Chapter 13: Training by Function
The first thing they learned was that there would be no equal treatment.
The second thing they learned was that this had never been an accident.
Twelve of them stood in the inner training grounds at dawn. Cold air bit into exposed skin, carrying the damp scent of stone and iron. Morning mist clung low to the ground, softening outlines and swallowing sound. The space felt deliberately empty—no banners, no spectators, no symbols of honor.
Just ground.
Lucian Valemont stood at the far end of the field, hands clasped behind his back. He wore simple, dark clothing without insignia or ornament. Nothing about him suggested nobility, yet nothing about him invited familiarity either. His expression was calm, distant, as though the outcome of the day had already been decided.
Aria stood closer to the trainees.
Where Lucian felt far away, Aria felt immediate.
She wore fitted black training clothes, practical and unadorned, sleeves rolled to her forearms. Her long dark hair was bound tightly at the back of her head, exposing sharp features and eyes that moved constantly, missing nothing.
"You are not being trained as equals," Aria said calmly.
Her voice carried without effort across the open space.
"You will not receive the same instruction. You will not progress together. Some of you will advance faster. Some of you will be left behind."
No one spoke.
Among the twelve, the scarred man stood motionless.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his head shaved clean. A jagged scar ran from his jaw down across his collarbone, disappearing beneath his training clothes. Old burn marks traced his arms, and his knuckles were thick with healed fractures. His posture was balanced, neither rigid nor relaxed.
Kael Vorn.
He looked like someone who had already survived things training could not replicate.
To his left stood the twins.
They were impossible to mistake.
Lysa Ferrel and Lune Ferrel shared the same face—sharp grey eyes, short ash-brown hair, lean builds shaped by speed rather than strength. Yet the similarity ended there.
Lysa stood loosely, weight shifted onto one leg, eyes constantly moving as she took in her surroundings with quiet curiosity.
Lune stood rigid, shoulders squared, gaze fixed straight ahead, jaw tight with restraint.
They had learned early that resemblance invited comparison—and comparison demanded distinction.
Aria continued.
"Your training will be divided by function."
She gestured once.
Lucian stepped forward.
From the trainees' perspective, the air itself changed.
"I do not need heroes," Lucian said evenly. "I need pieces that fit."
His gaze moved across them slowly, methodically, as if measuring alignment rather than people.
"Those who cannot accept their role will leave."
There was no threat in his voice.
Only certainty.
Lucian raised his hand slightly.
"Kael Vorn."
Kael stepped forward immediately.
Up close, the others noticed details they had missed—the stillness of his breathing, the way his weight was evenly distributed, the absence of tension in his stance.
"Frontline anchor," Lucian said.
Kael nodded once.
No pride. No relief.
"Ravel."
A lean man with weathered skin and steady brown eyes stepped forward. His hair was cut short, practical. His stance was relaxed but alert, as if he were always listening for something just beyond hearing.
"Squad lead."
Ravel swallowed once, then nodded. "Understood."
"Joren."
A broad-shouldered man with close-cropped black hair stepped forward. His face was plain enough to be forgettable—by design. His posture was rigid with discipline.
"Deputy. Discipline."
"Yes," Joren replied immediately.
Lucian's gaze shifted.
"Sel."
The youngest among them stepped forward. Slender, pale-skinned, dark hair tied back loosely. His eyes were sharp, observant in a way that felt out of place on someone his age. Faint ink stains marked his fingers.
"Mage spine."
Sel bowed slightly—deeper than necessary.
"Mirel."
A woman with sharp features and short auburn hair stepped forward. Light armor hugged her frame, fitted for movement. Her posture was loose, predatory, as if she were perpetually on the verge of motion.
"Independent operative."
Mirel smiled faintly.
Lucian stopped.
The remaining seven stiffened.
"You are support," he said calmly. "Necessary. Replaceable."
No one argued.
Aria stepped forward again.
"Formation training begins tomorrow," she said. "Today, you learn your limits."
---
They were separated immediately.
The frontline group assembled around Kael Vorn.
To his right stood Daren Holt, thick-necked and broad, with heavy arms and blunt features. His armor already bore dents—some old, some newly earned. He carried himself like a shield given legs.
To Kael's left was Marek Sile, leaner and longer-limbed, with narrow eyes that never stopped calculating. His movements were cautious, but not slow.
They clashed again and again.
Kael absorbed impact without retreat. Daren followed instinctively, reinforcing where pressure appeared. Marek adapted, learning where to step and when to yield.
Aria watched closely.
Lucian observed from a distance.
These will survive.
Ravel and Joren were isolated for command drills.
Ravel was given incomplete information and forced to decide.
Joren was given full information and forced to execute without hesitation.
They failed.
Then adjusted.
Lucian offered no comment.
Sel trained alone.
No spells.
Only breathing.
The Silent Current Formula settled into him slowly, smoothing his mana circulation until sweat beaded along his brow—not from exertion, but concentration.
"He'll break if rushed," Aria said quietly.
Lucian nodded. "Then don't rush him."
The twins were separated.
Lysa adapted quickly, reading terrain and angles, learning when to advance and when to vanish.
Lune struggled—then compensated with obsessive precision, memorizing routes, distances, escape paths.
Together, they would be dangerous.
Apart, incomplete.
The remaining two support members worked quietly at the edges.
Iven Marro, thin and dark-haired, eyes constantly scanning equipment and supply placement.
Serah Kline, tall and sharp-eyed, movements efficient, speech minimal, hands steady even under pressure.
By nightfall, all twelve were exhausted.
Lucian dismissed them without praise.
That unsettled them more than failure would have.
---
Far away, Aurelion County lay quiet beneath closed gates.
Inside the manor of House Aurelion, tension coiled tightly.
Patriarch Albrecht Aurelion stood at the head of the table, fingers drumming against polished wood.
"The gates remain closed," he said.
The family elder, Serion Aurelion, nodded. "Buyers are interested."
"Interested doesn't mean safe," Albrecht snapped.
Below them, spirit items rested in sealed vaults—crystals humming faintly, artifacts wrapped in suppression cloths.
"You announced too early," Serion said.
"We had to," Albrecht replied. "The dungeon's disappearance couldn't be hidden."
Silence followed.
Royal inspectors would come.
Other noble houses.
And worse.
"Someone will notice," Serion said quietly. "Someone already has."
---
That night, Lucian burned a short report.
No name.
Just information.
"They're afraid," he murmured.
Aria nodded. "Fear makes people predictable."
Lucian looked out into the dark.
"And desperation," he said softly, "makes them reachable."
Between twelve exhausted trainees and a noble house behind closed gates, a structure was forming—slowly, deliberately, and without mercy.