," Michael said quietly, voice carrying across the open ground.
"For someone who read the book once. You're already circulating properly. The instability is there—your core hasn't adapted yet—but the foundation is solid."
Azriel opened his eyes fully, the silver lines fading as he exhaled and let the mana settle.
He turned to face Michael without haste.
No pride.
No surprise.
Just the same calm, bored patience.
Michael studied him for a long moment.
"We'll refine it," he said.
"But first… show me what you can do with it."
The knight drew Dawnbreaker halfway from its sheath, the blade catching the first true ray of dawn light.
Azriel waited.
The training ground was still.
The guards at the edges watched in silence.
And somewhere inside the boy, the hunger stirred—patient, amused, and already calculating how to turn even this lesson into something more.
Training had begun.
Training had begun.
Michael's teaching style was brutal—relentless, unforgiving, forged in the fires of real battlefields where hesitation meant death. He did not coddle. He did not explain twice. He demonstrated once, struck hard, and expected immediate replication.
Azriel's perseverance and patience met it head-on—slow, methodical, absorbing every lesson without complaint, quietly yearning for more.
Dawnbreaker flashed, meeting Azriel's bare forearm in a controlled strike that rang like metal on stone. Michael pulled back immediately, eyes sharp.
"Mana circulation," he said, circling. "It's the foundation. You breathe it in, cycle it through your meridians, let it flow like blood. Linear Flow for power. Circular for defense. Spiral for speed. Simple. Master it, and you live. Fail, and you burn out inside."
He lunged again, sword edge aimed at Azriel's shoulder—testing, not killing.
Azriel shifted, mana flickering along his arm in faint silver threads. The block was clean, but the flow stuttered at his core.
Michael stepped in, palm slamming into Azriel's chest to disrupt the cycle.
"Too slow. Mana isn't patient. It demands precision."
Azriel exhaled once, realigned without a word, and countered—palm strike toward Michael's ribs. The knight parried, but felt the pressure behind it.
Michael's brow furrowed.
"Your core…" he said, lowering the blade slightly. "It's black. Not white. White is the starting point for everyone—basic, unstable, the first color you earn through circulation training. You should be struggling with white right now. But you're already circulating something else. Something reversed."
He stepped back, studying Azriel like a puzzle.
"Tell me. How did you do it? Reversing the flow inside yourself—every meridian should have blocked it. Even if you forced it, the backlash would kill you instantly. No one survives reversed circulation. No one."
Azriel met his gaze, expression blank.
"I just did it," he said quietly. "It felt natural."
Michael exhaled sharply.
"Natural or not, you've created your own technique. What do you call it?"
"Empty. Empty Flow." Azriel replied subconsciously, as Michael raised Dawnbreaker again.
"Well, that's befitting."
He attacked—faster, harder, each strike aimed to shatter the reversed flow.
Azriel endured, Empty Flow cycling in perfect reverse loops, silver-black threads flickering along his limbs. The pressure around him thickened subtly, oppressive even when you suppressed.
Michael struck once more—gauntlet to the sternum.
Azriel slid back a step, but the flow held.
Michael lowered the blade, breathing hard.
"You're not just learning," he said. "You're feeling."
Azriel said nothing.
He simply reset his stance, black eyes calm, waiting for the next strike.
The training ground was silent except for the wind and the faint hum of mana in the air.
Michael tightened his grip.
"Again. Your stance... Is a mere copy of mine," he smirks. "You act on insticts and copy what you see. What are you, some monkey?"
Michael sighs.
"You'll be learning sword paths from me—and my technique. Endure everything, kid."
Michael's words hung in the dawn air like a promise and a threat.
Azriel met his gaze without blinking, the wooden sword still loose in his grip.
The hellish training was just beginning.
From this day forward, every dawn would bring the same merciless rhythm: Michael's strikes, his corrections, his demands for perfection. Azriel would endure it all—silent, patient, absorbing each lesson like a void drinking light.
The knight would push him to the edge of collapse, believing he was forging a weapon for justice. Azriel would simply endure, refine, and wait—quietly yearning for the next step, the next fragment of power, the next soul to devour.
The training ground stood empty except for the two of them and the distant guards.
The sun rose higher.
And the real forging had only just begun.