Nightfall
The moonlight poured through the cracks in the high stone walls of the training hall, casting long shadows over Lucius’s exhausted form. He sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, his body aching from the merciless training session under Marshal Reynard. His shirt, soaked in sweat and dirt, clung to his skin, and bruises marked his arms and chest like ink on parchment.
But he was not done yet.
With slow, deliberate breaths, Lucius focused on his mana flow. His core pulsed with energy, and he could feel the two magic circles inside him humming like restrained storms. Tonight, he would form the third.
He clenched his fists, channeling his remaining strength into shaping the next layer of his power. His body, however, did not respond.
His limbs trembled, not from lack of control—but from sheer exhaustion.
The brutal training had pushed him past his limits, draining not just his stamina but the very foundation of his being. Mana needed a stable body to take form, but his body was battered beyond recognition.
Lucius grit his teeth. No. Not yet. I can still push forward.
He forced the energy to condense, but his vision blurred, and the burning sensation in his core turned into a sharp, excruciating pain. The mana, unstable and wild, lashed out from within, tearing through his veins like fire.
Damn it!
His chest tightened, his breathing became ragged, and in that moment, his body shut down.
Lucius collapsed onto the stone floor, his consciousness slipping into darkness.
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Drip… Drip…
Cold water splashed against his face. Lucius’s eyes fluttered open, and he found himself lying on the hard training ground.
Above him, Marshal Reynard’s expression was as cold and unreadable as ever. The morning sun barely illuminated his sharp, battle-hardened face.
“You have ten seconds to stand up,” Reynard said flatly.
Lucius gritted his teeth and pushed himself up with trembling arms. His body screamed in protest, but he refused to remain on the ground.
One second.
His muscles felt like lead. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Three seconds.
He pressed his palm against his knee, using whatever strength he had left to rise.
Five seconds.
Pain flared in his ribs, a dull ache from yesterday’s strikes, but he ignored it.
Seven seconds.
With a final push, he stood—barely, but he stood.
Reynard nodded once. “Good. Now run.”
Lucius blinked. “…Where?”
Reynard’s cold, golden eyes locked onto him. “Until I say stop.”
Lucius ran.
With every step, his body protested. The cuts on his arms stung, his shoulders ached, and his legs threatened to give out. But he did not stop.
The knights watching from the sidelines exchanged uneasy glances. It was clear Lucius was barely holding himself together, yet Reynard never told him to stop.
The morning turned into midday.
Lucius's legs burned, his lungs screamed, but he pushed forward. Sweat soaked his clothes, but the only sound he made was his steady, controlled breathing.
And then—finally—Reynard raised his hand.
“Stop.”
Lucius stumbled, his knees nearly giving way, but he forced himself to remain standing. His body begged for rest, for healing—
But Reynard’s cold voice cut through the silence.
“If you even think about healing yourself, you are not fit to be a warrior.”
Lucius froze. His fingers, which had instinctively started gathering mana for recovery, stopped mid-air.
Reynard’s gaze was sharp, his words like steel. “A real warrior does not rely on magic to cover weakness. If you cannot endure this pain, you are unworthy of the sword.”
Silence hung in the air. The watching knights shifted uncomfortably.
Lucius, however, did not argue.
He released his gathered mana, letting the pain remain.
Reynard observed him for a long moment before nodding. “Good.”
And then, without another word—training resumed.
Lucius gritted his teeth, steadied his stance, and prepared himself. Because he would not fall. Not yet.