"Huuuuh…"
Tristan exhales deeply. With a single breath, he draws in the surrounding mana. It enters his respiratory system, settles in his lungs, then pours into his blood vessels. Each passing second makes the process more arduous. Sweat beads form in excess, streaming down his skin until his clothes are completely soaked.
He visualizes the mana gathering in his abdomen, its size slowly increasing. He grits his teeth as pain surges through him—unbearable. Veins bulge across his face.
Then—
The mana dissipates.
Tristan collapses onto his back, gasping for air. Sweat trickles down his body as a prickling, electric pain pulses through his abdomen.
He failed.
Disappointment is written plainly across his face. A month has passed since he began this training. He had studied the human body, refined his visualization, strengthened his stamina—prepared himself for this exact moment.
And yet… nothing.
Anger wells up inside him.
"Weak… I'm so fucking weak," he mutters, covering his face as tears begin to form. The fate he fears feels imminent now, unavoidable. Powerlessness crashes over him like a storm.
"Get up."
Varek's voice cuts through the air. His figure slowly enters Tristan's vision, standing over his slumped body. He sighs.
"You must learn patience. If you run too fast, you will trip over your own legs. Move at a pace that is comfortable—even if it seems slow."
"But I don't have time to be slow," Tristan mutters, his sniffling growing louder.
Varek turns his gaze toward the open grasslands.
"Yes… slow and steady does not win the race," he says quietly.
"…because you have yet to even begin running."
Tristan's eyes snap open. His pupils lock onto his master's figure as a cool breeze passes through his hair.
"Tristan," Varek continues, "you are talented. The most talented hunter of this generation. I am not saying this to comfort you—it is a fact. That is why I chose you as my disciple."
Tristan's eyes glisten. His master's silhouette reflects clearly within them.
"You are not weak," Varek says. "You simply need time. You will create a Kør. I promise you. Now get up—this is not a fall. It is only a stumble."
"…Sorry," Tristan says, wiping his tears as he sits up. "I'll go study anatomy more."
Without another word, he runs toward the house. His demeanor has changed. The fear is gone.
In its place—
Reassurance.
---
Sleepless nights. Relentless training. Meditation. Emotional strain and quiet resolve.
All of it converges toward a single moment.
"Yes…" Tristan scoffs, a grin spreading across his face.
"Hahaha… yes. Yes—yes—yes!"
Joy floods his body.
"Master! I did it! I've created a Kør!"
His body trembles as he laughs. Varek watches from a distance, a rare, relieved smirk forming on his face.
It is only the first step—but the first step matters most.
Varek dashes forward, his form blurring before reappearing beside Tristan.
"Well done," he says. "You have completed the first stage. Your Kør is still small—shapeless, colorless, unstable—but its existence alone is proof of success."
"I know you talked about patience…" Tristan mutters, eyes burning with resolve, "but what's next?"
Varek scoffs.
"For the next two months, you will learn to properly circulate and reform your Kør. At the same time, we will refine your swordsmanship."
He turns away.
"Rest for today. Training resumes tomorrow."
"Yes, Master," Tristan replies.
---
Two Months Later
Two silhouettes stand across from one another on a vast grassy plain.
One radiates calm gray mana.
The other blazes with vibrant gold.
They draw their swords.
A dash.
The ground beneath Tristan's feet cracks as he launches forward. His blade becomes a blur, swinging toward Varek's waist—
"!"
A feint.
He adjusts his stance mid-motion, twisting his body and redirecting the strike toward Varek's left lung. It's blocked. The recoil forces Tristan back.
He circles to Varek's right, searching for an opening, then lunges—unleashing a rapid sequence of lethal slashes.
"Interesting," Varek murmurs, smiling.
Time feels slow. Every attack is countered—clean, efficient.
Frustration flashes across Tristan's face. He clicks his tongue and activates Foresight.
"A downward strike to my left shoulder."
He blocks it—then tilts his blade, redirecting Varek's weight.
"Now!"
A thrust toward Varek's liver, his blade glowing with golden mana—
Success—!
No.
An afterimage.
Tristan snaps his head to the right. Varek's blade stops inches from his face. Instinct takes over—mana floods his legs as he leaps back just in time. The resulting shockwave sends him flying.
He lands hard, regaining balance as blood trickles down his face.
"You're really not holding back, huh?" he scoffs, gasping, leaning on his sword.
He exhales slowly, circulating mana from his Kør—reinforcing his muscles, coating his blade.
Varek strikes first.
A ranged wave of compressed wind tears through the air.
Tristan's eyes glow gold as time slows. He ducks. An explosion of dust erupts behind him.
He dashes in.
Blades clash—rapid, relentless. Tristan activates Foresight again.
"A stab—again?"
He dodges, closing in. A thrust toward Varek's right shoulder—
"Excellent."
Varek vanishes.
"A kick from the ri—"
A feint.
Varek spins back, delivering a brutal roundhouse kick. Tristan barely turns in time—the impact sends him flying, crashing through the wall of the house behind him.
The structure collapses.
"Ugh…"
Pain surges through Tristan's body. Without his automatic reinforcement, his bones would've shattered.
Varek approaches calmly.
"You've improved," he says. "But you rely too much on Foresight. Learn to trust your reflexes. You shouldn't need to see an attack to evade it."
He pauses.
"…And you'll be paying for the wall."
A bead of sweat slides down his brow.
"…"
"Tristan?"