I clashed with Darius, the sharp ring of steel echoing as his rapier struck again and again with precise, controlled intent. With every exchange, he grew faster—not just in speed, but in understanding. His movements adapted mid-fight, his thrusts becoming sharper, more decisive.
Then suddenly—he accelerated.
It wasn't gradual. It was a burst.
The rapier shot forward, a silver blur aimed straight at my throat. Even I was caught off guard. I twisted just in time, the blade grazing past as I slid back, boots scraping the ground. "That was close," I muttered. Darius clicked his tongue, annoyed.
My eyes flickered to my sword for a brief moment. Should I? A small smirk formed as I flipped the blade in my hand.
Reverse grip.
Across the room, Ron's gaze locked onto me instantly. His expression shifted—sharp, focused. He didn't speak, but it was obvious.
He noticed.
Darius didn't hesitate. He lunged again, faster than before, trying to punish the change. But the moment he entered my range, everything shifted. I twisted my body, letting the thrust slip past as my blade came up from below at an unnatural angle.
He parried—but his rhythm broke.
I stepped in immediately.
Closing the distance.
The rapier began to lose its advantage.
My strikes became shorter, sharper, more aggressive. Darius tried to regain space, his footwork tightening as he adjusted, his thrusts becoming more precise. But the reverse grip changed the angles entirely. Each attack came from directions he wasn't used to reading.
He pushed harder, speeding up again.
One thrust slipped through—barely grazing my side.
Close.
I exhaled softly. Good.
This time, I moved first.
I stepped in aggressively, my blade carving an inverted arc that forced him to block. He slid back slightly from the impact, and before he could reset, I followed up instantly. Another strike. Then another.
The rhythm shifted.
Now—I was the one pushing.
Darius' breathing grew heavier as he tried to stabilize, his stance tightening under pressure. He made one final push, committing fully as the rapier shot forward in a decisive thrust.
All or nothing.
I sidestepped.
Twisted.
My blade struck his wrist cleanly.
The rapier flew from his hand.
Silence fell for a moment as my sword stopped just short of his neck.
"…You lose."
Darius exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping slightly. "…Yeah."
Across the room, Ron stared, his grip tightening around his sword.
He saw it once…
His eyes narrowed, something like excitement flickering within them.
And already picked it up?
A slow grin spread across his face.
"…Interesting."
…
Meanwhile, Leon and Reinheart's clash continued, their blades striking again and again, the sound sharp yet controlled. Unlike the others, their fight wasn't explosive—it was… restrained, almost suffocating in its tension.
Reinheart's thoughts churned.
Why am I losing my composure to him?
His eyes flicked toward the boy in front of him.
There was nothing remarkable.
No refined stance.
No elegant technique.
Leon's swordsmanship was… plain.
His movements lacked any visible style, no flourish, no signature, nothing that would distinguish him from a common trainee.
And yet—
Reinheart's eyes narrowed slightly.
I see.
There was nothing special about him.
But there was also—
nothing wrong.
Every swing.
Every step.
Every reaction.
Perfectly placed.
No wasted motion.
No openings.
No hesitation.
It wasn't that Leon was overwhelming him—
It was that he was impossible to exploit.
And the most unsettling part—
Reinheart felt it clearly now.
He isn't even trying.
A faint smirk formed on his lips.
"…This is fun, don't you think?"
Leon let out a small yawn mid-guard, lazily deflecting another strike. "Nope," he replied flatly. "I find it boring."
Reinheart's smile didn't fade.
If anything—
it deepened.
So this is the gap.
Leon tilted his head slightly, his expression indifferent. Should I just end it? The thought passed through his mind, devoid of any excitement.
Before he could act—
"I see."
Reinheart stepped back.
His blade lowered.
"I forfeit."
Leon blinked.
"…Huh?"
Reinheart exhaled slowly, his composure returning as if nothing had happened. "This is a fight I would lose no matter what," he said calmly. "And you don't even seem to be trying."
A brief pause.
"I hope we can fight again," he added, his expression amused, "perhaps with mana next time~."
Leon clicked his tongue.
"Tch. Whatever."
And just like that—
the sparring came to an end.
…
The final clashes faded, wooden blades lowering as the training hall settled into a strained silence. The cadets stood where they were—some breathing heavily, others masking their frustration, a few lost in thought.
Ron stepped forward.
His gaze swept across them, sharp and unforgiving.
"Tch… disappointing."
No one dared respond.
"You lot rely too much on habit," he continued, his voice steady but cutting. "Some of you swing like you still have mana backing you—wide, sloppy, inefficient."
His eyes shifted.
"Yelena."
She straightened slightly.
"You're fast. I'll give you that. But your center is unstable. You overcommit. That's why you lost."
Her jaw clenched, but she nodded.
"Silver."
A pause.
"Your methods are too rigid. You stick to what works and refuse to deviate. That confidence of yours? It's going to become a weakness the moment something doesn't go according to your expectations."
Silver's eyes narrowed faintly, but he said nothing.
"Reinheart."
The prince met his gaze calmly.
"You let your emotions bleed into your blade. Pride makes your movements sharper—but also more predictable."
Reinheart's grip tightened slightly.
"Darius."
Ron shifted his stance.
"Good fundamentals. You adapt quickly. But the moment pressure builds, you start forcing your rhythm instead of controlling it."
Darius exhaled slowly, accepting the criticism.
Then—
Ron's gaze moved.
To us.
A brief pause followed.
"…You two."
Leon looked mildly annoyed. I stayed quiet.
Ron clicked his tongue.
"You—" he pointed at me, "your adaptability is abnormal. You pick things up too fast. That's not always a good thing. If you don't understand the foundation behind what you copy, it'll collapse on you later."
His eyes lingered for a second longer than necessary.
"But your control is solid."
Then—
his gaze shifted to Leon.
And stopped.
There was a longer silence this time.
His eyes narrowed.
"…You."
Leon tilted his head slightly.
"You made no mistakes."
A few students blinked.
Ron continued, his tone lower now.
"Not a single wasted movement. Not a single opening. No hesitation. No overextension."
Leon shrugged.
"Cool."
Ron's eye twitched.
"Tch… irritating."
He turned away, clearly done.
"Listen up," he said, his voice rising slightly. "Swordsmanship isn't about looking impressive. It's about surviving. Fix your flaws—or someone else will exploit them for you."
A brief silence followed.
Then—
"Class dismissed."
The tension broke as the cadets began to disperse, conversations slowly returning.
Another lesson—
over.
…
Meanwhile, in another training ground, the atmosphere was far less composed.
A man with a bulky physique stood at the center, his laughter echoing loudly across the field. "Hahaha! You youths are some real nut jobs."
Around him, cadets lay sprawled across the ground, drenched in sweat, their bodies pushed to the brink of exhaustion. Some struggled to breathe, others didn't even have the strength to move.
"Get your asses up," Mitch Rozenberg barked, still grinning, his spear resting casually on his shoulder. "And come at me again."
A chorus of groans followed.
Slowly—painfully—the cadets forced themselves up.
What a freak… the thought passed through many of their minds.
Mitch's grin widened as he rolled his shoulders, the sunlight reflecting faintly off the spear in his hand. "The sun's out," he said, almost cheerfully. "Perfect time for training. We're not wasting a second of it."
"YES SIR!."
A loud voice cut through the fatigue.
Samuel Crimson stepped forward, drenched in sweat, his messy red hair sticking to his forehead. His breathing was heavy, his muscles clearly strained—
yet he grinned.
He raised his spear again.
Around him, a few cadets closed their eyes in despair.
Another freak…
Mitch's eyes lit up.
"Hahah! At least one of you isn't boring."
And just like that—
it continued.
---
Meanwhile, inside another training ground, the environment shifted entirely.
Tall artificial trees stretched upward, their branches forming a dense network above. Platforms, ropes, and narrow paths connected them, creating a forest-like battlefield suspended in the air.
At the center stood a woman.
Short black hair.
Sharp features.
A gaze that tolerated nothing.
She wore a simple crop top and jeans, her posture relaxed yet commanding, a bow resting effortlessly in her hand.
"Archers cannot afford to be slow!" her voice rang out, cutting cleanly through the space. "Speed. Efficiency. Precision. If you lack even one—you die."
Above, students moved across the trees, jumping from branch to branch, trying to maintain balance while keeping their pace.
"Faster!" she shouted.
Clara stumbled slightly, her legs trembling as she tried to keep up. "I—I can't… this is too exhausting…"
The instructor appeared beside her almost instantly.
"Keep going!," she said sharply.
Clara flinched. "A-ah—yes ma'am!"
She forced herself forward again.
Nearby, Selena struggled as well, her movements slowing under the pressure.
"Pull that bow properly, girl!" the instructor snapped.
"Yes, ma'am!" Selena corrected instantly, her arms shaking as she drew again.
The woman observed them all, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
This was Instructor Luna.
A battlefield archer.
And unlike the classroom—
she didn't teach.
She trained.