The training centre occupied the southern edge of campus, a sprawling complex of interconnected buildings that looked more like a fortress than a school facility. Reinforced stone walls bore the scars of decades' worth of combat practice. Scorch marks from fire spells. Deep gouges from earth manipulation. Frost still clung to corners where ice users had trained.
Arthur pushed through the main entrance. The doors were heavy, enchanted iron that swung open smoothly despite their weight. Inside, the building opened into a massive entrance hall with corridors branching off in multiple directions. A directory board floated near the centre, magical script updating in real-time to show which rooms were occupied.
Main Training Hall - Available
Spell Practice Ranges 1-5 - 2 Occupied
Combat Rings A-D - Ring B Occupied
Mana Circulation Chambers - All Available
Equipment Storage - Open
Arthur scanned the list. The main training hall would work. Large enough to practise sword forms without worrying about space, and apparently empty right now.
He followed the corridor to the left. His footsteps echoed on polished stone floors. Through windows along the hallway, he caught glimpses of other training spaces. A spell range where someone was launching fire bolts at reinforced targets. A meditation room with students sitting cross-legged, their cores visible as faint glows beneath their skin.
The main hall's doors stood open. Arthur stepped through and stopped.
The space was enormous. Easily the size of a football field, with a ceiling that stretched up three storeys. The floor was smooth wood, worn from countless feet and reinforced with preservation arrays. Training dummies lined one wall, ranging from basic wooden frames to advanced constructs that could move and react. Weapon racks held practice swords, spears, staffs, and weapons Arthur didn't recognise.
Mirrors covered another wall from floor to ceiling, letting practitioners watch their own forms. The far end had a raised platform where instructors could observe and demonstrate.
And it was completely empty.
Arthur walked to the centre of the hall. His footsteps sounded too loud in the silence. He set down his practice sword and stretched, testing his shoulder's range of motion. The pull was still there, but manageable. His ribs protested slightly when he twisted, but they held.
'Light activity only,' the healer had said.
Arthur picked up his sword.
He moved into the starting stance for Thunder Blade Style. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, sword held at a forty-five-degree angle across his body. The position felt natural, muscle memory taking over. How many hours had the original Arthur spent in this exact stance?
Thousands, probably. Just not recently.
The original Arthur had mastered the First Form years ago under his father's instruction. He'd even started learning the Second Form, managing a few of its more complex movements before his training discipline collapsed. Months of slacking had eroded what should have been instinct.
Arthur took a breath and began the First Form.
Step forward with the right foot. Horizontal slash from left to right. The blade whistled through the air. Return to centre stance. Step forward with the left. Vertical slash downward. The impact point is six inches above where an opponent's collarbone would be.
The movements felt clumsy. Arthur's mind knew the sequence from Arthur's memories, but his body was still catching up. Oscar had never swung a sword in his life. This borrowed muscle memory was helping, but there was a disconnect. Like watching someone else perform the moves and trying to copy them a split second later.
He reset and tried again.
Step, slash, return. Step, slash, return. The rhythm should be smooth, each movement flowing into the next. But Arthur kept hesitating between strikes, second-guessing the angle or the footwork.
'Come on. You know this. Arthur knew this.'
Reset. Again.
The First Form of Thunder Blade Style had twelve movements. A complete sequence designed to build the foundation for everything else. Speed. Precision. The ability to channel lightning through the blade at the moment of impact.
Arthur had the theory down. The execution was another matter.
He worked through the sequence slowly. Focused on getting each movement right rather than trying for speed. His shoulder started to ache around the fifth repetition. His ribs sent sharp complaints on the eighth. By the tenth, sweat was running down his back despite the cool air.
Arthur paused, breathing hard. His reflection stared back at him from the mirrors. Flushed face, hair plastered to his forehead, stance slightly off-balance.
'This is pathetic. The original Arthur could do this in his sleep.'
But the original Arthur had been training since childhood. Had thousands of repetitions burned into his muscles. Oscar was working with borrowed memories and two days out of the infirmary.
He raised the sword again.
The problem wasn't the individual movements. Arthur could execute each strike cleanly enough. The problem was the transitions. The flow between one position and the next. Thunder Blade Style was meant to be fast, each movement building momentum for the next. Lightning-quick strikes that overwhelmed opponents through sheer speed.
Right now, Arthur was fighting in slow motion.
Reset. Focus.
He started the form again, this time trying to let the muscle memory guide him instead of overthinking every motion. Step, slash, return. His body knew this. Somewhere deep in Arthur's training, the pattern was there.
The movements came more smoothly. The hesitation between strikes was shortened. By the third repetition, Arthur felt something click. His feet found their rhythm. The sword became an extension of his arm rather than a separate object he was wielding.
Better. This was better.
He kept going. Over and over. The ache in his shoulder faded into background noise. His ribs stopped protesting. His breathing evened out into the rhythm of the Form.
Step, slash, return. Flow into the next position. Blade high, then low, then centre. Horizontal cuts followed by vertical cuts. Diagonal strikes that required his whole body to pivot.
Somewhere around the twentieth repetition, Arthur stopped counting.
The Form took over. His mind went quiet, focused entirely on the movement. This was what the original Arthur had felt during training. This state where nothing existed except the sword and the sequence and the flow of one strike into the next.
Meditation through motion.
Arthur's blade whistled through the air. His footwork fell into perfect rhythm. Each transition is smooth as water. The twelve movements of the First Form cycled again and again, building on themselves, creating a continuous pattern.
Then he felt it.
Mana.
Moving through his channels without him consciously directing it. Following the pattern of his movements, gathering in his arms and legs. The First Form wasn't just a physical exercise. It was designed to circulate mana through specific pathways, preparing the body to channel lightning through the blade.
Arthur had read about this in Arthur's training manuals. The theory. But experiencing it was different.
The mana followed his movements. When he stepped forward, it flowed down through his legs. When he slashed, it surged up through his arms. The wooden practice sword couldn't hold a lightning charge, but Arthur could feel where the energy would go if he were using a real blade.
He kept the Form going. Let the mana circulation become part of the rhythm. Step, slash, mana flow. Return, reset, energy gathering. Over and over until it felt as natural as breathing.
His muscles started to burn. Real exhaustion now, not just soreness from his injuries. How long had he been at this? Arthur glanced at the windows. The sun had shifted considerably. What had been early morning light was now streaming in at a different angle entirely.
Two hours? Maybe three?
Arthur didn't stop.
One more cycle. The mana circulation was stronger now, the pathways more defined. He could feel the energy building toward something. Some threshold.
Step forward. Horizontal slash. Mana surging through his arms. Return to the centre.
Step forward. Vertical slash. Lightning-fast, the blade cut through the air with a sound like distant thunder.
His body finally remembered the rhythm. The pathways the mana needed to flow through became clearer, more defined. He could feel the pattern now, see how each movement led into the next.
'One more time. All twelve movements. No stopping.'
Arthur reset to the starting stance. Took a breath. Began.
Step forward. Horizontal slash. The blade sang through the air.
Return. Step. Vertical cut downward.
Pivot. Diagonal strike from high right to low left.
His body flowed through the sequence. No hesitation between movements. The transitions are as smooth as water. Mana surged through his pathways, following the pattern he'd drilled into himself over the last few hours.
Fourth movement. Fifth. Sixth.
Oscar's mind might have Arthur's memories, but his body was relearning from scratch. Building the foundation that the original Arthur had let decay through months of neglect.
Seventh movement. Eighth.
The mana built with each strike. Accumulating. Gathering strength.
Ninth movement. A spinning slash that required his whole body to pivot.
Tenth. Eleventh.
Arthur's muscles screamed. His shoulder felt like it was on fire. His ribs sent sharp protests with each breath.
He didn't stop.
Twelfth movement. The final position.
Sword held vertically in front of his body, blade pointing up. Feet together. Core engaged. Mana is circulating in a complete loop from core to extremities and back.
Arthur held the position. Let the mana complete its circuit.
Then he channelled.
Just a spark. A tiny thread of lightning that crackled down the wooden practice blade. The sword couldn't hold a real charge, but for a split second, yellow electricity danced along its length.
Thunder cracked. Quiet, barely audible, but real.
Arthur's eyes widened.
The blade stopped glowing immediately, the wood unable to sustain the charge. But he'd done it. Channelled lightning through a strike, even if only for an instant.
That's what Thunder Blade Style was supposed to do.
Arthur lowered his sword slowly. His arms shook. His legs felt like jelly. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the wooden floor.
Progress. Real, measurable progress.
He moved to the wall and slid down to sit, his back against cool stone. The practice sword rested across his lap. His breathing gradually slowed from gasping to normal.
Arthur closed his eyes and focused inward. On his core. The white sphere of mana rotated slowly, pulling in ambient energy from the air around him. And underneath it, that pressure he'd felt before. The building of energy meant a breakthrough was coming soon.
Middle Apprentice. Maybe another week of training like this, and he'd cross that threshold.
But more immediately, he'd achieved competency with the First Form. Thunder Blade Style had three forms in total. The first was the foundation, focused on speed and precision. The second built on that with more complex movements and actual lightning channelling throughout the sequence. The third was advanced techniques that combined everything into devastating attacks.
The original Arthur had mastered the First Form years ago. He'd been working on the second before he started slacking, barely able to execute a few of its movements before his training fell apart.
Now Oscar was rebuilding that foundation from scratch. One full execution of twelve movements didn't mean mastery. It meant understanding. A starting point to build from.
Arthur had a long way to go before he'd call himself truly competent with the full style. But this was a beginning.
He stood, muscles protesting. Grabbed his practice sword from where it lay beside him. On his way out, he passed another student entering. A second-year, judging by the badge on her uniform. She nodded at him, glancing at the sword in his hand.
"Good session?" she asked.
Arthur realised he must look like a mess. Drenched in sweat, face flushed, limping slightly on his ankle, carrying his own practice sword.
"Yeah," he said. "Good session."
She smiled. "Keep it up. First-years who actually train before the year starts usually do well."
Then she was past him, heading deeper into the training centre.
Arthur stepped out into the afternoon sunlight, the practice sword still in his hand. The campus looked different now. More real. Less like a fantasy world he'd read about and more like a place he actually lived.
His stomach growled. He'd skipped breakfast and skipped lunch too, apparently.
The dining hall would be open. He could grab food, rest for a few hours, and look over some of the training manuals in his room.
Tomorrow he'd come back. Work on the First Form until it is truly second nature. Start studying the Second Form's movements. Push his spells past their current mastery levels.
Two months until the academy year starts.
Arthur was going to use it every day.