Élio got out of bed, his face completely blank. In his small room, barely bigger than a closet, he made his way to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror before muttering:
"Here we go again."
His expression was a complex blend of deep determination and the gaze of someone with nothing to lose.
Élio was 15 years old. Today marked the final day of pre-entry courses at Ascendia School, an institution dedicated to training the future soldiers of the Kingdom of Asturies. He had barely passed the entrance trials, performing just well enough in the physical tests to show potential as an awakened. Ever since childhood, he had dreamed of becoming a powerful soldier. According to legend, if the heavens recognized one's strength, they would grant them a single wish. Élio hoped to become strong enough to restore his family.
After today's session, he would have the weekend to rest before the official school year began. From then on, he would have to leave his home to live at the academy. This didn't bother him—after all, he lived alone. His loving mother had died years ago, and he had never known his father, a man described as particularly despicable. Though considered poor in the kingdom, Élio managed to survive by working as a fisherman.
He got ready for school. He didn't need to take a bag—just his uniform: a blue tunic with white stripes, the standard attire of junior fighters of Asturies. The term junior was misleading. To earn the elite fighter title and a darker blue uniform with golden stripes, one had to prove themselves through feats of combat or war.
Élio set out on foot. The journey took him an hour, leading him through the heart of the kingdom. Along the way, he passed the grand marble mansions of the wealthy, the crystal-clear fountains adorned with dolphin statues—the symbol of Asturies.
As he walked, his eyes caught a troubling scene. A group of elite soldiers stood in a circle, laughing and jeering at a man in a junior's uniform. He was in his forties, his posture rigid, his gaze locked on the ground. He endured the humiliation in silence because there was nothing he could do. And the worst part? No one seemed to care.
In Asturies, no matter how long you served, if you failed to achieve anything noteworthy in battle, you remained in the junior uniform.
When Élio reached the academy's massive gates, he showed the two guards his azure tattoo on his hand, granting him entry.
Ascendia was an imposing structure of marble and aquamarine, its bright blue stone shimmering under the sun. The school was nearly empty—only the lowest-performing students had been required to attend the pre-entry courses. Élio found it all incredibly dull.
He entered classroom 322, located on the ground floor. Most students had already arrived, but the professor was absent. A relief. Had he arrived precisely on time, he would have likely been reprimanded. He took a seat at the back of the room. Despite its spaciousness, the classroom only accommodated about twenty students.
Professor Clarck arrived shortly after. Normally strict about punctuality, he briefly apologized for his delay. He was a man of discipline, both in life and in teaching, responsible for the academy's hand-to-hand combat classes.
As with every pre-entry session, the morning was dedicated to theoretical lessons—a reminder of the 80-year-long war against the Kingdom of Saba. Élio spent the morning thinking about what he was going to do when he got home.
The afternoon was reserved for training. For now, students only practiced martial arts, but Clarck assured them that classes on weapon mastery and abilities would begin once the official school year started.
Asturian soldiers followed a martial discipline known as boxing—an ancient art regarded as noble and elegant. The focus was on fists and elbows; leg strikes were considered crude, especially the low kick, seen as a dishonorable move. However, high kicks and spinning kicks were tolerated.
Élio was skilled in this art. Having grown up in a rough neighborhood, he had been fighting since childhood. His tall, lean frame and long reach gave him a natural advantage. He was fast, and few could match his range.
There weren't any strict rules when it came to these training sessions. Everyone had to participate, but you could choose your opponent, and refusing a fight was generally frowned upon.
That day, he faced Louis Ferb, a wealthy boy who had been forced into the pre-entry program due to his abysmal hand-to-hand combat skills.
Louis was 10 cm shorter than Élio, who stood at 1.85 meters. Though heavier, he lacked speed.
Louis threw a punch. Élio dodged effortlessly with a slight tilt of his head. Louis's fist sliced through empty air. A flash of frustration crossed his eyes. Seizing the opening, Élio countered with a clean left straight punch. A dull thud echoed through the room as his glove struck Louis's helmet. The boy staggered, a drop of blood trickling from his nose.
Louis stepped back, frustrated.
"He's just tall. Without that, I would've won," he muttered under his breath.
Élio didn't respond. He had already moved on. Another opponent was stepping forward.
Arthur.
Arthur wasn't from Asturies. His dark skin and black eyes made that obvious—far from the pale complexion and blue eyes typical of Asturians.
By their standards, he wasn't unattractive, but his foreign features were enough to make him an outcast. Worse still, he resembled the Sabiens, the sworn enemies of Asturies. Because of this, he was despised by his peers. His abilities were weak, yet he had passed the entrance exams due to his exceptional physical prowess.
While most of the class viewed Arthur with disdain, Élio's gaze was fill with respect. In some ways, Arthur was just like him: a product of hardship, forced to rely on sheer strength rather than natural talent.
Neither spoke.
They simply raised their fists, bodies tense, ready to strike.
Arthur had won every fight since the beginning of pre-entry, no matter the opponent. But this would be his first time facing Élio, who had an identical record.
Who would prevail?