Chapter 44 – Silent Training
The morning sun crept through the narrow window of Lyrian's dormitory, casting faint golden rays against the stone walls. Dust particles drifted in the warm light, swirling in the quiet air. The room itself was simple—functional, nothing extravagant. A sturdy wooden bed rested against the far wall, the sheets slightly rumpled but not disorderly. A small writing desk stood in the corner, its surface mostly empty except for a lone book and an ink bottle, its contents untouched for days.
The academy outside had already begun to stir. Muffled voices echoed through the halls, distant footsteps shuffling against the polished floors. Somewhere outside, the clash of training weapons rang faintly—some students had taken to early-morning sparring.
But inside the room, it was silent.
Lyrian sat up slowly, his black hair falling slightly over his eyes before he swept it back with a single motion. His gaze was unreadable, his expression void of emotion. He exhaled, stretching his arms before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor was cool beneath his feet, grounding him in the present moment.
For a fleeting second, something shimmered on his skin. A faint, ember-like glow, dark as the abyss itself, flickered along his forearm before vanishing as quickly as it appeared. He didn't react. He had seen it before. It was becoming more frequent.
But it didn't matter.
He stood and pulled on his training clothes—a simple, dark long-sleeved tunic and fitted trousers. He moved without hesitation, not sparing another glance at his reflection in the polished steel mirror near the door. There was no need. He had already memorized the way he looked.
By the time he stepped out of his room, the academy was fully awake.
The morning light was bright but cool, a contrast to the imposing stone walls of the academy. The grand halls bustled with students, their conversations lively as they moved in small groups. Lyrian walked through them without stopping, his footsteps silent against the marble floor.
Some students glanced at him, but their expressions were dismissive. After all, he was just an Adept I—the lowest ranking among them.
A few murmured as he passed.
"That's the guy who collapsed during the trial, right?"
"He barely did anything… how did he even make it this far?"
Lyrian didn't react. He never did. Their words were meaningless. Let them think what they wanted.
One student scoffed. "Tch. If even he made it through, the trials must have been too easy this year."
A ripple of laughter followed, but Lyrian had already walked past them, his focus elsewhere.
They didn't understand. They couldn't feel it.
None of them were strong enough to notice the lingering presence that clung to him—the abyssal energy that pulsed beneath his skin. He had made sure to suppress it completely. As far as they knew, he was nothing but an ordinary weakling, an Adept I barely worth acknowledging.
That was fine.
He preferred it that way.
Lyrian veered off from the main paths, heading toward the academy's lesser-used training grounds. This one was a secluded clearing, away from the more popular sparring arenas. It was an open space surrounded by tall stone walls, with a few wooden dummies lined up for practice. Here, he could train alone.
He unsheathed his sword, the faint morning breeze rustling his clothes as he took his stance.
Then he moved.
But it was slow.
His strikes lacked fluidity, his grip on the sword too tight, his footwork stiff. He was doing what he thought swordplay should look like—basic swings, nothing refined, nothing deadly. It was the kind of training someone would pick up by watching others rather than being properly taught. He knew how to fight, but there was no technique behind it, no deeper understanding.
The sword cut through the air, but it was sluggish. His movements didn't flow together. He hesitated between strikes, adjusting his stance awkwardly, shifting his weight too late.
It wasn't just that he wasn't fast enough. He wasn't right.
He clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. Again.
A slow, diagonal cut. A pause. A small adjustment. Another swing.
It wasn't enough. He could feel that much.
From the upper levels of a nearby tower, a lone figure watched him.
The man was older, his sharp gaze locked onto Lyrian with silent scrutiny. He wasn't just an instructor—he was a high-ranking official, one of the few elite combat masters of the academy. He rarely wasted his time watching low-ranked students.
Yet, here he was.
He stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he observed Lyrian's every movement.
His grip is too rigid. His weight is off. His swings are wild, lacking any control.
The official didn't sigh, but there was something close to exasperation in his gaze. This wasn't swordplay. It was an unrefined attempt, a scattered mess of instinct with no foundation.
And yet…
There was something.
It wasn't skill. It wasn't talent. It was something harder to define—an underlying pressure that clung to the boy, something that felt unnatural. It was buried deep, suppressed, but the official's sharp senses picked up on it.
This boy doesn't know what he's doing. But if he ever does learn…
The thought lingered as he continued watching.
Lyrian, oblivious to the gaze on him, kept training. His breath was steady, even as sweat lined his brow. He repeated the same motions, slow and uncertain. The dummies before him remained untouched—he wasn't confident enough in his swings to strike them yet.
He finally lowered his blade, his hands relaxing as he exhaled.
It still wasn't enough.
But it was fine for now.
Sheathing his sword, he grabbed his belongings and turned away from the training ground. His hunger was finally noticeable—a reminder that he hadn't eaten since last night.
With a final glance at the empty space behind him, he made his way toward the dining hall.
The students he passed still paid him little attention. To them, he was nothing more than a weakling. An Adept I barely worth mentioning