The boys continued their training at the Dragon Academy, their bodies transforming day by day, pushed to their limits and beyond. Essence circulation, a practice that had initially felt alien and frustrating, became second nature, a rhythmic pulse interwoven with their breathing, a constant hum of energy beneath their skin. Brutal physical drills, designed to test their endurance and willpower, honed their bodies into instruments of power. Combat forms, initially clumsy and hesitant, became fluid and precise, their movements refined and devastatingly effective under Instructor Desmond's unforgiving gaze. They endured grueling mornings under the weight of gravity-enhanced fields, their muscles screaming in protest, their wills tested to their breaking points. Afternoon combat sessions, a relentless barrage of strikes and counter-strikes, honed their reflexes and sharpened their instincts. Night meditations, often stretching into the early hours of the morning, pushed the boundaries of their mental fortitude, leaving them collapsing into sleep from sheer exhaustion.
It wasn't easy. Every day tested their willpower, pushing them to their physical and mental limits. Every breath burned in their lungs, their bodies aching, their minds weary. But they adapted. They improved. They learned to push beyond their perceived limitations. And soon, a whole month had passed, a month that felt both incredibly long and surprisingly short, a blur of intense training and gradual transformation.
Now, they stood once again in the grand stone hall where it had all begun—the same hall they'd entered as wide-eyed newcomers, their bodies lean and their movements hesitant. Only this time, they weren't the same students. Their bodies were firmer, more powerful, their stances more grounded, their movements imbued with a quiet confidence. Their eyes, once filled with uncertainty, now held a quiet fire, a reflection of their inner strength. They were no longer novices; they had become warriors.
Instructor Duke, a figure of immense authority and seemingly impenetrable stoicism, made his way onto the raised platform at the head of the room. His boots echoed against the polished stone floor, a rhythmic sound that drew an immediate hush from the students, silencing the low murmur of anticipation. His towering frame, silhouetted against the high arching banners of the academy, filled the space, his presence demanding respect. He scanned the room with his usual unreadable gaze, his arms folded behind his back, before finally speaking, his voice carrying the same deep authority it always had, a voice that commanded attention and respect.
"Welcome, students of the Dragon Academy," Instructor Duke began, his words measured and precise, each syllable carrying weight. "It has been a month since you arrived here and began your journey under our guidance. You've trained relentlessly. You've endured hardships. You've adapted to challenges far beyond your initial expectations."
A murmur of pride, tinged with relief, rippled quietly among the students, a collective acknowledgment of their accomplishment.
"Your beginner course is over," he continued, his voice unwavering, his gaze sweeping across the assembled students. "And now… the real trial begins."
The room stilled again, the air thick with anticipation and a touch of apprehension.
"As you know," he said, his voice deepening, "the academy has refused students any kind of magic art practice or access to magical weapons during this first month. No shortcuts. No exceptions. We demanded your raw effort, your unwavering dedication, your ability to push beyond your limits. We stripped away the crutches, leaving you only with your strength, your skill, and your will. But starting today…" he paused, letting the weight of his next words settle in, creating a palpable tension in the room, "…the academy has officially opened its magical library and weapon hall for your access."
A wave of excited murmurs, barely suppressed, swept through the hall like static electricity. The anticipation was palpable.
"I have like three hundred and twenty points," Asher whispered, his eyes wide with excitement, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Same," Nick nodded, crossing his arms, his usual stoicism momentarily overwhelmed by the prospect of acquiring new weapons and skills.
"I've got three-forty," Ethan said, his voice calm but his eyes glinting with controlled anticipation. None of them had earned more than what the academy gave out daily—they'd been too focused on survival, on mastering the fundamentals, to take on extra tasks. Their focus had been singular and unwavering.
Instructor Duke raised a hand, a simple gesture that instantly restored order to the hall.
"But know this," he warned, his voice hardening, the friendly tone gone, replaced by a stark, almost chilling authority. "The mission hall has also been opened. The academy expects every student to accomplish at least one mission per week. Fail, and you will be punished… or expelled."
The air grew tense, the weight of those words pressing into their chests, a sudden reminder of the stakes involved. The initial excitement was tempered by a dawning awareness of the challenges that lay ahead.
"However," he continued, his voice softening slightly, a hint of encouragement laced within his words, "each mission you complete will reward you with points, scaled to the danger and complexity of the task. These points will help you access stronger spells, better equipment, and even higher levels of the library, granting you access to knowledge and resources beyond your current understanding."
He paused one final time, a lengthy pause that heightened the anticipation, and for the first time in a month, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the edge of his lips, a subtle but significant shift in his demeanor.
"You have taken your first steps toward becoming casters. We are your stepping stones… but you must do the climbing yourself."
The hall was silent. Completely silent. Not from fear—but from a profound awe. Instructor Duke had never smiled before. Not once. If he wasn't lecturing, he was shouting corrections. If he wasn't shouting, he was watching them suffer, pushing them to their breaking points. That small smile, a brief crack in his stoic facade, was enough to shake the crowd more than any gravity drill ever had, a subtle but potent acknowledgment of their progress.
"You are dismissed," he finally said, his voice regaining its authority. "You may visit the newly opened halls immediately."
He turned on his heel and left the stage, his cape fluttering behind him, his departure as dramatic as his arrival.
The moment the doors opened, the students poured out like a tide, a wave of eager energy flooding the hall. Some ran, others walked with determined purpose. Everyone had their eyes on the same two places: the library, brimming with ancient knowledge, and the weapon hall, filled with the promise of power.
"Where do we check out first?" Ethan asked, his voice brimming with excitement, his energy palpable. "Spell section or weapon?"
"Show me the blades," Asher said immediately, his eyes pleading like a child staring at a mountain of sweets. His eagerness was unrestrained. "Please."
Nick sighed, though the corner of his mouth twitched, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. "Fine. Weapon section it is. We need to start somewhere." His voice held a hint of his own suppressed excitement.
The boys made their way through the winding halls of the academy, following the signs toward the weapon shop, their steps quickening with each step. The hallways were alive with chatter, a vibrant hum of voices, filled with the excited plans and anticipations of students already planning what they'd buy and how they'd spend their precious points. The air buzzed with energy, a tangible manifestation of the students' newfound freedom and their eagerness to embrace their futures. The era of basic training was over; the real work was about to begin.