The training grounds were already crowded when I arrived. Swords clacked, boots stomped, sweat filled the air. But something else lingered too—tension.
Four older boys had a small group of three trainees cornered. They mocked them, pushed them, and struck them with wooden swords while laughing.
Normally, I would've cared and done something but..
Not today.
Not with my mind still drowning in thoughts of aura, failure, and the five shining prodigies who stood far above me. I had no room in my skull for other people's problems.
I walked to the far corner of the grounds, shut out the world, and closed my eyes.
Focus.
Stance.
Balance.
Breathing.
I shifted my weight, correcting my posture—adjusting the positioning of my feet, lowering my center of gravity, letting my senses feel everything around me. Then I started striking—over and over—wood slicing through empty air as I repeated the basics again and again.
I didn't even register the loud voices behind me.
I didn't notice the footsteps.
I didn't hear someone yelling at me.
But I felt the wooden sword when it slammed into my chest.
My eyes snapped open.
The sword clattered to the ground.
I stared down at it, then slowly lifted my gaze toward the four older boys and the three beaten trainees behind them.
My voice was flat.
"What do you want?"
They flinched.
Then the insults came, sharp and predictable.
"The nerve on this little sewage rat."
"Who does he think he is?"
"Look at his clothes—he looks like he crawled in from the gutter."
I sheathed my real blade and picked up the wooden sword at my feet.
"Oh?" I tilted my head. "Were you nobles never taught manners? Interesting."
I had noticed it earlier—almost everyone here wore finer clothes. Nobles. Wealthier families. Specially sponsored talents.
I was the outlier.
I smiled at them.
They bristled and each grabbed a training sword, pointing them at me.
"You're gonna regret saying that!"
"We'll beat you down like we did these brats!"
I didn't flinch.
I didn't step back.
A fight… I welcomed it.
Fine.
I needed the practice anyway.
One of them blinked—
And I vanished from his sight.
I reappeared in their blindspot and slammed a kick into one boy's stomach, launching him into the wall. He choked and dropped his sword, gasping for air.
Before the other two could react, I swept their legs out from under them and delivered sharp kicks to their jaws. They dropped instantly—knocked out cold.
Only one remained.
He froze, trembling so badly his sword shook in his hand.
I took a step toward him.
"What's wrong?" I asked softly. "Where'd all that passion go?"
I finally raised my wooden sword and took proper stance.
The boy panicked and rushed at me with a scream.
I gripped the handle with both hands, exhaled, and swung downward.
Fast.
Heavy.
Precise.
It cut through the air like a boulder falling from a cliff.
I stopped the blade inches from his face.
The force shook the ground.
Wind exploded outward.
Dust and dirt lifted in a sharp gust that swept across the entire training grounds—and even into the food hall far away.
People looked up.
People felt that.
I didn't.
I still felt weak compared to the five aura users.
Weak compared to the border knights.
Weak compared to the Red Tide.
A complete insect compared to real Lionhearth knights.
The last boy fainted before the blade even touched him. He crumpled to the ground unconscious.
I lowered the sword and exhaled.
The three bullied boys watched me with wide eyes. I tossed them some medical herbs without looking their way.
They stuttered out thanks before limping off—whether to their rooms or a healer, I didn't care. My mind was already sinking back into training.
I stepped away—
—and then I felt it.
A suffocating wave of bloodlust—immense, cold, overwhelming.
My instincts screamed.
My hand moved before my brain did—my real sword was already drawn.
Something's coming.
A flash.
Steel collided with steel.
And I was thrown.
The impact sent me crashing into the far wall of the training grounds. The entire academy heard the thundering boom. Dust exploded outward, swallowing the field in a choking cloud.
Pain erupted inside my chest.
Blood filled my mouth.
Who—
Who the hell—?
The dust began to settle.
A figure stood there.
Tall. Unmoving. Sword lowered.
Silver Hair. Cold eyes. A presence that startled everyone around him.
My breath caught.
"...Sir… Zenite…?"
The director and the other captain arrived seconds later, both startled.
"Captain Zenite—why did you attack him?!"
"What are you doing?!"
He ignored them.
His eyes stayed locked on me.
A small smirk formed on his face.
I spat blood onto the ground and forced myself to stand. My legs shook uncontrollably. My sword quivered in my hand—not from fear, but from the sheer force of his strike.
That single blow damaged me more than any injury I had ever taken.
The trainees had gathered around—the five aura users stood at the front, eyes wide, stunned.
Not just them.
Everyone.
Everyone was staring at what was unfolding.
I barely managed to lift my sword into stance, body screaming in protest—yet unwilling to fall.
Sir Zenite raised his blade.
Cold. Deadly.
Unyielding.
The same blade that once taught me.
And now it was pointed at me.