The morning air carried the scent of damp earth and fresh dew as Kael stood by the window, watching the sun lazily stretch across the horizon. He was already dressed in his tunic, his belt snug around his waist, waiting.
His mother hadn't come down yet, which was unusual. Lira was always the first to rise, especially with the market looming. As he heard footsteps descending, he straightened instinctively.
Lira appeared, adjusting her shawl. Her brows arched slightly in surprise. "Oh. You're awake."
Kael shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."
"Good. That saves time." She motioned toward the stairwell leading to the basement. "Come."
They descended into the cool, dim cellar. Dust floated in shafts of early sunlight seeping through the small window slits. She walked over to a long wooden crate tucked beneath an old cloth and flung it open. Inside lay gleaming steel swords, each resting neatly in carved compartments. Kael's eyes widened.
"Whoa," he breathed, stepping forward. "These are real swords…"
His hand reached for the nearest hilt, but a firm whack struck the back of his hand before he could touch it.
"Wrong box," Lira snapped. "Don't touch anything in here."
He yelped and rubbed his knuckles. "Okay, okay!"
She moved to the adjacent box, opened it with a grunt, revealing a row of wooden training swords. Most were plain, their wood darkened from years of use. But one stood out—a darker oak blade etched with intricate carvings along the hilt. Kael was drawn to it immediately.
"This one…" he whispered, reaching out.
"No," she said sharply, pulling his hand away. "That one is not for you."
"But why—?"
"Because you haven't earned it."
Defeated, Kael accepted the plainest wooden sword she handed him. It had no carvings, no marks of legacy—just weight and splinters. "You could've at least given me one with some personality."
"You're not here to impress anyone. You're here to survive." Her tone ended all further protest.
They moved to the backyard—an overgrown patch of dirt and grass, surrounded by high stone walls. It had once been a training yard, where Alfred, Kael's father, honed his skills. Now, it was Kael's turn.
"First, stance," she commanded.
She demonstrated slowly, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, sword at her side but poised to strike. Kael tried to mirror her, but his feet kept slipping. His balance wavered.
"No," she corrected. "Your weight's too far back."
Again.
He adjusted. His shoulders ached.
Again.
"Better. Now, hold it."
He held it.
One minute. Two. His arms trembled. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Then a whack across the back of his legs.
"Ow!"
"Your back knee straightened. Hold it again."
The training was brutal. Hours passed in a blur of repetition, corrections, and sudden strikes to keep him alert. His pride was battered, his muscles sore.
Then came the style.
Lira stepped back, lifting her wooden sword. "Our family style is called The Ardent Gale."
Kael blinked. "Gale? Like wind?"
"Yes. But it's not just about speed." She began moving—a flurry of rapid, sweeping slashes, her footwork swift and unpredictable. "It's about pressure. Precision. Hitting from angles your enemy cannot prepare for. Flowing like wind, but striking like a storm."
Kael watched, awestruck.
"You're not strong enough to brute force through everyone. Not yet. So you'll focus on speed and strength. Intuition comes later, when you stop thinking and let your body remember."
As he tried to mimic the strikes, Lira circled him, correcting posture, foot placement, grip. The moment he got it wrong, a sharp rap to the ribs or wrist reminded him.
When he finally began to understand the motion—TUD!
Something heavy hit the ground behind him. He turned and stared.
Weights.
Two bracelets. Two anklets. Thick, metal, and pulsing faintly with embedded arcane stones.
"What… is that?"
"Your new friends," Lira said with a small smirk. "Each weighs four to five times your body weight."
"You're joking."
She was not joking.
"Put them on."
"I can't even lift one!"
"Then figure it out."
Kael groaned. "Am I supposed to live in these? How is a human being supposed to wear these? I'll die!"
He continued to protest, his voice rising, until a slow, creeping murderous aura seeped from his mother's stance.
He froze.
"…Fine."
Straining, he managed to strap the anklets on, then the bracelets. Instantly, his arms drooped. His knees buckled. He stumbled forward like a newborn deer.
"From today until your exam, you wear them. Always. Morning runs. Training. Sleeping. No exceptions."
"Even when I sleep?!"
"Yes."
Tears pricked at the corners of Kael's eyes. "This is abuse."
"You'll thank me when you don't die in your first fight."
With that, she turned and left for the market.
Kael limped back into the house, arms and legs dragging. His ankles throbbed, wrists ached. He collapsed against the stair rail.
"…This is illegal. I'm sure this is illegal."
Still, he forced himself out. He ran—or tried to—down the street, his legs barely lifting. People stared. A few merchants chuckled.
If it weren't for the Arcana Core inside him strengthening his body, he knew he would've collapsed before even leaving the yard.
"I'd be dead by now… if not for this thing inside me," he muttered.
The next few days blurred.
Morning runs before sunrise. Training until sunset. Sword drills. Stance drills. Running laps with weights. Meditation before bed.
He adapted.
Slowly.
His body toughened. The strain lessened. He could move without toppling. He lasted longer before collapsing. He began to anticipate her strikes.
After a week, Lira finally placed another wooden sword before him. This one had a slight curve in the blade.
"Time for real sparring."
Kael frowned. "This is cheating. I still have these weights on, and you don't."
"That's life," she replied. "Your enemies won't make it fair."
"But—"
Thwack!
The first sparring session began with Kael eating dirt. The second, too.
By the third, he managed to parry one strike before getting swept off his feet.
He was bruised. Sore. Exhausted.
But for the first time… he was smiling.
This wasn't just survival training anymore.
It was transformation.
He could feel it.
With every aching step, he was leaving behind the weak, outcast boy the city had laughed at.
Time passed like shifting sand through clenched fists, each day bleeding into the next. By the end of the second week, the sharpness in Kael's gaze mirrored that of the wooden sword he carried. The boy who had once hesitated at every strike now moved with the beginnings of purpose.
Lira observed the transformation with veiled pride. She said little, but her eyes followed every motion. She watched as Kael began to anticipate rather than react, to strike with intent rather than desperation. The Arcana Core had gifted him raw power, but it was discipline that now shaped it into something formidable.
Still, she never let up.
Each session grew more intense. The sword clashes rang louder in the backyard. The weight cuffs stayed on—never removed, not even for sleep. Kael trained under rain, under sun, under aching fatigue. If he faltered, Lira was quick to remind him of his goal.
"The Academy will not pity you," she told him during one evening spar. "Neither will the Empire. You either stand, or you kneel. And if you kneel, Kael—make sure it's only to rise with twice the fury."
His only reply was the dull thud of wood against wood, and the grit of his teeth as he forced another strike.
The training became routine—morning runs through the sloped stone streets, sword drills in the afternoon, weight conditioning till dusk, and meditation before sleep. All the while, the Arcana Core pulsed faintly inside him, silent but ever-present, responding in subtle ways to his growth. He hadn't yet learned to wield its energy with full control, but it no longer raged wildly. It had grown quiet. Watchful.
The day before the entrance exam, Lira finally ended their session early.
No warnings. No bruises. No grueling tasks.
Kael stood in the backyard, drenched in sweat, blinking in surprise.
"That's enough," she said. "You'll need your strength for tomorrow."
He didn't argue. He simply nodded, shoulders rising and falling with exhausted breath.
As he walked back inside, Lira watched his back. The boy who had once trembled under his own power now walked with a different posture—not arrogance, not yet confidence, but readiness.
She turned toward the fading sky, her expression unreadable. Somewhere in the distance, the bells of the upper district tolled the arrival of the exam's eve.
The Empire Academy would open its gates tomorrow.
And among the hundreds of candidates... one boy carried within him a force ancient and unknown.