After the aether lecture ended, the students were given a short break before their next class. The sun now hung just above the academy towers, casting long golden rays through the arched windows. Alden could feel the buzz in the air—this was what many of them had been waiting for.
Combat training.
Unlike the lecture halls, the combat training area was a vast, open ground on the southern side of the academy. A colosseum-like space with multiple circular arenas surrounded by stone seating for spectators and instructors. It was open to the sky, and banners bearing the Royal Academy's crest fluttered in the breeze.
The moment the students arrived, their instructor was already standing at the center—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in simple but well-fitted combat robes. His presence commanded respect, not because of pomp or ceremony, but from the sheer stillness in his stance—like a mountain before an avalanche.
He didn't need to introduce himself. Everyone already knew the name.
Sir Vron.
A fifth-circle warrior—and if the rumors were true, soon to be sixth. His exploits during the Crimson Border Conflict were the stuff of whispered legend. It was said he had once cleaved a wyvern in half with a single strike of aether-forged steel.
He spoke with a voice like gravel underfoot—calm, deliberate, unshakable.
"Today," he began, "we won't be sparring or dueling. Not yet. We'll only observe one thing—your grasp over aether and your bond with your weapon."
He gestured to a row of racks lined with gleaming weapons—swords, spears, axes, hammers, bows, polearms, and exotic blades most of them had never seen before.
"You may pick any training weapon of your choice. You will be allowed to store this weapon in your personal aether band, so choose carefully. This will be considered your primary for the year."
A faint hum went through the students. The moment they were dismissed to the racks, Alden moved forward, along with Avan, Veydan, and Lysa.
Alden's hand drifted to a simple yet elegant longsword. The weight in his hand felt familiar, almost natural—just like the sword he trained with back home, but better balanced.
Veydan, not surprisingly, also chose a sword—though his was heavier, broader, almost bordering on a greatsword. He grinned at Alden. "Guess we'll see who the real swordmaster is."
Alden just smirked in response.
Then came Lysa.
Alden paused, watching as she walked past every blade and polearm and came to a massive two-handed warhammer—easily the size of her entire torso. She picked it up with eerie calm, and the hammerhead crackled faintly with dormant aether as if it recognized its new owner.
Alden blinked in disbelief. "She's… serious?"
Avan, who had picked a longbow with intricate markings, leaned in. "You didn't know? She's from the Dawnridge family. They all train with hammers from childhood. It's practically tradition."
Alden watched as Lysa hoisted the massive weapon over her shoulder like it was made of wood and not forged steel. "Still… she doesn't look like she could swing that."
Avan shrugged. "That's the thing about aether. Sometimes what you see isn't what matters."
Once everyone had chosen their weapons, they returned to formation.
Sir Vron paced before them, voice clear. "Your primary weapon reflects your instinct. But here at the Royal Academy, you will not rely on instinct alone. Each of you will be trained in three more weapons over the year. Mastery lies in adaptability. The battlefield doesn't care what you prefer."
He stopped beside a strange object—an iron monolith standing nearly seven feet tall. Its surface shimmered with glowing runes, and a crystalline core pulsed faintly at the center.
"This is the Aether Resonance Pillar. When you strike it, it measures both your raw physical strength and your ability to channel aether into your weapon. The score is absolute. It cannot be cheated."
He laid a hand on it.
"You will approach it, focus your aether into your weapon, and strike. Simple. Don't hold back. This pillar is designed to absorb hits strong enough to dent siege engines."
Students began lining up.
One by one, they stepped forward, infused their weapons with aether, and struck the pillar. Most landed somewhere between 600 and 700, impressive for first-years. Clearly, most of them had been trained since childhood in the art of war.
Then came the Fourth Prince.
Whispers ran through the crowd as he stepped forward with elegant confidence. His uniform, modified with silver trim, marked his royal status.
He raised his sword with calm precision, inhaled once, and then unleashed a strike that sent a shockwave through the air.
The crystal flared: 860.
Gasps echoed through the grounds. Even Sir Vron gave a rare nod of acknowledgment.
The prince turned his gaze, not toward the pillar—but toward Veydan, who stood in line, arms crossed. A silent challenge passed between them.
And then it was the turn of the Ironhold candidates.
Avan stepped up first. He nocked a training arrow and poured his aether into it before releasing it toward the target. The crystal shimmered again.
690.
Solid, reliable.
Next came Lysa.
She approached with deliberate steps, gripping the massive hammer with both hands. Instead of coating the entire weapon, she concentrated her aether into the hammer's base, creating a tight point of impact.
She inhaled… exhaled… and slammed it down.
The ground trembled slightly, and the pillar flared bright.
880.
Murmurs rose across the arena.
Alden's eyes widened. He'd completely misjudged her. Her thin frame masked sheer explosive power. Lysa didn't even glance around—just returned to her place. But as she passed Alden, he caught a subtle flick of her gaze—cool, unreadable, but pointed.
That look… Alden thought. Wasn't that the same kind of look Vorian gave Veydan?
He didn't have time to ponder it.
Because now, it was his turn.
He stepped up to the pillar, sword in hand, and closed his eyes. He focused on the flow of aether inside him, allowing it to thread through his veins, down his arms, into the blade. Every bit of training, every hour spent in solitude—it all came to this one moment.
He struck.
A ripple tore through the air as metal met the magical surface.
The crystal lit up: 820.
The reaction was instant—gasps, whispers, raised brows. Not quite as high as Lysa, but far beyond what anyone had expected.
Some looked shocked. Others, however—especially among the nobles—merely nodded. As if they had been expecting it all along.
So… this is where I stand, Alden thought, stepping back into line.
And then came Veydan.
He strode forward with the relaxed confidence of someone used to pressure. Lifting his heavy blade, he didn't pause or pose—he just swung.
The sound of the impact was like a thunderclap.
850.
Close—so close to the top score.
He let out a short chuckle, amused, and turned back without a word.
Sir Vron clapped his hands once. "Scores will be recorded. Remember—this is only your beginning. Talent matters, yes—but what matters more… is how far you're willing to go beyond it."
The class continued with brief partner drills, but the real excitement had passed. As the sun began to set behind the spires of the academy, the students were dismissed for the day.
Alden walked back to the dorms in silence. His sword now bound to his aether band shimmered faintly on his wrist.
He had made an impression. But so had the others.
And deep down, he knew—the real trials had not even begun yet.