First Fractures The academy did not ease students into First Class.
It tested whether they deserved to remain.
Atelion arrived at the swordsmanship training hall before the sun fully crested the eastern towers.
The hall was vast an open stone arena reinforced with layered enchantments, its floor scarred by decades of controlled destruction.
Weapon racks lined the walls, blades of every length and weight resting in silent order.
First Class students gathered gradually.
Some wore noble crests openly.
Others carried themselves with the quiet sharpness of commoners who had clawed their way here through talent alone.
Tension existed, but it was restrained First Class students understood that obvious posturing was weakness.
Atelion took a position near the edge, posture relaxed, senses open.
He noted everything.
Footwork habits.
Breathing rhythms.
Aura leakage.
None of it escaped him.
Then the air changed.
A presence entered the hall without announcement, and every swordsman felt it immediately like pressure settling into bone.
The instructor.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his frame built not for display but for function.
A single sword rested at his hip, plain and unadorned.
His aura was not flared, yet it radiated solidity six stars, condensed to the point of near invisibility.
"Stand straight," he said.
Not loudly.
But the command struck like steel.
Students corrected themselves instantly.
"I am Instructor Kaelren," he continued.
"Six-star knight. Former commander of the western legions."
His gaze swept across them, impersonal.
"If you are here, it means you met the academy's minimum standards. That does not impress me."
A few jaws tightened.
"In this hall, talent is irrelevant. Only discipline matters."
He drew his sword.
No flourish.
No aura release.
Then he stepped forward.
The ground cracked beneath his foot.
A shockwave rippled outward not violent, but absolute.
Several students stumbled, caught off guard by the sudden assertion of presence.
Atelion absorbed it without moving, adjusting aura flow instinctively to counterbalance.
Kaelren noticed.
His eyes lingered for a fraction longer on Atelion than the others.
"Good," he said.
"At least one of you understands where you are."
Training began without mercy.
Stances first.
Not the advanced forms many expected, but the most basic sword posture imaginable.
"Again," Kaelren ordered, circling them.
"Your foundation is wrong."
Minutes stretched into hours.
Sweat pooled.
Muscles trembled.
Pride eroded.
Whenever a student faltered, Kaelren corrected them physically pushing a shoulder into alignment, striking a knee lightly with the flat of his blade, forcing balance to be felt, not explained.
Atelion followed every correction precisely.
Not blindly.
He analyzed.
Kaelren's methods stripped away wasted motion, reinforcing efficiency over force.
Aura was allowed, but only minimally any excess was met with immediate reprimand.
"Control," Kaelren said sharply, tapping a student's chest.
"If I can feel your aura from three steps away, you're leaking it."
He stopped before Atelion.
"You," he said. "Release your aura."
Atelion complied barely.
A thin layer coated his muscles, invisible to most.
Kaelren narrowed his eyes.
"More."
Atelion increased output by a fraction.
The instructor's brow furrowed.
"Enough," Kaelren said after a pause. "You walk a thin line."
"Yes," Atelion replied calmly.
Kaelren studied him for a moment longer, then moved on.
No praise followed.
Which meant approval.
The magic hall contrasted sharply.
Where the sword hall was brutal and direct, the magic lecture chamber was coldly precise. Rows of tiered seating faced a floating slate etched with complex sigils. Mana density was higher here, pressing subtly against the senses.
First Class mage students filled the room.
Atelion entered last, drawing glances immediately.
Dual-path status carried weight here too some curious, others openly skeptical.
The instructor arrived silently.
A woman with silver hair pulled back tightly, eyes sharp behind thin-framed lenses. Six circles of mana rested within her, perfectly ordered.
"I am Instructor Selmyra," she said. "Theory and application of spellcraft."
She did not raise her voice.
She did not need to.
"This class will not reward creativity," she continued. "It will reward understanding."
The slate lit up.
Equations. Mana flow diagrams. Spell matrices layered over geometric proofs.
Several students stiffened.
Atelion leaned forward slightly.
This, this was familiar.
"Magic is not art," Selmyra said. "It is structured reality manipulation. Those who treat it otherwise will fail."
Her gaze flicked briefly to Atelion.
"Especially those who believe efficiency excuses deviation."
Atelion met her eyes without flinching.
The lesson moved fast.
Too fast for many.
Mana theory intertwined with physics, mathematics, and conceptual logic.
Questions were posed without warning.
Incorrect answers were corrected without gentleness.
When Selmyra pointed at Atelion, the room stilled.
"Explain third-circle compression without chant dependency," she said.
Atelion stood.
"Chants stabilize intent," he replied evenly. "Compression replaces verbal structure with internalized pattern recognition. It requires precise mana circulation and mental synchronization. Failure results in backlash."
A pause.
Selmyra adjusted her glasses. "Risks?"
"Mana scarring.
Cognitive overload. Structural collapse of spell matrix." "And why attempt it?" "Efficiency," Atelion said. "And control."
Selmyra studied him for a long moment.
"Sit," she said finally.
No praise.
But no rebuke either.
Caelum glanced at Atelion from two rows down, expression tight.
By midday, exhaustion had settled into the bones of First Class.
Atelion moved between halls with measured steps, mind cataloging everything.
Swordsmanship demanded submission to form.
Magic demanded submission to logic.
And between them lay a fault line no one else could walk.
Yet.
He felt it.
Not conflict.
Balance.
Still fragile.
Still incomplete.
But present.
From the upper terraces, eyes continued to watch.
The Student Council vice-president exhaled slowly. "He's adapting faster than projected."
The president nodded. "He isn't forcing the academy to change."
"That's worse."
"Yes," the president agreed. "It means he's changing himself."
Atelion returned to his assigned quarters as evening fell.
He closed the door, sat cross-legged on the floor, and exhaled slowly.
Aura circulation first.
Then mana.
Separate.
Controlled.
He adjusted minutely, testing boundaries, mapping resistance.
Pain flickered briefly at the edges of perception.
He stopped immediately.
Too soon.
He opened his eyes.
First lessons, he thought.
First fractures.
And tomorrow, the academy would press harder.