Chapter One
The sound of clashing steel echoed through the training room.
Michael lunged forward, his wooden sword slicing through the air in a blur of motion. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he tightened his grip and pressed the attack.
Smith's blade met every strike with practiced ease, each parry ringing sharp and precise. The older man's calm expression didn't waver—not even when Michael shifted his stance and unleashed another rapid set of blows.
Michael gritted his teeth. Come on… there! He spotted a faint opening at Smith's side and swung fast, hoping to catch him off guard.
But Smith reacted instantly. His blade moved like a flash, deflecting Michael's strike, and he stepped in smoothly before tapping the top of Michael's head with the flat of his sword.
"There," Smith said, lowering his weapon with a grin. "I win again."
Michael exhaled, letting his sword fall to his side. "Yeah, you always win," he said, brushing sweat from his brow.
Smith chuckled, walking a small circle around him before stopping. "But you've gotten a lot better than when we first started. You can control your energy into your strikes now—and you've even managed basic thought acceleration."
"Yeah," Michael replied, his tone tired but genuine. "But compared to you, I barely made you take two steps in three years."
"That's true," Smith admitted, laughing softly. He rested the sword on his shoulder. "But doing that with just thirty percent of green energy? That's impressive."
Michael allowed himself a small smile. "Thanks for the compliment."
The faint glow around his sword flickered and vanished. He straightened up, breathing deep. His body was sore, but his spirit wasn't fading anytime soon.
---
Celestial energy.
That's what separates ordinary people from those who can fight.
It's divided into types—each one represented by color. The most common is green, which I have. Then there's red, yellow, and a few others that can be slightly stronger or weaker depending on the user. But even those who awaken a common type are considered lucky. Having enough of it can make your body and mind far beyond normal.
There are rarer types, though—colors whose details are kept hidden by the Riftguard. It's said that if someone awakens thirty-five percent of a rare type, they could match a person with sixty-five percent of a common one.
And above even those rare ones are what people call Heroic types—the same kinds the heroes used three hundred years ago. They say those powers can easily surpass anything else.
Still… even if I can't compare, I have to try.
I've even trained my energy into my eyes, hoping to see what color Uncle Smith's is—but nothing ever shows. He refuses to tell me, saying, "You'll know when you're strong enough to find out." Maybe it's his way of pushing me forward.
---
Smith sheathed his blade, breaking the silence. "That's enough for today," he said, adjusting his gloves. "You've got school tomorrow, remember? And the recruitment for Riftguard trainees is coming up soon."
Michael's head lifted. "Really?" he asked, his tone lighting up a little.
"Yeah," Smith replied with a faint smile. "I'll bring someone from work for you to spar with. You need some outside experience."
"Sounds good," Michael said, grabbing a towel from the bench nearby and wiping his face.
Smith pointed the tip of his sheathed sword at him. "And don't forget about your studies. You'll need brains as much as strength if you're going to join."
Michael laughed under his breath. "Yeah, I know."
He hung his training sword back on the rack and turned toward the hallway. His shoulders ached, but it was a feeling he'd grown to like—the steady burn of progress.
Smith watched him go, his expression softening. "You've got the spirit, kid," he murmured.
Michael didn't hear it. He closed the door to his room, the house growing quiet around him as the night wind brushed softly against the windows.
Tomorrow would be another day.
Another chance to get stronger.
Another step toward a dream he refused to let go of.