Instructor Desmond's voice, gravelly from years of shouting instructions across training yards, cut sharply through the hushed anticipation of the room. He gestured with a calloused hand towards the collection of wooden swords resting neatly against the far corner wall, each blade gleaming faintly under the dim light of the training hall. The air itself seemed to crackle with the unspoken tension of the impending lesson. "I want each of you to pick a wooden sword from over there. Today, you'll be practicing your stances and striking positions. Basic techniques, but crucial foundations." His words held the weight of decades of experience, the quiet authority of a man who had witnessed countless battles.
The students stirred, a wave of movement rippling through the room as they eagerly moved towards the weapons rack. Fingers brushed along the smooth wooden hilts, testing the weight and balance of each blade. Some, already experienced, swiftly selected their weapons, while others hesitated, carefully considering their choices. The air filled with the soft thud of wood against wood as the students experimentally swung their newly acquired weapons through the air, testing wrist strength, balance, and the feel of sword movement. The rhythmic swishes created a calming, almost meditative backdrop to the anticipation.
From the back of the room, a sharp, defiant voice interrupted the growing calm. "Hey, instructor, why do we get to practice with wooden swords? Not the real deal? You make us use wooden swords like we're babies!" The voice belonged to William, a boy with unruly green hair that seemed to bristle with rebellious energy and intense, fiery red eyes that betrayed his impatient nature. He folded his arms defiantly across his chest, his posture radiating a potent mix of arrogance and insecurity.
Desmond's gaze locked onto William, unblinking and steady, his eyes piercing the boy's bravado. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, the only sound the nervous shuffling of feet from the other students. "You talk as if you know how to wield a sword, young master," he said, his tone dry, devoid of any warmth or encouragement. Then, almost casually, as if making a simple observation, "Come over here."
William blinked, caught off guard by the instructor's direct and unexpected command, but his defiant spirit forced him to obey. He strode towards Desmond, his chest puffed out slightly, a thin sheen of sweat reflecting the hall's dim light on his forehead. Desmond's eyes scanned him critically, his gaze lingering on the subtle tension in the boy's muscles.
"What's your name?" Desmond asked, his voice a low rumble, his eyes like chips of obsidian. "William, right? From the Fire Clan? Trained since you were a boy to take the role of family head, am I right?"
William's surprise was palpable. How did this old man, this seasoned instructor who had witnessed countless generations of students, know so much about him, about his family lineage and expectations? A flicker of pride, tinged with unease, flared in his eyes. He nodded silently, his bravado faltering slightly.
"William," Desmond said, his voice calm but undeniably challenging, a subtle shift in the atmosphere, "why don't you choose a weapon and fight me? Don't worry, I'll use only this wooden sword. If you're able to land a hit on me, I'll give you one thousand dragon points."
A murmur ran through the students, a ripple of excitement and disbelief spreading through the room. One thousand points was no small sum—it could mean better supplies, access to rare training manuals, privileges, or even faster advancement within the Academy's rigorous system. The reward was significant, but so was the challenge.
William's lips curled into a confident smile, the bravado returning, fueled by the tempting reward and the challenge laid before him. He strode toward the weapons rack, his movements betraying a confidence that only partially masked his inner nervousness. He selected a sleek wooden blade, its surface polished smooth but still sturdy, its weight perfectly balanced. He raised it, weighing it thoughtfully in his hand, his eyes never leaving Desmond's. Then, he assumed a firm fighting stance, his red eyes fixed sharply on Desmond, the fiery intensity in them a reflection of his clan's legacy.
Without warning, William charged forward, sword raised high, aiming a powerful overhand strike at Desmond's head. His muscles tensed, taut as coiled springs, and the air around him seemed to ripple with the heat of his fire clan heritage, a visible manifestation of his family's potent magical abilities.
Desmond's response was effortless, a stark contrast to William's aggressive approach. With a fluid bend and twist of his body, a seemingly effortless movement that spoke of decades of rigorous training and honed reflexes, he dodged the blow, his body moving like a willow in a gale. William, caught mid-strike, stumbled slightly, his foot slipping on the polished wooden floor, his momentum carrying him dangerously forward. Before he could regain his balance, Desmond moved with lightning speed, a sharp counterattack that belied the instructor's seemingly languid demeanor. He delivered a swift, precise strike to William's back, just below the shoulder blade.
The blow sent William sprawling forward, the air whooshing from his lungs as he barely caught himself before a full fall, his pride and confidence shattered against the harsh reality of Desmond's skill. "It's not about what kind of weapon you use," Desmond said, his voice calm but resonant, carrying to every corner of the hall, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the astonished students. "It's about being able to outthink and outmaneuver your opponent. You must strike first, strike clean, and strike decisively. You have to truly know how to wield and handle your weapon — not just rely on strength or skill alone. Strategy, anticipation, precision – these are the true weapons of a master."
William, however, wasn't finished. With a surprising burst of agility, he quickly turned, attempting a low sweep aimed at Desmond's legs, hoping to catch the instructor off guard, hoping to use Desmond's momentum against him. But Desmond was already prepared, his eyes never leaving William. With a fluid backflip, an almost balletic display of skill and grace, he avoided the attack, his body moving with a speed and agility that defied his age. Then, with a swift, precise kick, he landed a blow to William's head. The impact echoed through the silent hall.
William collapsed onto the floor, motionless. The room went silent except for the heavy, ragged breathing of the students, their expressions shifting between awe, shock, and a dawning understanding.
Desmond spoke, his voice low but carrying to every corner of the hall, the weight of his words settling upon the students like a heavy blanket. "As a caster, you must anticipate what your opponent is thinking—even before he knows it himself. That's how you achieve a clean victory. It's not just about power; it's about precision, strategy, and understanding your enemy."
Within moments, several students from the healing department, alerted by the sudden silence, rushed into the hall. They gently lifted William's unconscious form, carrying him out on their way to the infirmary. Although he wasn't seriously injured, the blow had been enough to knock him out cold, a testament to Desmond's precise and controlled strike.
The room still buzzed with shock and awe, the students exchanging whispered comments about the ruthless skill of their instructor. Desmond, his face impassive, turned back to the remaining students, his eyes blazing with quiet intensity. The weight of his gaze was palpable.
"Let this be a lesson to all of you—your weapon is only as good as the mind behind it. You can have the sharpest blade in the world, the most powerful spells, but if you lack the foresight, the cunning, the discipline, the unwavering commitment to victory… you'll fall just like William. Victory comes not from brute force, but from strategic thinking, from preparation, from anticipation. Embrace the challenge, hone your skills, and never underestimate your opponent."
The atmosphere in the training hall had shifted profoundly. No longer was this simply a lesson about wooden swords and stances. It was a brutal, unforgettable demonstration of the importance of strategy, mental agility, and the unwavering resolve required to survive in the unforgiving world of magic and combat. It was a test of resolve—a terrifying glimpse into the brutal reality of combat they all must face, a reality that demanded not only skill, but a sharp, ruthless mind.