The walk to the west courtyard was a march towards an execution. With every step, the small, warm spark of hope I had cultivated in my room seemed to dim, overshadowed by the chilling certainty of what was to come. The academy was beautiful at dusk. The setting sun painted the clouds in hues of orange and violet, and the floating mana lamps began to glow brighter, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone pathways. But I saw none of it. My focus was entirely on the ordeal ahead.
Damien was not one for idle hobbies. If he summoned Lucian for "swordsmanship practice," it was for one of two reasons: to use him as a glorified training dummy, or to put him back in his place. Given my small, unexpected success in Professor Elara's class, I had no doubt which one it was tonight.
I found him in the center of the flagstone courtyard. He was already engaged in a slow, precise series of practice swings with a blunted training sword. He wore a simple, sleeveless tunic, and the fading light glinted off the faint sheen of sweat on his arms. Every movement was a study in efficiency and grace, his body a perfectly calibrated weapon. He moved with the fluid lethality of a panther, and my Soul Resonance confirmed it; his intent was focused, sharp, and utterly devoid of wasted energy.
A handful of other young nobles stood off to the side, lounging against a stone retaining wall. They were Damien's inner circle, the ones who laughed the loudest at his jokes and sneered the hardest at his enemies. Their presence turned this from a private session into a public spectacle. A performance. And I was the star victim.
"Lucian," Damien said without turning, his swing culminating in a flawless stop that didn't so much as rustle the air. "You're late."
"My apologies," I said, the words tasting like ash. I kept my expression carefully neutral.
He finally turned to face me, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips. He tossed a second training sword, its steel form glinting as it spun through the air. I fumbled the catch, the heavy weight of it feeling alien and clumsy in my grasp. The nobles by the wall snickered.
"Your performance in Mana Control was… adequate today," Damien began, circling me slowly. "It gave me hope that you might have finally decided to apply yourself. But your swordsmanship has always been an embarrassment to your family name. Your stance is weak, your footwork is a mess. Let's see if we can't fix that."
The words were framed as a favor, but his intent, which washed over me like a wave of icy water, was pure dominance. He wanted to remind me, and everyone watching, of the natural order of things. He was the master; I was the dog.
He didn't wait for me to signal my readiness. He lunged.
It was not a blast of overwhelming speed, but a precise, economical movement. All my instincts, the pathetic instincts of a seventeen-year-old from a world without swords, screamed at me to stumble backward. I barely managed to raise my blade in a clumsy, panicked block.
Clang!
The impact jarred my entire arm, the vibration rattling my teeth. The force behind his casual strike was immense. The memories of the original Lucian provided a few basic stances, a handful of parries learned through rote memorization, but my body had no muscle memory. I was a novice puppeteering a barely-trained body.
The next few minutes were a blur of humiliation. Damien's blade was everywhere. He didn't try to land a powerful blow. That would have been too merciful. Instead, he systematically dismantled me. A light tap from his sword against my wrist sent my own blade spinning from my numb fingers. A subtle hook of his foot sent me sprawling onto the cold flagstones. When I scrambled up, he was already there, the tip of his sword resting lightly on my chest.
"Too slow, Lucian," he chided, his voice calm. "You anticipate with your eyes. A fatal mistake."
He backed away, allowing me to retrieve my sword. The laughter from the sidelines was more pointed now. I felt a hot flush of shame creep up my neck. It was a potent, visceral emotion inherited from Lucian, but my own fear was a far colder companion. This wasn't just a spar. This was a demonstration of how easily he could kill me.
He came at me again. This time, I tried to focus. I couldn't win. I couldn't even defend. But I could learn.
I shut out the laughter, the sting of my bruised ribs, and the clumsiness of my own body. I focused everything on my Soul Resonance, casting it like a net over Damien. I stopped watching his blade and started feeling for his intent.
The world shifted. The physical blur of his movements remained, but now I could perceive a new layer of information. A sharp, pointed spike of intent aimed at my right knee a split-second before his blade swept low. A cold, flat feeling of pressure against my shoulder just before he used his hilt to shove me off balance.
My body was still too slow, too untrained to react to these warnings. I still stumbled. I was still disarmed. But my mind… my mind began to see. I could feel the feints before he completed them, the subtle shift in his aura as he chose his next target. It was like seeing a ghost image of his attack before it fully materialized.
He must have noticed the change in my eyes, the shift from pure panic to desperate concentration. His own golden eyes narrowed slightly, and the pressure increased. He moved faster, his attacks becoming a dizzying whirlwind of steel. He spun, and the flat of his blade smacked hard against my back, forcing the air from my lungs and sending me to my knees.
Before I could recover, he was behind me, the cold, blunted edge of his training sword pressed firmly against my throat. The courtyard fell silent. I could feel his breath on my neck, his presence a crushing weight.
"That flicker of focus," he whispered, his voice a silken threat meant only for me. "The one from class, I see it again. It's… new. But don't get any ideas, Lucian. Don't ever forget what you are."
With a final, sharp push, he sent me sprawling face-first onto the ground and walked away, his power and dominance thoroughly asserted.
"Practice is over," he announced to his followers. "Let's go. I'm sure Lucian wants some time to reflect on his many shortcomings."
They left, their fading laughter a final insult.
I lay there for a long time, the cold of the stones seeping into my cheek. Every part of my body ached. My pride, both mine and Lucian's, was in tatters. The hope I had felt an hour ago seemed like a naive dream. That single drop of pure mana in my Core was just that—a single drop in an ocean of weakness.
Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up. The west courtyard was empty now, bathed in the pale light of the two moons. My training sword lay on the ground a few feet away.
The humiliation burned. The fear was a cold knot in my stomach. But underneath it all, something new was taking root. A grim, cold resolve.
Mana Breathing was for my future. It was the foundation for the power I would need to defy my fate a year from now. But Damien's lesson had been brutally clear. The future didn't matter if I didn't survive the week. I was physically helpless. A mage who couldn't fight up close was a dead mage.
I looked down at my trembling hands. They were pale and slender, the hands of an aristocrat, not a fighter. But they were all I had.
With a grunt of effort, I bent down and picked up the heavy training sword. Its weight was no longer just awkward; it was a challenge. A promise.
I would not be helpless again.
In the cold, empty courtyard, under the silent watch of the twin moons, I clumsily tried to imitate the first basic stance Damien had demonstrated. My form was terrible. My muscles screamed in protest. But I held it, my entire body shaking with the strain. I had a new training regimen now. One that would take place in the shadows of the night, just like my breathing. Because survival, I now understood, had to be earned in both the soul and the steel.