Chapter 8
Weight Without Steel
Training resumed the very next morning.
Not ceremonial.
Not indulgent.
Routine.
Kael arrived at the eastern practice yard before sunrise. The stone floor was still cold, faint mist hanging low where night had not yet fully retreated. He wore simple training clothes no insignia, no cloak but the blackened greaves remained visible beneath the fabric, dull and restrained.
They were not active.
They did not glow.
They simply existed.
That alone unsettled the instructors.
Captain Jorvan Holt stood at the edge of the yard, arms folded, expression severe. Around him, a dozen soldiers most of them Spirit Masters between Rank 20 and 30 waited in silence. These were not recruits. They were veterans assigned to discipline, not entertain.
Kael bowed.
"Begin," Jorvan said.
The first exercise was simple.
Footwork.
No soul skills.
No soul power circulation.
Just movement.
Kael stepped forward.
Thud.
The sound was subtle, but wrong. His foot did not slide. It did not adjust. It landed exactly where it was meant to, weight distributed perfectly, stance locked without stiffness.
Jorvan's eyes narrowed.
Again.
Kael moved through the sequence advance, pivot, retreat, brace. Each motion clean. Each step grounded. The greaves did not restrict him. They corrected him, subtly resisting inefficient angles, reinforcing proper posture.
One of the soldiers frowned.
"…He's not thinking about balance."
Another replied quietly, "He doesn't have to."
Next came paired drills.
No weapons.
Bare hands only.
Kael was assigned to a Rank 21 Spirit Master, a man nearly three times his weight. The soldier hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.
"Captain..."
"Do not hold back," Jorvan said coldly. "If you underestimate him, that is your failure."
The man exhaled and nodded.
He advanced.
Fast. Controlled. Proper.
Kael did not retreat.
Instead, he shifted his stance just slightly.
The moment the man struck, his momentum met something immovable.
Not resistance.
Correction.
The soldier stumbled, his balance broken not by force, but by denial. Kael stepped inside the opening and placed a palm against the man's chest.
He did not push.
The man fell anyway.
Silence followed.
Jorvan spoke. "Again."
By the third exchange, no one underestimated Kael anymore.
Not because he struck hard.
Because he did not give ground.
Every attempt to overwhelm him failed—not explosively, but cleanly. Attacks slid aside. Pressure dissolved. The greaves absorbed recoil, redirected force, and anchored Kael like a nail driven deep into stone.
Mirelle watched from the balcony above, notes forgotten in her hands.
"He's fighting like an adult," she murmured.
"No," Jorvan replied. "He's fighting like someone who knows why he shouldn't move."
After an hour, Jorvan raised his hand.
"Enough."
Kael stepped back and bowed. Sweat beaded on his brow, breathing slightly heavier but his stance remained unchanged. The greaves had dulled further, almost blending into shadow.
Jorvan studied him.
"You haven't activated your soul ring once."
Kael nodded. "There was no need."
"That answer will make you enemies," Jorvan said flatly.
Kael met his gaze. "I know."
Later, alone again, Kael returned to his room.
He sat at the edge of the bed, looking down at his legs.
Armor without weapons.
Foundation without intent.
He closed his eyes and recalled the drills.
The failures were not in strength.
They were in decision.
He opened his notebook.
Observation: Armor enforces posture, not outcome.
Limitation: Defense without intent leads to stalemate.
Conclusion: A knight must decide when to advance.
He paused.
Then wrote one final line:
Requirement for Second Ring: A form that embodies commitment.
Kael closed the notebook.
He did not imagine swords or spears.
Not yet.
Weapons were promises.
And promises required resolve.
Outside, the keep stirred with morning life.
Inside, Kael remained still.
The armor waited.
So did the steel that had not yet been draw