Garron made Alex choose on the third week.
Not casually.
Not hypothetically.
Choose.
They stood in the old quarry east of town, morning fog still clinging to the stone walls like breath held too long. The ground was uneven, scattered with broken rock and rusted metal—remnants of a place that had once been worked hard and then abandoned without ceremony.
Appropriate.
Garron had laid out weapons on a cloth between them.
A short sword with a nicked edge.
Three knives of different lengths and balance.
A spear shaft missing its head.
A battered mace.
A curved blade from a southern style Alex didn't recognize.
No enchantments.
No shine.
Just steel and weight.
"Pick one," Garron said.
Alex didn't move.
"This isn't about preference," Garron continued. "It's about what you're willing to bet your life on when everything else goes wrong."
Alex crouched, studying the spread.
His instincts reached first—for balance, for familiarity, for what fit.
The knives called to him immediately.
Short reach. High control. Precision over force.
The short sword followed close behind—not for its cutting power, but for its adaptability. Close enough to a knife to feel familiar. Long enough to command space when needed.
He looked up. "I don't want one."
Garron raised an eyebrow. "Everyone wants one."
"I want two roles," Alex said. "One tool."
Garron's mouth twitched. "Explain."
Alex picked up the short sword. Tested its weight. Then set it down and picked up the longest knife.
"This," he said, "is for when distance doesn't matter."
He lifted the sword again.
"And this is for when it suddenly does."
He held them side by side.
"Same philosophy," Alex said. "Different reach."
Garron nodded slowly. "Primary?"
"Blade," Alex said. "Knife–sword hybrid usage. No strict form. Context-based."
"Secondary?"
Alex didn't hesitate. "Grappling."
Garron smiled, sharp and approving.
"Most people avoid that," Garron said. "Too personal."
Alex's eyes were cold. "Most people panic when weapons fail."
Garron let out a quiet laugh. "Fair."
They trained without ceremony.
No flashy drills.
No named forms.
Garron stripped everything down to fundamentals.
Edge alignment.
Foot placement.
Weight transfer.
Not how to strike—but when not to.
"Flash gets you noticed," Garron said, circling Alex slowly as Alex held the short sword in guard. "Magic gets you remembered."
"I don't want either," Alex replied.
"Good," Garron said. "Then we're aligned."
Alex practiced transitioning between knife and sword until his hands moved without thought. Drawing, discarding, reclaiming. Letting the blade become an extension rather than an object.
When Garron closed the distance suddenly, Alex didn't retreat.
He stepped in.
Knife vanished. Sword locked. Shoulder drove forward.
Garron grunted as Alex's elbow brushed his ribs—pulled short deliberately.
"Why didn't you take the strike?" Garron asked.
"Because I don't want to kill you," Alex replied.
"And if I weren't me?"
Alex's eyes hardened. "Then I would have broken your balance first."
Garron nodded.
They moved to grappling next.
No strikes.
No throws at first.
Just control.
Grip fighting.
Weight leverage.
Breath management.
"Magic reinforces strength," Garron said, locking Alex's wrist and forcing him to shift. "Grappling exposes it."
Alex twisted free, dropped his weight, and reversed the hold.
"Most awakeners forget they have bodies," Garron continued. "They rely on output."
Alex tightened the hold just enough to prove he could.
"Bad habit," Alex said.
"Dead habit," Garron agreed.
Hours passed.
Sweat soaked into the quarry dust.
Alex's muscles burned—not from exertion alone, but from restraint. Every instinct screamed to push further, to reinforce, to let mana sharpen his movements beyond human limits.
He didn't.
He held the line.
{Combat efficiency increasing.}
Alex ignored it.
When the system spoke again, its tone was almost… satisfied.
{Specialization confirmed.}
{Primary path: Blade.}
{Secondary path: Close-quarters control.}
{Magic reliance: Minimal.}
A pause.
{Assessment: "Subtle."}
Alex exhaled slowly.
Chaos stirred, presence warm and heavy in his chest.
(No fireworks.)
"None," Alex agreed.
(You choose survival over spectacle.)
"Yes."
(A wise choice.)
That was all.
No laughter.
No commentary.
Approval, silent and heavy.
They ended the session as the sun climbed high.
Garron sat on a stone outcrop, rolling his shoulder. "You could add magic to this later."
Alex shook his head. "Not yet."
"Ever?"
Alex thought of the empire.
Of church eyes and detection spells.
Of attention like a blade at the throat.
"Only when it stops being visible," Alex said.
Garron snorted. "Good luck with that."
Alex met his gaze. "I'll make my own luck."
Garron studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
"You're not weak," Garron said again. "You're unfinished."
Alex sheathed the blade.
"I know," he said.
And for the first time, he knew how he wanted to finish—quietly, precisely, without the world ever realizing what it had nearly broken.
Weapon specialization wasn't about killing.
It was about deciding how he would survive.
And when the time came—
How he would stand.