The boys made their way to the combat training hall, the clatter of their footsteps echoing softly through the long stone corridors of the academy. They reached the heavy wooden door and, without bothering to knock, pushed it open with a confident shove. The door creaked on its hinges as it swung wide, revealing the spacious interior of the training hall.
Inside, the room was alive with purpose. Weapons of all shapes and sizes lined the walls — swords, axes, daggers, bows, and hammers, each gleaming under the flickering torchlight. Training puppets—wooden and cloth dummies—were scattered about, some missing limbs or bearing marks of countless strikes. At the center of the hall was a raised fighting arena, its floor scuffed and worn from years of practice. In one corner, a neat collection of wooden swords rested against the wall, ready for the next session.
Seated cross-legged in the middle of the arena was a man who looked to be in his late forties. His posture was impeccable, eyes closed in deep meditation, completely still and composed as if the world around him had faded away. Asher leaned toward Nick and Ethan, lowering his voice to a whisper, "Look at him — not even a flicker when we walked in."
"Looks like he's waiting for the other students to arrive first," Ethan replied, his tone low but curious.
The boys took a seat along the edge of the arena, their bodies heavy with exhaustion from the morning's rigorous training. Their eyes closed instinctively, muscles relaxing as time slipped by unnoticed. The hum of distant voices grew louder, footsteps approaching from the hallway, until the room gradually filled with more students trickling in, each taking their places in the training hall.
Suddenly, before any of them realized what was happening, a wooden sword came sweeping through the air and struck each of them lightly on the head, jolting them awake.
"Wake up," came the firm voice of the instructor.
Though the impact was sharp enough to rattle their senses, it didn't hurt much — it was clear the instructor had deliberately restrained his strength. The boys blinked open their eyes and found themselves the center of attention; dozens of gazes now fixed directly on them.
The instructor rose from his meditation, stepping into the light. His face was weathered but sharp, eyes bright with intensity and experience. "I didn't put much strength into that attack," he said with a gruff chuckle, "because you were the first group to arrive. But mark my words: lazybones will not be allowed in my class."
He strode to the front of the arena, the crowd of students parting slightly to make way.
"I am Desmond, your combat instructor." His voice cut through the room, steady and commanding. "As casters, you must understand that a weapon is more than just a tool — it's an extension of your will. Whether it's a sword, dagger, blade, axe, bow, or even a hammer, each weapon can influence your combat style. Some weapons might improve your casting speed, some increase the destructive power of your arts. But remember this — no weapon will ever increase your raw physical strength or speed. Those you must develop yourself."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"As a start, we will learn about combat and its very essence."
He glared around the room. "I won't sugarcoat it. There's no honor in combat. None. You don't have the luxury of ethics or fair play when your life is on the line. You must do whatever it takes to win. Stab your opponent in the back if that's what it takes. Kill or be killed. That is the brutal reality. You must be ready to embrace death every time you step into the arena. Remember, there is no glory without survival."
The room fell silent. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"As a test," Desmond continued, "I will award twenty dragon points to whoever gives me the most accurate answer. Tell me — what is the essence of battle? Think carefully. The essence is the fundamental nature of something. So I ask you — what is the essence of combat?"
A boy with fiery red hair, clearly from the Fire Clan, shot his hand up from the back of the room. "Fighting!" he said confidently.
Desmond shook his head, a smirk crossing his face. "Nope. Next."
Nick raised his hand cautiously. "I think the essence of combat is adaptation. Combat is unpredictable. The ability to adapt and improvise is crucial for success."
"Well, that's a first," Desmond said, his gaze sharp. "I'll give that to you. Anyone else have a different opinion?"
Asher, never one to hold back, smirked and said loudly, "Murder. Like you said — either you kill your opponent, or your opponent kills you."
Desmond's eyes flicked to Ethan, who then calmly spoke up, "Death."
The instructor raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Why would you say that? Explain yourself."
Ethan met Desmond's gaze steadily. "In combat, you must prepare to kill no matter what. Death is the ultimate outcome of combat — either your opponent dies, or you do. The essence of true combat is death."
For a moment, the room held its breath. Desmond studied Ethan carefully, sensing something beyond the words. "The essence of true combat," he murmured under his breath, "he's not new to fighting. What has he been through to hold such a keen understanding?"
Then, with a slow nod, Desmond clapped his hands together. "Congratulations. Twenty points to you."
The hall erupted in a mixture of murmurs and quiet respect. The boys exchanged looks — Ethan's calm exterior concealing the weight behind his words, Nick's thoughtful expression reflecting on his own answer, and Asher's usual bravado tempered with a flicker of seriousness.
Desmond turned back to the class. "This is just the beginning. Remember what you've learned here today. The essence of combat isn't just about strength or skill — it's about the willingness to do whatever it takes, to adapt, and above all, to accept the finality of death. Those who refuse this truth will fall. Those who embrace it — survive."
With that, Desmond raised a wooden sword in his hand and motioned for the class to gather closer. The real training was about to begin.