Tomas lunged first, his blade a blur. I raised mine, barely parrying. The impact jolted my aching wrists.
Pain seared, sharp and deep. My legs quaked, drained from laps and pull-ups. I stumbled back.
He pressed forward, sword aimed at my shoulder. I twisted, deflecting it with a clumsy swing.
The force unbalanced me. My ribs throbbed, bruised from yesterday's dual. Heart pounding, I gritted my teeth, refusing to fall.
I swung for his side, my strike sloppy and slow. Tomas parried, his blade cracking mine.
My palms stung. He darted in, swift, and slammed his sword into my arm. I yelped, staggering, my sleeve tearing.
The knights murmured. Shame burned my cheeks. I wasn't done.
I lunged, sword thrusting toward his chest. Tomas dodged, fluid as a shadow. His counterstrike slammed my thigh.
Pain flared, dropping me to one knee, dirt coating my pants.
Tomas circled, blade raised. "Thought you'd last longer," he whispered, voice icy. His words cut deeper than the blow.
Rage surged, hot and raw. I shoved myself up, legs unsteady. I swung again, pouring everything into it.
He blocked effortlessly, our blades locking, wood grinding. His strength crushed me down.
My arms buckled. He kicked my shin, a sharp jolt. I collapsed, hands scraping dirt.
The crowd fell silent, their stares heavy. I struggled to get up, panting. Sweat dripped to the ground.
Tomas had shed yesterday's arrogance. The man before me was focused, relentless.
He didn't pause. His blade grazed my chest, then my shoulder. Each hit pulsed with pain.
I stumbled back, sword trembling. My grip faltered, slick with sweat. One last try.
Alaric's memories, skills of a long-dead warrior fused into my mind flickered faintly. But this frail, tired body couldn't follow them.
I swung for his neck, desperate. My breath rasped. Tomas sidestepped, seized my wrist, and twisted.
My sword fell, thudding in the dirt. He slammed his wooden blade into my ribs. I crumpled, air gone, pain engulfing me, the world tilting.
"Enough!" Dren's gruff voice cut through. "Tomas, stand down. Ethanial, get up."
I dragged myself upright, ribs screaming. Each breath stabbed. My shirt clung, soaked with sweat and dust.
Tomas tossed his blade aside. No smirk, but his eyes glinted with surprise. I'd lasted longer than he expected.
I met his gaze, jaw tight. Dren stepped closer, arms crossed. His weathered face stayed unreadable.
"Rest, Ethanial. You're tougher than you look. Keep cultivating your mana when you can. Tomas, spar with Rorik."
I limped to the oak, slumping against its rough bark. My body ached, bruises pulsing. Swords clanked across the grounds.
I replayed the duel. Tomas was fast, strong, untouchable. I was nothing.
Yet I'd endured. I'd struck back, despite the pain. Defeat stung worse than the bruises, but it sparked something fierce.
Tomas was stronger, but I'd grow stronger, stand taller, face him again.
The Nera forest, hiding Alaric's pocket dimension, the academy. And all the other dangers of this world, mana beasts, cultists, dwarfed Tomas. I'd face them too. My fingers dug into the dirt, resolve hardening like forged steel.
My greater challenge was cultivating mana. Meditating while focusing on absorbing ambient mana to refine within my core, was the simplest method.
Noble families like Arventis had their own manuals with specific instructions and ways to do it, each having a particular rank in the game, but as the useless disgrace of House Arventis, shunned for my weak core, I was denied the main manual.
Instead, I got the watered-down version used by collateral kin.
Even that was grueling. Closing my eyes, I sensed my mana core, faint and sluggish, spinning like a dim celestial orb. Its rotation was slow, sometimes stalling, a flickering light barely alive. Yet I cultivated whenever I could, determined to make it stronger.
The next fifteen days forged me in sweat and will. Each dawn, I forced myself to the training grounds. February's mist clung to my skin, cool and damp.
My muscles burned, but defeat fueled me. On day two, Dren cut my laps to ten, a nod to my punctuality.
My calves ached, but I finished. Afterwards, I practiced Arventis sword style in the courtyard.
The sword felt heavy, my arms weak. Still, I swung until they trembled.
One night, I checked the system, a cryptic interface tied to this mess I am in, its purpose unclear. It offered no guidance. But it didn't matter. I'd build my own strength.
Day three, I sparred Lira, a wiry knight with lightning feet. Her wooden blade bruised my arm, leaving a red welt. I barely grazed her, landing no hits.
I trained late, moonlight glinting off my sword, forms growing smoother, sharper.
Day five, push-ups came easier. I hit twenty, arms steady. Pull-ups stayed brutal, the bar's cold metal biting my palms.
I finished, landing hard. Dust swirled. Dren watched, nodding once.
"You're not the quitter you were, kid," he said, voice rough with approval.
His words kindled pride. Day seven, I faced Tomas again.
His blade flashed, relentless. I blocked two strikes, wrists aching.
He struck my side, knocking me down. Dirt stung my palms. I rose faster this time.
He didn't taunt, just studied me, as if I'd earned a sliver of respect. Each day rebuilt me.
My legs quickened, dust trailing my boots. I swung harder. Blades clashed louder.
The knights stopped looking down on me. They saw a fighter, not a failure. I checked the system daily, seeking answers: Why me? Why Ethanial? Why Alaric's memories?
Still silent. My strength grew anyway. Day ten, I sparred Rorik, a towering man.
His wooden sword, swung gently for my sake, bruised my shoulder. Ignoring the pain, I countered, striking his chest with a solid thud. He laughed, clapping my back, his hand heavy as a bear's paw.
The knights nodded, their gazes warmer. I was improving. Day twelve, Tomas again.
The sun scorched, heat shimmering off the grounds. His strikes splintered wood, ferocious. I dodged one, parried two, sweat stinging my eyes.
He hit my chest hard. I fell, gasping, but stood before he could speak. His eyes narrowed, focused, no mockery.
I'd made him work. Each night, I collapsed in my room, sweat drowning the wood's scent.
Bruises bloomed, but my muscles toughened. My grip strengthened. I was no longer the frail boy who'd arrived.
The system's silence didn't matter. I was enough. Day fourteen, I faced Lira.
Her blade danced, quick and sharp. I matched her, boots scuffing dirt. I blocked, then struck, hitting her side.
The knights held back, mindful of my level, but I savored the progress.
She stumbled, grinning. "You're trouble now, young lord."
Dren's eyes glinted, almost a smile. Day fifteen, I ran fifteen laps, steady, strong.
My forms were crisp, the sword an extension of my arm. I couldn't beat Tomas yet, but I'd carved my place, blow by blow.
That afternoon, Dren gathered us. The sun sank, shadows stretching across the grounds. Dust thickened the air.
"Tomorrow's the empire's foundation day," he said. "Senior knights and the duke will attend the imperial banquet. You lot rest. You've earned it."
The knights laughed, voices rough. I stood still, heart racing. The duke and his family would attend, but I, the shame of House Arventis, shunned for my weak core, was always excluded.
The real Ethanial might have stung at the discrimination, but to me, it was an opportunity. A day off meant freedom: no training, no watchful eyes.
Alaric's hidden base waited, a pocket dimension buried in the Nera forest. Its prize, mana stone, could help my mana pathways develop.
The forest was full of mana beasts. Disappearances were common, tales of travelers lost to claws and shadows.
My pulse quickened, not with fear but purpose. Alaric's memories, fragmented and vague, offered only a rough location.
I'd faced Tomas's blade, survived Dren's grind. I'd survive this now.
The risk was steep, the reward greater. If the system wouldn't guide me, I'd forge my own path.
Tomorrow, while others rested, I'd slip away.
Alaric's pocket dimension held the mana stone, my lifeline. I'd claim them, whatever the cost.