The One Being Pressed
Suguru's legs still hurt.
That hadn't changed.
What changed was that he trusted them anyway.
"Today," Garron said, already holding a wooden blade when Suguru entered the yard, "you don't get to recover."
Suguru paused.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I won't stop after you make one mistake."
That was new.
They took position.
No long instruction.
No slow buildup.
Garron moved first.
Fast.
A diagonal strike came for Suguru's shoulder.
Suguru stepped off line.
Back foot grounded.
The strike glanced past him.
Good.
Before he could reset—
another came from the opposite side.
Suguru barely turned in time.
Wood cracked against wood.
The impact ran through his arms—
but his spine held.
His feet stayed under him.
Aura.
Garron didn't stop.
He stepped in close.
Too close.
Their shoulders collided.
Suguru's balance lifted—
He dropped it instantly.
Knees bent.
Weight sank.
The lift disappeared.
Good.
But Garron kept pushing.
Not one shove.
Continuous.
Relentless.
Pressure didn't come in bursts anymore.
It came like a wall walking forward.
Suguru gave ground.
One step.
Then another.
But he didn't crumble.
He didn't stiffen.
He let the force pass through each step into the dirt.
Still standing.
Then Garron changed rhythm.
He stopped pushing—
and struck low.
Suguru reacted late.
The wooden blade smacked his thigh.
Pain flared.
His structure faltered.
His breath hitched.
And there—
That cold edge flickered again at the edge of awareness.
Not deep.
Not overwhelming.
Just present.
Waiting.
Suguru recognized it faster this time.
Not panic.
Not fear.
Just imbalance.
He exhaled hard.
Dropped his weight.
Let the pain exist without chasing it.
The sensation receded.
Garron stepped back.
Not finished.
But evaluating.
"Again."
This time, Garron pressed him toward the yard wall.
Less space.
Less room to angle out.
Suguru felt it immediately.
His mind wanted to rush.
To strike harder.
To break through instead of hold.
His grip tightened.
Shoulders started to rise—
He caught it.
Relaxed.
Lowered.
Back foot found dirt.
The next strike met him.
Wood to wood.
Impact traveled.
He didn't break.
Minutes stretched.
No clean victory.
No dramatic reversal.
Just a boy being pressed and not collapsing.
When Garron finally lowered his blade, Suguru was breathing like he'd run miles.
"You see it now," Garron said.
Suguru swallowed air. "It's not about hitting back."
"No."
Garron pointed at the ground between them.
"It's about surviving the part where you can't."
That settled heavy.
Suguru looked at his shaking hands.
"I still almost lose it."
"Yes."
"But it's smaller."
"Yes."
Garron met his eyes.
"You're not stronger yet."
Suguru nodded.
"I know."
"You're harder to move."
That meant more.
Later, when Suguru walked back through the lower ward, he tested something.
A man brushed him roughly.
Suguru didn't brace.
Didn't stiffen.
His body adjusted.
Weight sank.
The contact passed.
He kept walking.
No stumble.
No anger.
No reaction.
Just continuation.
That night, lying on his thin mattress, muscles aching, wrist pulsing faintly—
Suguru understood something clearer than before:
Aura wasn't a weapon.
It was permission to remain himself under pressure.
And mana—
was what waited when he forgot how.