Night settled over the training grounds like a quiet verdict.
The lanterns along the perimeter burned low, their Axiom-fed flames flickering with a steady, artificial calm, too steady, too perfect. Their glow cast long, rigid shadows across the dirt and trampled grass, stretching weapons racks into skeletal silhouettes. Most cadets had long since returned to the barracks, exhaustion dragging them away in uneven lines, armor clinking dully with each step.
The field, once deafening with steel and spell, now lay silent.
Mostly.
I stood alone at the edge of the grounds, sword in hand.
The weapon felt unfamiliar.
Not heavy—no, I had lifted heavier things. Broken doors. Fallen beams. Corpses.This was different.
Foreign.
The leather wrap of the hilt bit into my palm as I adjusted my grip, thumb tightening, fingers correcting their position by instinct rather than knowledge. I rolled my wrist slightly, testing balance. The blade caught the lantern light as I raised it, a pale shimmer crawling along the steel like something alive but restrained.
A memory surfaced without invitation.
Sunspire.
Before the dungeon.Before exile.Before blood had weight.
I could almost hear his voice again—my instructor from House Therion. An old man with scarred knuckles, hair perpetually tied back, and an unyielding gaze that never softened, not even toward nobles.
"Power is useless if your body lies to it.""A sword is not swung," he would say, tapping my sternum, "it is guided."
I exhaled slowly, grounding myself.
Then I moved.
The sword cut through the air in a clean arc, the faint whistle of steel slicing darkness.
Too wide.
I corrected my stance and swung again—feet adjusting, shoulders tightening, spine aligning the way it had been drilled into me years ago. The motion was better, but still wrong. My arms burned almost immediately. Not from weight, but from unfamiliar motion. Muscles trained for endurance protested at precision.
Again.
And again.
Sweat dampened my collar, running cold down my spine as the night air clung to my skin. My breath came heavier, fogging faintly with each exhale. The blade sang softly with every pass, a thin, mournful sound—slicing nothing but darkness, biting into empty space.
I wasn't graceful.
I wasn't skilled.
But I was relentless.
Magic wasn't always an option.
My fists—no matter how hardened—were not a path I could rely on forever. I had learned that lesson in blood and stone. Mana failed. Axiom destabilized. Bodies broke.
Steel did not lie.
If I wanted control…
I needed a weapon.
The final swing came slower than the others.
The sword dipped slightly at the end of its arc.
Fatigue caught up with me all at once, crashing through discipline like a wave through rotten timber. My shoulders trembled. My grip loosened just a fraction.
I lowered the blade—
And froze.
Someone stood ahead of me.
Tall.
Still.
Watching.
General Ignis.
The lantern light bent strangely around him, as if unwilling to touch him directly. He stood with his hands behind his back, posture relaxed, yet immovable—like the mountain looming beyond the field.
My spine snapped straight on instinct.
I brought the sword upright and stood at attention, heels together, heart pounding far louder than my breath.
"Good evening, sir!" I said sharply.
His presence was oppressive in a way that had nothing to do with magic. There was no mana pressure, no Axiom flare—nothing overt. And yet the air around him felt settled. Heavy. As though reality itself preferred he remain where he stood.
"It is past training hours," he said calmly. "What are you doing, Cadet Elrin?"
I swallowed.
There was no point lying.
"Sir," I said, choosing my words carefully, "I observed that my physical capabilities do not yet match the demands of the corps I am assigned to. I believed it necessary to hone my skills further… while time permitted."
Ignis studied me.
Not my posture.
Not the sword.
Me.
His gaze was sharp, dissecting, stripping layers away without effort.
"I can see that," he said after a moment. "Your resolve is adequate."
Adequate.
Then he stepped closer.
"But your form is not."
Before I could react, he flowed into motion.
One step.
One turn.
Two fingers pressed against my shoulder. A tap against my knee. His movements were so efficient I barely registered them as actions—more like corrections reality itself had decided upon.
My stance shifted.
Balanced.
Grounded.
"You do not lack power," Ignis continued evenly. "You lack stability."
The words struck harder than any blow.
Something clicked.
He was right.
My body had adapted—endured weeks of punishment, repetition, deprivation. It had learned to survive.
But adapted was not mastered.
Control was still beyond me.
"Your Axiom manipulation," he said, circling me slowly, boots soundless against the dirt, "and your magic—more precisely—are unstable. And your body mirrors that flaw."
"Yes, sir," I replied quietly. "I acknowledge that."
Ignis stopped directly in front of me.
"Why did you join the military, Elrin Mornye?"
The question wasn't loud.
But it dug deep.
Images surfaced unbidden—my parents' blood staining marble floors, the dungeon's maw yawning open beneath my feet, rage simmering beneath discipline like magma beneath stone.
My revenge.
My hatred.
My plan.
"I…" My voice faltered. "…I—"
I clenched my jaw.
Forced myself to breathe.
Then I spoke.
"I joined," I said slowly, deliberately, "because power without order creates tyrants… and order without power creates victims. I want to stand where neither can exist unchecked."
Silence stretched.
Ignis's gaze sharpened—not in suspicion, but in interest.
"…I see."
He nodded once.
Then his hand moved to his belt.
"Tell me," he said, tapping the gun holstered at his side, "when you see this during training—what comes to your mind?"
I remembered the muttering.The disdain.The belief that guns were for those too weak to wield steel or magic.
"I thought it was practical," I answered honestly. "A gun acts faster than mana recovery. It has range. With proper powder and Axiom channels, it gains penetration. A sword excels at close range. A gun compensates for distance. Together, they are… efficient."
Ignis blinked.
Just once.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"You are observant," he said. "Most only see tradition."
Then his expression hardened.
"I cannot use magic," he continued. "My Axiom meridians are sealed from birth."
I stiffened despite myself.
"But," he added, tapping his chest, "I still possess Axiom. And I can see what others cannot since I am neutral"
His gaze shifted.
Locked onto my right arm.
"That arm of yours… is different."
My heart skipped.
"It's just a scar," I said carefully.
"No," Ignis replied flatly. "Its Axiom frequency is distinct. Pure. Faintly luminous. A bruise does not glow."
Cold crept up my spine.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You cannot hide it from me," he said. "Tell me—how do you intend to use it?"
My thoughts scattered.
Plans dissolved.
Excuses failed.
Then I stopped trying to shape them.
"I intend," I said quietly, firmly, "to ensure no child ever experiences what I did."
Ignis exhaled slowly.
His presence shifted—lightened.
For the first time—
He smiled.
"…Kid," he said, "I may not wield magic. But I know weapons."
The sword vanished from my hand.
I blinked.
Ignis held it effortlessly, blade resting across his palm.
Undetectable speed.
Absolute control.
"I will teach you," he said over his shoulder, already turning away, "your way around weapons."
"So—so you'll be my mentor?" I asked, following him without thinking.
"I said I'll teach you," he snapped.
"…So yes?"
He stopped.
Sighed deeply.
"From tomorrow," he muttered, "0100 hours. Foot of the mountain. Be late and you're done."
"SIR YES SIR!"
He didn't turn back.
But I could swear—
He was smiling.