Ethan groaned as his eyes fluttered open, greeted once again by the too-familiar ceiling of the infirmary.

  "Hah... I really need to fix this body already," he muttered, pressing a hand to his forehead. "At this rate, I’m going to make fainting every Wednesday a tradition..."

  A chair creaked nearby.

  "Oh, boy, you're awake again?" came Professor Alric’s voice, drier than the desert air.

  Ethan gnced over and offered a weak smile. "Thanks, as always."

  The old healer waved him off. "Just doing my job. Though I’ve gotta say—seems the training is finally kicking in. Keep it up."

  Ethan blinked. "What? It feels like it's not working at all!"

  Alric let out a low chuckle. "Hah! That’s not true. A month ago, you were out cold for five hours. Today? Just three. That’s what we call progress."

  Ethan let his head drop back onto the pillow with a dramatic sigh. "Ugh... and yet I’m still fainting!"

  "That’s just tradition now," Alric smirked. "Keep at it, boy. Maybe next month you’ll wake up before lunch."

  “Don’t you have any potion that could help me out?” Ethan asked, slumped on the infirmary bed with his usual post-colpse weariness.

  “I do,” Professor Alric replied without looking up from his desk. “But they’d be wasted on you. Until you break a few of those curses, those potions won’t be much more than fancy-fvored water.”

  Ethan groaned. “And how long do you think that will take?”

  “That depends entirely on you.” Alric finally looked up, rubbing his temple. “Lilith—my granddaughter—told me you’ve got talent. She said you sensed Miasma immediately. That’s rare, it took a whole month for me and two weeks for her, and she's considered a first grade talent! With dedication and her guidance, you could grasp the basics in… a year or so.”

  “A whole year!?” Ethan sat up, almost falling off the bed. “Can’t we speed it up somehow? I don't think my body will st that long!”

  “Stop being dramatic!” Alric’s voice was firm. “You can’t rush this. Your body has to adapt to Miasma first. Then you will have to learn how to manipute it. Push too fast, and you’ll tear yourself apart. I've seen it before. Every impatient fool who tried to shortcut the path ended up dead—or turned into monsters.”

  Ethan frowned, hesitating. “But what if… what if I already can manipute Miasma?”

  Alric snorted. “Bullshit. No first-time caster can manipute Miasma. It’s impossible.”

  “I’m serious!” Ethan insisted. “Lilith gave me a homework assignment—to transfer Miasma between two crystals—and while it was quite hard at the beginning, after a short nap I was able to do it. I don't have the crystals here but I can bring them back to you if you want.”

  The old professor gave him a long, doubtful stare. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Then test me. Give me two crystals.”

  “…Fine.” Alric reached into a drawer, retrieving a pair of dull bck and empty gray crystals. “You better not be wasting my time.”

  Ethan took a breath, focused his mind like he had during the dream—and just like before, the cold mist slithered from one crystal to the other.

  Alric leaned in, jaw slowly dropping. “That’s… That’s impossible.”

  “I told you.”

  “You're not even using spells! How are you even doing this!? Are you sure you’re human?” Alric muttered, blinking rapidly. “You’re not…half-demon, are you?"

  “Pretty sure I’m human,” Ethan replied, trying not to sound nervous.

  “I’m taking a blood sample. No arguments.”

  “…Fine,” Ethan said reluctantly, holding out his arm. “If that makes you happy, go ahead. But you won't find anything.”

  Alric quickly drew a small vial’s worth of blood and sealed it. “Results should be in by Sunday. I’ll have Lilith inform you directly.”

  He leaned in, eyes serious. “And listen to me. Say nothing. To absolutely nobody! If the wrong ears hear about this, your life’s over. Understand?”

  “Understood…” Ethan nodded slowly. “Is it that dangerous?”

  “Stop asking dumb questions and—wait, what time is it? You still have Weapon Training css!”

  “Wait, what!?”

  “It starts today for first years,” Alric said, rising to his feet. “Professor Rhea didn’t warn you?”

  “No! I’ve never heard anything about that!”

  “Maybe because you were out cold. Well, now you have. So out, boy! Out! Out!”

  “I’m going, I’m going!” Ethan muttered, grabbing his things and dashing for the door.

  "Wait, but where am I supposed to go?" Ethan called back as he pushed open the infirmary door.

  Alric’s voice echoed after him, sharp as always.

  “Are you still sleeping!? Where else could it be!? Of course it's the training field! Now go!”

  Ethan didn’t need to be told twice.

  He dashed across the stone corridors of the Academy, took the back stairwell two steps at a time, and finally burst into the open courtyard behind the west wing. A wide, open-air training field awaited, bordered by racks of weapons and wooden dummies, with targets set up at various distances. Dozens of students were already assembled in neat lines.

  Professor Rhea stood at the front, arms folded, expression as unreadable and terrifying as ever. The second her eyes locked on him, Ethan froze mid-step.

  “You’re te, Mr. Cross.”

  “I—I was in the infirmary!” Ethan blurted, skidding to a halt.

  Her eyes narrowed—then, unexpectedly, a smirk tugged at the edge of her lips.

  “Hmph. I know. Who do you think carried you there?”

  Ethan stiffened, staring at her in disbelief.

  She’s messing with me!

  Frowning deeply, he wisely chose not to respond.

  She jabbed a finger toward the end of the front row.

  “Since you love fainting so much, get in line. I promise not to go easy on you!”

  No! Please do go easy on me!

  Ethan pleaded internally, but he scampered into pce without a word.

  He barely had time to catch his breath before Professor Rhea’s voice rang out again.

  “Listen up! You’re all here because you’re healers—and healers, while vital, are often the weakest link in combat.”

  Some students shifted uncomfortably.

  “Healers get the privilege of choosing any weapon they want to train with,” Professor Rhea continued, pacing slowly across the front of the field. “Warriors and Rangers—css-bound. They have restrictions. But you? You can wield anything. Sword, staff, dagger, mace—even your own hands, if you’re stupid enough.”

  A few students chuckled. She didn’t smile.

  “Why is that? Because unlike those other csses, you don’t have weapon dependent skills. Your job isn’t to kill. Your job is to keep others alive.”

  A student raised their hand. “What about mages? They don’t rely on weapons either.”

  “Good question,” Professor Rhea said, nodding. “Mages are pure offense. They don’t carry weapons because their magic is their bde. You, on the other hand, can cast offensive spells, sure. But if you waste all your mana attacking, who is going to do the healing?”

  The css gave a nervous ugh.

  Professor Rhea’s voice cracked like thunder. “That was not a joke!”

  Silence.

  She scanned the group slowly, letting her words nd like weights on their shoulders. “Plenty of people have died because their healer was too busy showing off. Attacking isn’t your role. The only reason you carry a weapon at all is because monsters don’t care what css you are. If you’re on the battlefield, you’re a target.”

  Ethan swallowed hard.

  “A good healer stays in the back, conserves mana, supports the team. A great healer knows how to protect themselves when the line breaks. And make no mistake—the line will break. That’s why we train.”

  A hand shot up—another student, visibly annoyed. “Then why did we have to fight a goblin before any of this? Shouldn’t we have had training first?”

  Professor Rhea smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. “That wasn’t a test of technique. That was a test of spirit. If you couldn’t handle a single, weakened goblin without training, then you had no business in this Academy to begin with.”

  The girl frowned, refusing to back down. “But didn’t you just say our job is to stay in the backlines?”

  Professor Rhea’s smile vanished.

  “No adventurer should be afraid of monsters,” she said coldly. “Acting according to your role doesn’t mean cowering behind your allies. It means choosing your battles. If you see an opening—take it. If you see a teammate about to die—save them. That’s not a frontliner’s job. That’s courage.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “And those without courage? They die. Or worse—they get someone else killed.”

  Silence.

  Then a single cp—sharp and commanding.

  “Now grab your weapons and start swinging!” she barked. “Practice stances! Strikes! Build muscle memory! I want to hear the sound of steel hitting wood until it haunts my dreams!”

  Weapons lined the racks—swords, staves, spears, clubs. Ethan stepped forward, eyes scanning the options until they nded on a short sword. He took it in hand and gave it a few test swings. It was heavier than it looked, but still lighter than the clunky bde he'd used during the Monster Biology css.

  This’ll do.

  It wasn’t about preference. He didn’t have a great love for swords—just practicality. Back in his vilge, all the kids had trained with swords each morning. It was tiresome, repetitive training, but far easier than anything at the Academy. At least back then, he hadn’t fainted after every session.

  Still, that training hadn’t been for nothing. While his body hadn’t grown stronger like the others, his understanding of swordpy had improved bit by bit. Not enough to be considered a full-fledged warrior, but more than an amateur who never held a bde. If "Beginners" marked the starting line, Ethan had reached the level of a "Novice"—someone who knew the standard forms, and how to apply his strength through the bde.

  So, when the training started, Ethan found himself surprisingly at ease, knowing exactly what to do. He positioned himself before the dummy and measured the distance before testing slowly a single strike. Assured he had gotten everything right he continued, this time adding more strength and speed. Then one more. And one more. Changing stances, aiming at different locations, circling around the target, remembering the different moves he had learned before.

  Across the field, Professor Rhea stood with her arms crossed, eyes sharp as she evaluated the sea of swinging weapons. Beside her, a piece of parchment had been divided into three columns:Group A – Beginners. Those who required guidance and still could not take on missions.Group B – Novices. Those who required guidance but could take on first grade missions.Group C – Self-Directed Trainees. Those who could train on their own and take on up to second grade missions.

  One by one, she cssified her students.

  Oliver came first. With his dual axes, he was… spirited, to say the least. Wild swings, poor footwork, no understanding of distance or leverage. Group A—without question.

  Daniel, on the other hand, impressed her. Wielding a two-handed longsword, his movements were crisp and fluid, betraying years of training. His footwork was solid, and his grip correct. Group C—no hesitation.

  Celica was no less proficient. Her athletic frame moved with grace and power as she handled her spear like an extension of her own body. Group C—again, easy.

  Anya, smaller and nimble, darted around her dummy with a dagger. Her technique was sloppy, relying too much on speed, but she showed promise. Professor Rhea made a note: Group B.

  Misha wielded her sword with admirable control. Though she had fws in her form, they were minor. She’d clearly trained before arriving at the Academy. Group C.

  Then came Eliza. She used a dagger, her moves sharp and purposeful, but it was clear she had no formal training—just natural instincts and discipline. Professor Rhea frowned, debating. Eventually, she marked Eliza under Group A, but with a star beside her name: “Monitor for Promotion.”

  And finally, her eyes nded on Ethan.

  Professor Rhea sighed softly.

  His swings were… good. Surprisingly good. His form was clean, his weight well-pced, and he showed the kind of discipline that only came from years of repetitive drills. His swordsmanship alone pced him solidly in Group B—maybe even Group C, if she were being generous.

  But then came the problem.

  His body.

  She could see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his legs subtly trembled with every third swing. The unevenness of his breathing. The slightest dey in his recovery from each strike. It hadn't been fifteen minutes since they started and he was already tired. His stamina was cking, his strength and agility underwhelming.

  And yet... he kept going. Steady. Focused. Tireless in spirit, even if his body wasn’t up to par.

  How frustrating must that be? she wondered. To fight with everything you have, to hone your technique to this level—only for your body to betray you at every turn.

  But monsters wouldn’t care.

  They wouldn’t pause to acknowledge his effort, or the quiet suffering that brought him to this point. All that mattered in a fight was power—clean, decisive, unforgiving power. And no matter how sharp his form was, if his swings didn't cut deep enough when it counted... that would be the end.

  That's why, at least her, she should care and stop him here.

  Professor Rhea lingered for a moment, biting the end of her quill. Then she scribbled his name under Group A.

  An hour had passed, and Ethan was at his limit.

  His breaths came in ragged gasps, his arms hung limp at his sides, and the short sword in his hand felt like a sb of iron. Every muscle screamed for rest. He couldn’t even muster the strength to lift his bde for another swing.

  Is this how I die? he wondered bitterly, half-expecting to colpse right there.

  And then, like a divine answer to his suffering, a sharp cp rang through the air.

  “That’s enough! Take a short break!” Professor Rhea’s voice cut through the training field like a bell.

  Ethan nearly sank to the ground in relief, his sword slipping from his fingers as he leaned over, gasping.

  The students gathered around as Professor Rhea stood tall at the front, hands behind her back, gaze sweeping over them like a hawk.

  “I’ve evaluated all of you,” she said. “And from now on, you’ll be split into three groups.”

  A few students straightened up. Most looked confused. Ethan just focused on not falling over.

  “These groupings are temporary,” she continued. “I’ll re-evaluate you regurly. Improve, and I’ll promote you. Sck off, and I’ll kick you down. Simple as that.”

  She let that sink in before raising a hand.

  “To pass this css, you must earn 10 points before the end of the semester. That number will change every year—get used to it. You earn points by completing missions. Some are easy. Some will break you. Some may kill you.”

  A murmur spread across the group.

  “But—” she said, raising her voice to silence them. “There’s a catch.”

  “If you are part of Group A you are prohibited from accepting missions. You’ll attend Weapon Training every week. No exceptions.”

  “If you are part of Group B you’ll also attend weekly training. However, you can accept missions, but only those whose rank is equal to or below your year. In your case that means only rank 1 missions. No exceptions!"

  “If you are part of Group C you’re free to train whenever you want, however you want. You may also accept missions up to two ranks above your year. That means up to rank 3. But don't take those right away! Go slowly! One rank at a time!”

  A few of the top students gave smug smirks.

  “Did you understand everything?” Professor Rhea raised an eyebrow. “Probably not. But don't worry! You’ll be receiving another guide booklet this weeked with all of this written down, and it will double as an identification for you. It will also include your current score in every discipline, mark the credits you gain and the credits you spend.”

  She took a step forward, her voice taking on a steely edge.

  “Everything you’ve experienced so far? That was just the warm-up. The real deal starts now.”

  She smirked.

  “Welcome to the Adventurer Academy.”

  After the lecture, Professor Rhea pulled out a list and began calling students forward, one by one, assigning them to their groups.

  “Rosa Barrok. Group C.”

  “Kamile Ish Group B.”

  “Nina Heart. Group A.”

  ...

  Ethan waited his turn, shifting his weight from foot to foot. When his name was finally called, he stepped forward, confident—if a bit tired.

  “Ethan Cross. Group A.”

  He blinked. “Group A?”

  A few surprised murmurs rippled through the line behind him. Ethan frowned. Group A was the lowest tier—the ones who needed the most guidance. Sure, his stamina was low, but he’d shown solid technique. He was certain he was better than at least a few of the students pced in Group B.

  He stepped back quietly, biting the inside of his cheek. Was it really that bad?

  Then he remembered the Monster Biology test—how he panicked and was unable to defeat a goblin one on one. That's right! If there was no second chance, he wouldn't even be here anymore!

  He sighed.

  Yeah. Maybe I’m not as ready as I thought.

  He tightened his grip on the short sword and turned back toward the training dummy. Professor Rhea hadn’t chosen that group out of malice—she’d seen something. Or more likely, something missing.

  If she believed he still needed the basics, then he’d drill them until they were carved into his bones.

  Without another word, Ethan raised his sword and resumed practice. Again and again he struck—his arms aching, legs shaking, breath short—but he didn’t stop.

  Not until he physically couldn’t stand anymore.