The shoreline was quiet.
Not peaceful—just quiet in the way that makes you aware of your own breathing.
The horizon blurred where sky and sea met, a pale line trembling with heat and mist. The waves rolled in slowly, deliberately, as if testing how close they could come before pulling back.
They moved when I shifted my weight.
Just… subtly.
The water's edge curved, responding to my presence the way a held breath responds to tension. I frowned slightly, then relaxed. The waves returned to their rhythm.
Words flooded my mind, "Summer was supposed to be rest."
But rest didn't mean stopping.
And stopping had never kept anyone alive.
The image of the Dratonian Forest rose unbidden—roots tearing through stone, green corruption bleeding into the earth. The Red Tide followed close behind that memory. Masks. Blood. The way their presence clung to places long after they left.
They weren't gone.
Just quiet.
I exhaled slowly.
Carelessness had a way of coming back with teeth.
I turned away from the sea and started back toward the villa.
The villa was still dim when I returned. Lanterns burned low in the halls, casting long shadows across polished floors. Class 1-S was scattered through the common area—some half-asleep, some talking quietly, some already eating.
They noticed immediately.
Not because I announced myself.
Because I didn't.
Kazen paused mid-sentence. Aelira looked up from her cup. Seraphyne tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
I felt it then—the shift.
My gaze had gone cold again.
Not hostile.
Focused.
The way it used to be.
"I'm going to sleep," I said simply.
A beat of silence followed.
"…Oh," Liam said. "Already?"
I nodded once. "Good night."
No excuses. No explanations.
I turned and walked away before anyone could say more.
Behind me, I felt their eyes linger—not offended, not angry.
Concerned.
I didn't look back.
Morning came before the sun fully rose.
Habit pulled me from sleep before thought did. I dressed quietly, strapped my sword along my waist, and slipped out through the side entrance of the villa.
The beach was empty.
Cool air bit lightly at my skin as I stepped onto the sand, breath fogging faintly. The ocean looked different at dawn—flatter, darker, holding its strength close rather than displaying it.
I planted my feet and began with the basics.
Stance.
Posture.
Grip.
I swung slowly at first, blade cutting the air with controlled precision. Each strike was measured. Each follow-through deliberate.
I imagined past threats.
The Gaiadrake's crushing weight.
The Leviacrest's speed beneath the waves.
Masked figures moving in coordination, not chaos.
I countered shadows with steel.
Again.
Again.
Sweat formed quickly despite the cool air.
After a while, I stopped.
Pulled my shirt over my head.
The wind brushed against my skin, carrying salt and cold. Three lines ran across my torso—thin, jagged streaks like frozen lightning scars. They pulsed faintly, white light tracing their edges.
I didn't notice them flare.
But someone else did.
From the edge of the dunes, hidden by distance and distortion, a figure paused.
Their gaze fixed on the glowing marks.
"...So," the voice murmured, low and knowing, "the storm learned how to walk."
"I'll be watching you.. White Thunder Bearer."
The presence vanished as suddenly as it had appeared—no sound, no ripple.
Only the wind remained.
I stepped forward into the water.
The cold hit immediately, biting through skin and muscle. I didn't brace against it. Let it sink in. Let my body register resistance.
The first few steps were easy.
Then the sand dropped.
Water surged up to my waist, then my chest. I drew my sword and continued forward until the ocean pressed against my shoulders.
I inhaled once.
And submerged.
The world changed instantly.
Sound dulled. Weight increased. Movement resisted at every angle. I swung my sword experimentally and nearly lost my balance—the water dragged at the blade, slowing it, twisting my wrist.
Too slow.
I kicked harder, trying to stabilize myself. My feet slipped against shifting sand. I nearly swallowed water before forcing myself upright again.
I surfaced, coughing once.
"…Again," I muttered.
Back under.
This time I adjusted—shorter swings. Tighter motions. Letting the water guide rather than fight me.
Still clumsy.
Still inefficient.
My arms burned faster than they should have. My lungs screamed sooner than expected. Water forced its way into my nose, my mouth. I misjudged a strike and spun sideways, disoriented.
I surfaced again, gasping.
For a moment, frustration flared.
Then I pushed it down.
This wasn't about winning.
It was about adapting.
I dove again.
And again.
Sometimes I sank too deep.
Sometimes the current pulled me off course.
Once, I nearly dropped my sword entirely.
But slowly—imperceptibly—things began to shift.
My kicks became steadier.
My swings tighter.
Water stopped feeling like an enemy and started feeling like terrain.
When I surfaced again, breath ragged, the ocean rolled calmly around me—no longer reacting unpredictably.
I wiped water from my eyes.
"Not enough," I said quietly.
And went back under.
This time I didn't swing immediately.
I let myself sink.
The water closed over my ears, muting the world into a distant pressure. Light fractured above me, the surface warping into rippling shards. My lungs tightened—not panicked, not yet—but aware.
I angled my body sideways and kicked once.
Too hard.
I spun, bubbles tearing free from my mouth as I corrected, forcing myself still. The ocean didn't care about my adjustments. It dragged, pushed, resisted every movement equally.
Good.
I raised my sword slowly.
Not overhead—never overhead underwater. That was wasted motion.
I drew it close to my body and thrust.
The blade met resistance instantly, water folding around the edge instead of splitting cleanly. My wrist twisted under the drag, the strike going wide.
I corrected mid-motion, pulling the blade back in tight.
Again.
Short thrust. Minimal arc. Let the weight of the water slow it naturally.
Something clicked—not mastery, not yet—but understanding.
I shifted my stance mid-float, planting one foot against nothing, imagining ground where there was none. I rotated my hips instead of my shoulders, letting momentum do part of the work.
The sword moved cleaner.
Still slow.
But deliberate.
I exhaled through my nose, bubbles streaming upward as I chained the motion into a second strike. Then a third.
My lungs burned.
I ignored it.
Pain was feedback, not failure.
The ocean pressed harder the deeper I drifted, current tugging at my legs, my back. I felt the pull trying to twist me sideways and didn't fight it.
I used it.
I let the current carry me, then struck with it—water reinforcing the thrust instead of opposing it.
The blade cut farther this time.
Better.
My chest tightened sharply.
Too long.
I kicked upward and broke the surface, sucking in air hard enough that my ribs protested. My hands shook—not from exhaustion alone, but from the constant micro-corrections the water demanded.
I floated on my back for three breaths.
Then rolled over.
"No shortcuts," I muttered.
I raised my hand slightly, just above the surface.
Aura stirred.
Not flaring. Not bursting.
Condensing.
Light-blue seeped into the water around my fingers, thin and controlled. White crackles flickered beneath the surface like distant lightning trapped under glass.
The ocean responded.
Not violently—subtly.
The water around my hand grew heavier, denser. Pressure folded inward, resisting itself. Aura farming wasn't about brute output. It was about circulation—pulling ambient mana through the body, refining it, feeding it back into the core.
I inhaled slowly.
Then pushed my aura outward in a thin layer across my skin.
The cold bit deeper instantly.
My muscles screamed as resistance doubled. Every movement cost more. Every kick dragged like I was wading through wet stone.
Good.
This was the point.
I submerged again, aura clinging close, compressing water against my body instead of pushing it away. It felt like training with weighted chains wrapped around my limbs.
I struck.
The blade moved slower—but steadier.
White thunder crackled faintly along the edge, not exploding, not arcing wildly. Just enough to destabilize the water directly in front of the blade.
The thrust went through.
Clean.
I felt it—the difference.
Aura wasn't fighting the environment anymore.
It was reshaping it.
My lungs burned hotter now, pressure gnawing at my ribs. My vision tunneled slightly at the edges, but I forced one more sequence—thrust, retract, pivot, slash across the body's line.
The current tried to pull my legs out from under me.
I adjusted instinctively, angling my knee, riding the drag instead of resisting it.
That adjustment would've been impossible days ago.
My chest spasmed.
Enough.
I surged upward, breaking the surface in a spray of water, coughing once before dragging in air. White crackles snapped briefly across my shoulders and faded.
I treaded water, heart hammering, gaze fixed on the horizon.
Still not enough.
I swam farther out.
The shoreline receded behind me, the sand giving way to darker water. The waves rolled heavier here, less predictable. Each swell lifted me, dropped me, twisted my balance.
I let it.
I sheathed my sword at my back and clenched my fists instead.
Aura gathered again—this time deeper, closer to my core. The three white streaks along my torso pulsed faintly beneath my skin, unnoticed by me, but very much awake.
I exhaled.
Then punched the water.
The resistance slammed into my knuckles, jarring my arm up to the shoulder. Pain flared sharp and immediate.
I punched again.
And again.
Each strike forced aura outward in short, brutal bursts, reinforcing bone, muscle, joint alignment. This wasn't technique.
This was conditioning.
Wave crests broke against my chest, knocking the breath out of me once. I sank involuntarily, swallowed water, forced myself calm as I kicked back up.
"Again," I growled, spitting salt.
I dove straight down this time.
No weapon. No wide movements.
Just fists, elbows, knees.
I practiced closing distance in three dimensions—approaching from below, from the side, from blind angles. I imagined claws, fangs, crushing mass.
Leviacrest.
Sirens.
Things that didn't fight on land.
The water fought back relentlessly, draining strength faster than any battlefield I'd stood on. My limbs felt heavier with every repetition, aura circulation stuttering as fatigue crept in.
I adjusted breathing patterns underwater—short exhales, controlled inhales at the surface, minimizing wasted motion.
Slowly, painfully—
I adapted.
When I finally surfaced again, chest heaving, the sun had climbed higher. Sweat mixed with seawater on my skin. My arms trembled violently now, muscles on the edge of failure.
I floated there, staring up at the sky.
"This won't save me," I said quietly.
Not today. Not tomorrow.
But it would prepare me.
I rolled forward again, gripping my sword.
One more dive.
And then another.
And another.
The ocean didn't praise effort.
It didn't acknowledge progress.
It only punished mistakes.
And that was exactly why I stayed in it.