The Oulbeck training grounds, once a place of boisterous competition, had become a silent, brutal forge. Grandmaster Orin, a stoic and unyielding presence, was the blacksmith, and the five of them were the raw steel, pounded and hammered into new forms.
The first week was a relentless trial of Aura manifestation. They were made to sit on the cold stone for hours, their bodies aching, their minds screaming in frustration, as Orin watched them with an unflinching gaze. He never offered praise, only terse, pointed critiques.
Ser Damon, for all his haughty arrogance, struggled the most. His Aura, when it came, was a faint, almost invisible wisp. It flickered and died, a reflection of his own fragile will. Liam, using his enhanced senses, saw the boy's fear and desperation, a thin, pathetic shield against the Grandmaster's scrutiny.
Bronn, the brutish boy, had the opposite problem. His Aura, when manifested, was a violent, chaotic torrent of red and gold, a reflection of his own untamed rage. It lashed out, a wild beast with a life of its own. He could not control it. He could not tame it.
Lady Lyra, with her calm, intellectual demeanor, had the most control. Her Aura was a faint, shimmering silver, a sign of her immense intellect. She could summon it at will, a soft, ethereal light that hummed with a quiet power.
And Liam, with his own chaotic, complex soul, had the most difficult task of all. His Aura was a brilliant, shimmering golden light, but beneath it, a dark, spectral shimmer, a ghostly echo of his Obsidian Scales, a hint of the Dragonheart Vigor. He struggled to control it, to make it do what he wanted. He felt the raw, unrefined power within him, a raging storm held back by a dam of his own inability. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that if he did not learn to control it, he would be consumed.
The Aura became a sixth sense, a constant presence that they had to learn to live with. They were made to fight with it, to defend with it, to attack with it. The duels were no longer just clashes of steel; they were battles of Aura. They were forced to use their Auras to parry, to deflect, to counter. The fights were brutal, short, and to the point.
Liam, with his Dragonheart Vigor and his Ring of Azure Depths, had an advantage no one else did. He could use his mana to fuel his Aura for longer, and his enhanced senses allowed him to read his opponent's every move. But he also had to learn to control his Aura, to make it work for him, to not let it consume him.
The weeks passed like a blur of sweat, pain, and exhaustion. The five of them, once rivals, became something else. They were a pack, a strange, dysfunctional family forged in the crucible of Aura. They ate together, they trained together, they even slept in the same room. They were brothers and a sister in arms.
One evening, after a particularly grueling session, the five of them were sitting in the common room, their bodies a canvas of cuts and bruises. Orin had left them, a silent presence that had been replaced by the comforting silence of the barracks.
"So you're a hero now, Lithian?" Bronn grunted, his voice a low rumble. "Saved the Vangoria family, beat a Prince, won the tournament. What's it like, being a hero?"
Liam looked at him. Bronn's eyes were filled with a strange mixture of resentment and respect. "It's… a lot of pressure," Liam admitted.
"Pressure is a sword, boy," Bronn said, his voice hard. "It can either make you or it can break you. You have to learn to wield it."
Ser Damon, the haughty noble, was surprisingly quiet. He had been humbled by Orin's training, a bitter pill he had been forced to swallow. "The Prince… he's not going to forget this, Lithian," Damon said, his voice a low whisper. "He's a man who holds grudges like a man holds a grudge against a knife in his back."
Liam said nothing. He knew.
Lady Lyra, the quiet, intellectual girl, looked at him. Her eyes were filled with a strange mixture of curiosity and concern. "Your Aura… it's a powerful one, Liam. But it's also… chaotic. You have to learn to control it."
Liam nodded. "I'm trying."
The final week arrived. The training was no longer about Aura manifestation. It was about Aura control. They were to fight each other, but this time, the winner would be the one who could disarm their opponent using only their Aura. No steel. No brute force. Just pure, unadulterated Aura.
The fights were brutal, but in a different way. It was a battle of wills, a clash of spirits. The first fight was between Ser Damon and Lady Lyra. Damon's Aura was weak, but his will was fierce. Lyra's Aura was calm, but her will was a serene lake. She moved with a fluid grace, deflecting Damon's Aura with her own, a delicate, ethereal dance. She was a master of control. She won.
Then, it was Bronn's turn. He fought a quiet boy from a southern kingdom. Bronn's Aura was a violent, chaotic storm. It lashed out, a burning fire. He won. But his Aura was still untamed. He was a beast that could not be controlled.
And then, it was Liam's turn. He was to fight Ser Damon. Damon's eyes were filled with a strange mixture of resentment and determination. This was his chance at redemption.
"I won't lose to you, Lithian," Damon snarled.
Liam said nothing. He simply focused his will. He remembered the betrayal. The anger. The grief. He let it all go. He became the calm in the eye of the storm. He let his Aura flow, a golden, shimmering light, with a faint, dark, spectral shimmer, a hint of the Dragonheart Vigor.
Damon's Aura was a weak, pathetic wisp. He grunted. He strained. But nothing. He was outmatched. Liam's Aura was a torrent. It pushed. It pulled. It wrapped around Damon's sword, a shimmering, golden light. It was a silent, graceful dance. It was over.
"I yield!" Damon screamed, his voice raw with frustration.
Liam had won. He had won the first battle of the final trial. He was to fight Bronn next. Liam knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the fight with Bronn would not be a battle of wills. It would be a battle of power. A battle of beasts.