The room was dim, washed in silver by the moonlight seeping through the curtains. The only sound was Adonis's breath — slow, steady — as he sat cross-legged on the wooden floor. In front of him, hovering midair, was a small golden sword.
It gleamed faintly. Not metal, not quite light either — something in between. An illusion made real by mana.
This was the result of his Sword Magic.
He watched it float, unmoving, its tip twitching slightly every now and then as if testing the air. Holding it there — stable, upright — took all of his concentration.
"Steady… steady…"
The moment his focus wavered, even slightly, the sword shivered — and shattered into golden mist. The particles dissolved back into his mana core with a soft ripple through his body.
Adonis exhaled through his teeth.
"That's the third time," he muttered.
He leaned back against the wall, sweat dampening his collar despite the cool night air.
It wasn't that manifesting the sword was impossible. In fact, it came naturally — like breathing. But controlling it?
That was the challenge.
He compared it in his mind — his mana was like water stored in a bucket. The sword was a water gun. Too much pressure, and it blasted everything, draining the whole bucket in seconds. Too little pressure, and it barely scratched paper.
The problem was control. Not just over how much mana he poured in, but also how he maintained its movement.
Even making the sword hover for more than ten seconds left a faint ache in his temples. Directing it through the air? Like trying to thread a needle while sprinting.
Still…
He lifted his hand. Gold flickered at his fingertips.
With effort, another sword shimmered into form. Thin. Elegant. Floating in place like a leaf caught in still air.
Ten seconds… hold… focus…
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen—
His breath hitched. The sword wobbled.
Fourteen.
It exploded again.
Adonis slumped forward, breathing hard, but this time he smiled faintly.
"Improvement," he murmured.
He stared at his palm, flexing his fingers. Since awakening, he'd felt the changes. Now, after practicing the Immortal's Breath technique for just a few days — and channeling his unique magic — the difference was undeniable.
His hearing was sharper; he could hear the faint chirp of insects outside despite the closed window.
His sight was clearer; even in moonlight, the room's details stood out like day.
His reflexes had grown keener. Sometimes, he reacted to things before consciously noticing them. His body moved without hesitation — instinctively — and with speed.
My agility... it's like the wind elementals described in those old books, he thought. And my movement speed... it feels almost like lightning.
Even more startling was the raw offensive power of the sword. He had once — unintentionally — launched it toward a wooden stool in the corner. The blade had pierced clean through, embedding itself in the wall. That kind of force rivaled fire-based spells, which were famed for their destructive capacity.
All of it… and yet, he could only summon one sword. And even that was still unstable.
"But it's a start," he told himself quietly.
He didn't expect to become a master overnight. But now he knew what this power could become.
Sword Magic — or rather, Sword Element — was more than just conjuring weapons. It refined the body. Heightened the senses. Focused the mind. It was molding him into a swordsman not through training, but through transformation.
And for the first time in years, Adonis didn't feel weak, or broken, or left behind.
He looked at the faint gold glow in his palm again and whispered with quiet determination:
"I'm going to master this."
Then he closed his eyes and resumed breathing.
Inhale. Follow the path. Feed the core. Guide the sword.
Outside, the night deepened. Inside, a single boy sat beneath the moon, conjuring blades from light and will.