Luc's mind still echoed with the barbed insults of the mercenaries as he stepped into the clearing. Rorik led him to the training hall behind the mercenary guild—a sprawling clearing at the forest's edge, where towering ancient trees formed a natural colonnade.
The ground was beaten flat by countless boots, with tufts of stubborn grass clinging along the edges. Training dummies stood in battered rows, their straw innards showing through split hides. The mingled scents of old sweat, damp earth, and lingering woodsmoke filled the air—a scent that felt rough, honest.
Even the dummies, battered and bursting with straw, seemed more welcoming than the sneering eyes back in the guild. Luc's stomach knotted. Rorik's grin cracked open like a hammer on stone.
"Alright, lad!" the dwarf bellowed, clapping his calloused hands. "Let's see what ya got! Heard ya got a knack for soaking up mana like a sponge in a storm—wild stuff, that."
Luc stiffened. "Y-you saw that?" His voice trembled slightly. "Miss Viola said to keep it hidden. She said people might try to hurt me."
Rorik snorted. "Viola? That old hag? Hah! 'Miss Viola'—ya talk like yer still wearin' silk gloves at a tea party. She's got more spine than most men I know."
Luc flushed, fists clenching at his sides. "I'm not a noble," he said quickly, then added, "Not anymore. And my name's Luc."
Rorik smirked, unimpressed. "Luc, lad, same thing! Don't matter to me." He leaned in with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. "She sent ya to me for a reason. Think she's daft?"
Luc narrowed his eyes. "No. She doesn't strike me as careless. But if you're not here to teach me swordsmanship, then why? I doubt you could teach me anything there. I should warn you—I've had real training. Before… all this."
Rorik raised a brow. "Real training, eh? You think I'm just short, so I must be weak?" He thumped his chest. "Dwarves ain't just forge-hands, lad. We're forged ourselves."
"This body?" He flexed, muscles bulging like ropes. "Forged, not born. Strong enough to shatter that pretty toothpick sword of yours."
"Is… all that hair really necessary?" Luc muttered, wrinkling his nose. "Do dwarves not bathe? I mean—is that cultural, or just you?"
Rorik guffawed. "Hah! Yer just like the rest—prissy nobleman through and through."
"I was trying to be polite," Luc said, smoothing his tunic with irritation. "But if you're done boasting, then perhaps you'd like to explain what you're actually teaching me."
"Strength," Rorik said simply. "Not just muscle. Real strength. The kind that keeps ya breathin' when fancy swordplay gets ya gutted."
Luc blinked. "Strength. That's rather vague."
"Not when you've lived it," Rorik muttered. He stepped closer, gaze hardening. "This ain't nobles' strength. This is dwarven strength—built in desperation, tempered in rebellion."
He squinted at Luc. "Tell me, lad. What do ya really know of dwarves?"
Luc hesitated. "Not much," he admitted. "Our tutors mostly praised the elves. They were always called… graceful, wise, majestic."
"Majestic?" Rorik spat. "Those long-eared pissant strutters think they shit mana and piss starlight! Ya ever seen one bleed? They scream like rabbits. Sticks for dicks, every one of 'em."
Luc's mouth twitched. He shouldn't laugh, but the image was too absurd.
"And orcs?" Rorik continued. "Big, brutish. But they get names like 'bloodfang' or 'skullcleaver'.
What do dwarves get? 'Cursed Born.' We get a bedtime warning label."
Luc frowned. "I thought the Cursed Born were orcs, actually…"
"See? Even that's been twisted."
Rorik's tone dropped. "Listen close. Since yer manaless, ya ain't just an outcast—you're one of us now. So I'll tell ya what no highborn scroll will."
"Sit," Rorik said, thumping the ground. The clearing fell quiet but for the wind rustling through the trees.
---
Rorik's fist hit the tree trunk beside them, splinters flying.
"A thousand years back, we dwarves were enslaved like beasts," he spat. Luc's heart stuttered at the violence in his voice.
"Forced to dig beneath the Draconic Order's holy land. We found a sealed temple—dragon blood still fresh as if the beast had just bled."
Luc swallowed, picturing veins pulsing with silver light.
"And a scroll—the Dragon Body Technique," Rorik whispered, leaning so close Luc felt his beard tickle.
Luc's eyes widened. "I thought that was just a legend. Why would no one know this?"
"Because the Order made sure no one would," Rorik growled. "They called it heresy—'dangerous', 'impure'. We called it hope."
"Truth is," Rorik said, voice roughening, "they stole it."
Luc blinked. "The Order?"
"Aye. The dragon blood. The scroll. Everything. Took the core of it—whatever they could use for their own high rites—and left behind what didn't fit their doctrine. Called the rest heresy, locked it in that temple like trash."
He spat. "They worship Dragons as gods, see? Said molding mana into circles was the 'sacred way.' Orderly. Divine. Not like that technique—absorbing raw mana through yer veins. They said it was inhumane, heresy. Said it broke the soul."
"Did it?" Luc asked quietly.
Rorik's eyes met his. "Aye. It broke plenty. But it also built somethin' new. Different."
He began pacing. "The art was brutal. Incomplete. A way to absorb the purest mana straight from nature. Not through circles. Through breath. Through bone."
Luc grimaced. "Breathing in pure mana? That sounds… revolting."
"Aye. That's the price." Rorik's eyes darkened. "But it's also the path to strength. Survival. Freedom."
He stopped, inhaled deeply. Silver motes shimmered in the air around him, drawn to his body like moths to flame. His muscles bulged, veins lit with faint mana-light.
"This is what we call the Refined Dragon Body Technique. Took us nine hundred years o' blood and bone to hammer chaos into somethin' real. It's our way of surviving without mana circles.. It's still dangerous, hurts like hell. But it works."
Luc watched, torn between awe and fear. "Why me?" he asked quietly. "I can't even cast spells. I'm… a failure."
Rorik's eyes flicked to him. "Yer Awakening blocked yer main mana path—the one used for spellcasting, aye. But the path used for this?" He tapped his chest. "It's wide open."
He crouched beside Luc. "Imagine a house with one clogged chimney. For us, we had to chisel little holes—tiny cracks—just to let the smoke out. Took generations. We bled for every breath of mana we learned to hold."
"But you? Your chimney clogged… and then every window and door flew open. Clean, pure mana rushin' in like fresh air. You don't choke on it. You breathe it like it belongs to ya. You just need to learn how to breathe it in, guide it through your veins, burn it clean, then let it settle."
Luc bit his lip. "But my father said I was a failure."
"Then prove him right—by being the kind of failure who breaks the rules and writes his own," Rorik said. "You'll keep your humanity and wield power those dragon-lickers can't even imagine."
---
They moved between dummies as Rorik explained in slow, deliberate phrases.
"Inhale—draw mana into yer bones.
Channel—guide it through your body.
Exhale—purge the surplus in a burst."
Luc mirrored him. The first breath scalded like fire. His muscles trembled, vision blurred. But Rorik was there, steady.
"Too fast," Rorik muttered. "Focus. Feel it. Don't rush it. Mana's like wildfire—ya guide it or it burns ya."
Luc tried again. The second breath settled deeper. A flicker of power curled in his limbs.
By sunset, Luc staggered, chest heaving. Sweat clung to his skin. But behind the fatigue, something glowed—possibility.
Rorik clapped him on the back. "Tomorrow, you hunt mana beasts in Greenwood forest. You survive that, ya know it's real. Two birds with one stone, eh? Good teacher, ain't I?"
Luc straightened. "You expect me to—?"
Luc swallowed. He remembered the guild's sneers, his father's voice rejecting his existence. If this was the only path forward, he would walk it.
"Aye, don't worry, lad," Rorik said, clapping him on the back. "Those beasts rely on mana to live. Yer void'll send 'em packing—unless ya lose yer nerve."
Howls echoed. Shadows flickered just beyond the trees.
"Lose my nerve? I crossed that forest just to get here. I'll see it through—whatever waits, I'll survive."
Luc turned toward the trees. The wild mana pulsed in the roots beneath his feet.
For the first time, he didn't feel like a castoff. He felt like a blade—not yet sharpened, but heating in the forge.
Greenwood would be his anvil.
Rorik's grin widened. "Don't die too quick."