The sun barely kissed the horizon when Lucius stood at the training grounds, his body already aching from the previous day’s exertion. Yet, he was not allowed to rest. His mentor for now—Commander Darius—watched him with a sharp, unreadable gaze.
Marshal Reynard had made it clear: until Lucius could cut the post in one swing, he was not worthy of his training.
And so, in his absence, Darius had taken up the responsibility of shaping him into a warrior.
Darius’s voice was calm but firm. “Again.”
Lucius gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the sword, his knuckles turning white. His muscles screamed in protest, but he swung at the wooden post with all his might.
The blade struck cleanly, slicing through but stopping just before the halfway mark—just as it always did.
Darius sighed. "Your durability has improved. Your grip is stronger than before. But your blade is still weak, Lucius. Your form is still lacking.”
Lucius took a step back, breathing heavily. He had known this—felt this. His endurance had skyrocketed in just one month.
Where he once collapsed after a single day of training, now he could endure the relentless drills without faltering. But strength alone wasn’t enough.
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“Again.”
Lucius steadied himself. He swung. Again and again. Each strike was more refined, yet still insufficient.
After hours of relentless striking, Darius motioned for Lucius to take a stance. “Enough of that. Let’s see if you can handle a real opponent.”
Lucius barely had time to raise his sword before Darius was upon him. The commander’s strikes were calculated and swift, forcing Lucius onto the defensive almost immediately.
Steel clashed against steel, the weight of Darius’s attacks sending shockwaves through Lucius’s arms. Each attack was meant to expose his weaknesses. His grip wavered at the wrong moments.
His footwork was inconsistent. His breathing—too erratic.
Darius swept his legs out from under him, sending Lucius sprawling onto the dirt.
“Again.”
Lucius gritted his teeth, pushing himself up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Darius never praised him, never encouraged him—only corrected him. And yet, he never treated him as weak, either.
Unlike others, Darius had acknowledged Lucius’s potential from the beginning. He had seen something in him before even Reynard had.
And he expected him to prove it.
By the time night fell, Lucius was beyond exhausted. His muscles screamed with every movement, his palms raw from gripping the sword. His breathing was heavy, and sweat drenched his training clothes.
Yet, as soon as he was alone in his room, he sat cross-legged on the floor and closed his eyes. He had no time to rest.
He focused inward, reaching deep within himself, toward his mana core. Two circles. That was all he had.
Two circles weren’t enough.
He couldn’t cut through the post because his magic—his power—was still too weak.
He needed more.
Gritting his teeth, Lucius began attempting to form his third magic circle.
The process was painful, grueling. Every time he tried, his mana scattered, unable to condense into the shape he needed.
Again.
His body trembled, sweat dripping down his face.
Again.
He felt a sharp pain in his chest. The strain was immense.
Again.
And yet, every time he tried, he failed.
Lucius opened his eyes, gasping for breath. The candlelight flickered around him, casting long shadows across the room.
Failure Again.
His time was running out. He had two months. Two months to cut through that post in a single swing.
And at this rate… he would never make it.