Morning at the academy didn't arrive gently.
It came with movement—boots on stone, distant shouts, the dull percussion of impacts carried on cold air.
Ren crossed the inner courtyard while the sun was still low, his breath faint in front of him. Students were already out. Not just first-years.
Older trainees moved with the kind of certainty Ren recognized immediately: repetition turned into instinct. Some drilled in pairs. Some worked alone. A few stood on raised platforms inside rune-lined circles, mana pressing against the air in controlled pulses.
Ren slowed near the edge of one ring.
A third-year swung an axe in a wide arc, the motion heavy and deliberate. The blade didn't just cut—metal nature hardened it mid-swing, the edge sharpening in a blink as if the weapon remembered what it was supposed to be.
Across from him, another student used a staff, channels of wind wrapping around each strike so the tip landed faster than it should have, snapping like a whip.
Ren watched longer than he meant to.
Not because he wanted what they had.
Because he wanted to understand how they made it look natural.
He moved on only when the ache under his ribs reminded him to keep walking.
The training grounds were already filling when he arrived, older classes claiming space across the fields.
Two wide fields sat beside each other, separated by a line of stone pillars and a shallow ridge of grass. Racks of practice tools lined the far edge. Rune-etched rings were set into the earth at regular intervals, each one designed to contain techniques that would otherwise spill.
Class A gathered without structure.
Only ten of them stood on the training grounds, spread loosely across the field with no clear pattern. Some lingered near the rings out of habit. Others hovered closer to the edges, adjusting grips or straps, waiting for direction that hadn't come yet.
Ren stayed where he was.
Lior stood nearby, calm as ever, sword resting at his side like it weighed nothing. Sylvi was there too, spear held with relaxed precision, posture balanced and quiet.
Beside them stood another student Ren recognized from class but hadn't spoken to—square stance, shoulders held too rigid, a thick-bladed sword strapped across his back. He looked like someone permanently braced for impact, ready for a blow that hadn't come yet.
A few paces away, the rest of the class lingered within sight: Selka checking the balance of her chakrams, Vannis letting the chain of his flail settle with soft, controlled movements, Jorren resting his scythe against the ground like an anchor.
Maris stood apart, tessen folded at her side, eyes already on the field rather than the people. Mira waited quietly with her staff, hands relaxed but ready.
Armsmistress Bryn Hale stepped into the center of the grounds.
The noise didn't stop.
It narrowed.
Even the older students shifted slightly, attention pulling toward her without anyone being told.
"Two weeks," Bryn said, voice carrying without effort. "That's how long you've had to meet your weapon spirit."
Her gaze swept Class A in a single pass.
"Some of you have treated that time like a gift."
A pause.
"Some of you have wasted it."
No one laughed.
Bryn's eyes flicked to the rings, then back to the students.
"Today is not a ceremony," she said. "Today is about standards."
She raised one hand.
"Three parts."
A finger lifted.
"First: form drills. You will show me you can move without injuring yourselves—or the people beside you."
A second finger.
"Second: precision and power. You will demonstrate control appropriate to your weapon and nature."
A third finger.
"Third: preparation."
Her hand lowered.
"Tomorrow is evaluation."
A ripple moved through the students—small, controlled reactions. Not panic. Not excitement.
Awareness.
Bryn let it settle.
"Class A versus Class B," she continued. "Randomized pairing. No weapons outside your spirit. No lethal intent."
Her eyes sharpened slightly.
"This is not a tournament," Bryn said.
She paced once, boots quiet on packed earth.
"I won't be watching who hits hardest."
Her gaze swept the line.
"I'll be watching who understands their limits. Who can read an opponent. And who can combine technique, meridian discipline, and weapon bond without collapsing the moment pressure rises."
She stopped.
"The dungeon doesn't care about your pride," Bryn said flatly. "And the academy will not send you out as liabilities."
The word hit Ren like a stone dropped into still water.
Dungeon.
Not a threat.
Not a metaphor.
A destination.
Bryn turned her head slightly.
"Instructors are assigned," Bryn said.
Her gaze moved across the grounds with practiced efficiency, already sorting the class before anyone else caught up.
"Staff—center ring. Mira."
Mira moved immediately, staff angled as she stepped away.
"Maris—range line."
The tessen at Maris's side clicked softly as she turned, already heading for the marked boundary.
Bryn lifted two fingers.
"Core bladed forms with me. Lior. Sylvi. Ren. Garran."
Ren's shoulders tightened—not with fear.
With focus.
The four of them stepped forward together.
Bryn's gaze shifted once more.
"Selka. Vannis. Jorren—specialized blades. Instructor to the right."
That was all she said.
The class broke along the lines she'd drawn, movement efficient, deliberate. No confusion. No hesitation.
Bryn turned back to them.
"With me."
They moved to a ring set slightly apart, its boundary runes faint beneath the dirt—worn, reinforced, built to endure mistakes.
Bryn stepped inside and drew her blade in one smooth motion.
The weapon didn't shine or demand attention.
It simply rested in her grip—not heavy, not light.
"Form," Bryn said.
She moved.
No flourish. No wasted motion.
Foot placement. Hip rotation. Shoulder alignment. Breath timed to motion. Each strike flowed into the next with quiet precision, the kind that came from correction repeated until errors stopped appearing.
The four of them stepped forward.
No mana.
No reinforcement.
Just movement.
They moved in sequence—cuts, guards, transitions—each motion stripped down to its purpose.
Lior's form was clean and economical. Every adjustment happened before it was needed, weight shifting smoothly as if the ground anticipated him. Bryn's gaze lingered a fraction longer.
Sylvi adapted sword forms into spear work without hesitation—thrusts precise, footwork tight, never overextending. Her movements carried the confidence of function over flourish.
Ren followed.
His mechanics were sound—angles correct, transitions clean—but the sword's weight told on him. A fraction too much commitment here. A slight undercut there. He adjusted as he went, compensating instead of refining.
Bryn saw it immediately.
Then came the last student.
Power first. Precision second—if at all. His swings were heavy, overcommitted, recovery lagging just long enough to be punished in a real fight.
Bryn let the sequence finish.
"Enough," she said.
Bryn raised a hand.
Two attendants moved in with the stone blocks.
One raised a hand, wind tightening around their forearm. With a controlled pull, multiple slabs lifted at once, floating forward in steady silence as compressed air cradled their weight. The motion was precise rather than dramatic—power held firmly on a short leash.
The other attendant didn't announce his nature.
He stepped forward, bent, and wrapped his bare hands around the remaining blocks. There was no visible activation—no reinforcement flaring, no elemental response. Just raw strength honed far past student limits.
Stone groaned as he lifted each slab cleanly from the earth and carried it into place, setting them down with measured care, muscles moving with the certainty of someone long past academy training.
They arranged the stones in a straight line within the ring.
Each student had their own stand—reinforced platforms spaced evenly apart, each bearing a single block positioned directly ahead of where they would strike. The stands sank slightly under the weight, runes along their bases flickering as they adjusted.
Each slab stood as tall as a grown man, long enough to dwarf a wagon—scarred, dense, and unforgiving to anything but deliberate technique.
Bryn stepped back once the last stone was set.
"One at a time," she said. "Cut clean. Power and precision in balance."
She lifted her gaze.
"Lior."
Lior stepped forward.
As he settled his stance, Ren noticed the change—not dramatic, but deliberate. A thin film of water formed along the blade's edge, barely visible at first. As Lior drew the sword back, the water began to move—circulating faster, tightening, compressing into a narrow sheath.
When Lior swung, the water accelerated.
The blade passed through the stone cleanly, the cut precise and quiet. The halves slid apart as if guided, not forced.
Bryn nodded once.
Ren watched closely.
Not to copy.
To understand why it looked effortless.
"Sylvi."
She stepped up and aligned the spear tip with a single point on the stone.
As she inhaled, the air at the spearhead distorted—wind compressing inward, focused, restrained. She didn't swing.
She thrust.
The spear struck dead center. Wind drove through the stone in a narrow line, cracking it unevenly before splitting it apart with a sharp report.
"Acceptable," Bryn said.
Then Bryn's eyes shifted.
"Ren."
Ren stepped forward.
His sword was dull. Heavy. Honest in his hands.
He set his feet and let his breath slow—not forcing calm, just allowing it. The noise of the training ground thinned, not because it vanished, but because he stopped giving it weight.
For a moment, he closed his eyes.
Not to retreat.
To focus.
The world narrowed.
Ren drew his attention inward—not diving, not forcing—until that familiar resistance surfaced again. It wasn't pressure. It was presence, steady and unyielding.
And beyond it—
The wall.
Not looming. Not threatening.
Just there.
Smooth. Absolute. Closed.
Ren didn't push.
He guided a thin thread of mana along familiar paths, careful and controlled. When it reached the barrier, he let it rest instead of pressing forward.
The contact was different.
No recoil.
No backlash.
The barrier didn't move—but it didn't reject him either. The faint fracture he'd sensed before remained, barely visible, unchanged.
And something shifted into place—not certainty, but a pattern.
The flow wasn't blocked.
Expression was.
Forcing it had been the mistake.
The realization didn't feel like victory.
Mana could move.
It just couldn't leave.
Not yet.
Ren opened his eyes.
Bryn watched him more closely now—not because she saw power, but because his timing was different. His preparation lasted a fraction longer than it should have. His breath settled too deliberately.
Interesting.
Ren raised the blade.
His stance was solid. Not perfect—but aligned. Years of repetition guided him more than thought ever could.
He swung.
The mechanics were clean.
The sound was wrong.
The blade struck stone with a dull impact instead of a slicing cut. The rock didn't split—it resisted. The sword bounced back slightly, vibration running through Ren's forearms.
A shallow dent marked the surface.
Ren absorbed the recoil without losing form, letting the motion finish naturally instead of forcing a follow-through that wasn't there.
The stone didn't split.
The blade struck with a dull, resistant impact, vibration running back through Ren's forearms as the sword bounced away slightly. A shallow dent marked the surface—nothing more.
No flare of mana.
No visible expression.
Just weight meeting something that refused to yield.
Silence followed.
Bryn stepped closer, eyes moving from the scarred stone to the blade in Ren's hands, then back to Ren himself.
She didn't speak.
Ren lowered his sword and stepped back into line.
The result hadn't changed.
But the way he'd reached it had.
He hadn't forced power that wasn't there. He hadn't chased impact for its own sake. He'd held form, held balance, and let the motion end where it was meant to—no more, no less.
The question wasn't how to break what resisted him.
It was how to work within what could already move.
Bryn's eyes moved to the last student.
"Garran," she said.
Garran stepped forward like he'd been waiting for permission to prove something.
His posture was rigid, shoulders locked, grip tight enough to pale his knuckles. Old cuts and half-healed scars traced his hands—marks left by recoil absorbed instead of controlled.
He set his stance.
Heavy.
Rooted.
As he drew breath, the ground answered.
Earth mana crept along the blade, subtle at first—then sharp. The metal roughened as small stone ridges formed along the edge, uneven and jagged, like teeth growing out of steel. The sword looked less refined for it.
More brutal.
Garran swung.
The cut carried force—undeniable, committed. His footing spread a fraction too wide on the follow-through, balance lagging just long enough to matter.
The stone split halfway.
Not clean.
Not precise.
But cut.
Fragments cracked outward as the blade bit deep and stalled, the reinforced edge grinding rather than slicing. Garran wrenched the sword free with a sharp exhale, jaw tightening as if irritated that his body hadn't kept up with his intent.
His recovery lagged.
Just a fraction.
Enough.
Garran turned his head slightly toward Ren.
Not a smirk.
A look that said, see?
Ren didn't answer.
His eyes stayed on the stone.
Half-cut.
Half-held.
A reminder of what raw power could achieve—even without refinement.
And how much it still left exposed.
Bryn looked down the line once more.
Then she turned away, voice carrying across the grounds as the students began regrouping, returning from their respective rings.
"Enough."
The groups merged again, the class reforming into a loose line.
The training grounds felt fuller now, the air busy with quiet comparisons and suppressed nerves.
Bryn raised her voice just enough to cut through it.
"Tomorrow," she said, gaze sweeping Class A, "you'll face the other class."
She let the word sit.
"It's an evaluation."
Then she cut it apart.
"Don't treat it like a test."
Movement slowed.
"If you fight like you're being judged," Bryn continued, "you'll fight carefully. Politely. You'll protect your form instead of your life."
Her eyes were flat now. Honest.
"That works in a ring. It gets you killed everywhere else."
She turned slightly, just enough that everyone felt included.
"When something real stands in front of you—when it wants your blood, your breath, your last step—you won't have time to remember rules."
A pause.
"You either move like survival matters," she said, "or you don't move again."
Silence followed.
Then Bryn straightened.
"Go," she said. "Rest. Review. Think."
The tension broke slowly. Students exhaled, movement returning in careful waves.
Ren stayed where he was.
He looked down at his sword.
Dull.
Heavy.
Unimpressive.
Still steady in his hands.
Tomorrow, they wouldn't be testing power.
They'd be testing judgment.
And Ren already knew what his limits were.
He tightened his grip.
Not to force more out of himself—
But to make sure he didn't waste what he could already use.