The school grounds were silent at this hour, cloaked in moonlight and the hush of a world at rest. Cain moved through the empty corridors without a sound, the cold stone beneath his feet matching the chill in his chest. He didn't look back. Not at the dorm. Not at the conversation he had left behind. Not at the woman curled up on his couch drunk.
The courtyard opened up before him, its stone path leading toward the training grounds at the far edge of the academy. Lanterns lining the walkway flickered softly, their light dimmed with the hour, casting long shadows across the ground. Cain's boots crunched faintly on gravel as he passed beneath them.
When he reached the edge of the training fields, he paused.
Empty.
Good.
No one swinging late. No one running drills or sparring under the stars. Just the field, the sand pits, the equipment racks, and the silence. A perfect place to clear his mind.
Cain walked over to the weapons rack lining the far side of the grounds. Spears, polearms, and practice swords sat neatly in their slots, their hilts worn from generations of use. His hand hovered over the selection before settling on a simple longsword.
Not enchanted. Not flashy. Just steel.
He stepped into the center of the field, sword hanging loosely in his grip. The moon hung low and heavy above him, silver light glinting off the blade as he raised it.
He exhaled slowly.
Then he moved.
The first strike was clumsy. Too fast. His footwork lagged behind his arm. He corrected with the next, letting his shoulders relax, letting the weight of the blade guide his swing. Overhead cut. Reverse slash. Pivot. Low guard.
The rhythm settled into his bones before he even realized it. Swing. Shift. Step. Breathe. The weight of the blade felt natural in his grip now. His body moved with growing ease, each motion flowing into the next. The blade sliced through the cool night air, the sound sharp and satisfying.
Cain's chest rose and fell, faster now, not from exhaustion but from exhilaration. There was something primal about it. The repetition. The precision. The violence held just beneath the surface. Each strike pushed away another piece of the tension coiled in his gut.
He adjusted his stance, digging his foot into the dirt, and launched into another series of cuts. High to low. Twist the wrist. Spin and follow through. His breath came harder, but he didn't slow down.
The rush was creeping in. His blood started to hum beneath his skin, a heat rising in his chest that had nothing to do with the night air. This was what he had missed. This was what made him feel real.
Cain blinked.
His body vanished in a flicker, space bending for an instant before dropping him several feet away. He staggered slightly on the landing but caught himself. The sword wobbled in his grip.
Too early.
He adjusted, turned, and tried again.
Blink. Reappear. Swing.
Better this time. His weight followed the movement, and the sword sang cleanly through the air. He felt the power in it. The speed. The possibilities.
Cain started working it into his rhythm. Slash, blink, strike from behind. Guard, blink sideways, retaliate from the flank. The motion felt jarring at first, his mind still trying to anticipate where his body would land. But the more he practiced, the smoother it became.
Blink. Thrust. Pivot. Blink again. The teleport left a faint whisper in the air behind him.
He grinned without meaning to. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The sword felt lighter now, as if the air itself was urging him forward.
Faster.
Harder.
He pressed on. The training ground blurred around him, his body darting between targets only he could see. His feet tore up dirt. Sweat rolled down his back. The night no longer felt still. It pulsed with energy. With purpose.
Cain blinked behind an invisible opponent and swept his blade upward. His chest heaved. He blinked again, then again, practicing short hops, tighter angles, tighter timing.
A wide arc. A low feint. Blink.
Steel cut the air cleanly. His foot slammed down to anchor the force. He drove the tip of the blade into the dirt, panting.
He stood still for a moment, gripping the hilt with both hands, the earth trembling faintly beneath him from his landing. His vision swam slightly from the exertion, but the smile remained.
This was it. No lectures. No politics. No uncertainty.
Just movement. Control. Focus.
Cain straightened and drew the blade free from the dirt.
The weight of it still felt good in his grip, but now that the rush had ebbed, a flicker of frustration stirred beneath the surface. He stared at the edge. His strikes had felt powerful. Clean. But deep down, he knew they weren't refined.
His footwork was clumsy in places. His timing was instinct, not technique. The blink skill helped, but it wasn't enough to cover the gaps in his form. This kind of training would only take him so far.
He wasn't a swordsman. Not really. Just someone who fought with a sword.
Cain narrowed his eyes at the weapon. His breathing slowed, chest still rising and falling as he mulled it over.
There had to be a better way.
An idea began to take shape. A strange, reckless idea.
He raised the sword again. Not to swing. Not to strike.
But to bite.
Cain brought the edge to his mouth and sank his teeth into the steel. For a split second, the resistance was sharp and unforgiving
then it gave.
The metal cracked between his jaws, splintering like brittle candy. His eyes widened slightly at the sensation. It didn't make sense. The steel should have shattered his teeth. Should have split his gums.
Instead, his mouth chewed through it like it was nothing more than dense, rust-flavored caramel.
The taste was awful. Bitter and sharp, like blood mixed with rust and fire. But he didn't stop.
He chewed and swallowed the first piece. It scraped down his throat but didn't cut. There was no pain, only a dull heat that pooled in his stomach
Cain gripped the blade and bit again, tearing through the metal in chunks. He chewed each piece slowly, grimacing at the taste but refusing to stop. The sword began to shrink in his hands with every bite, its clean edges now jagged and broken.
The more he ate, the stronger the heat inside him grew. The steel sat heavy in his gut, but it didn't weigh him down. It was being broken down. Absorbed. His body didn't reject it. It welcomed it.
Piece by piece, the sword vanished. Until nothing remained but the hilt.
[Gluttony has been Activated]
[Basic Swordsmanship (Apprentice) acquired]
[Minor Slash Resistance (Beginner) acquired]
Cain couldn't help but laugh to himself, his wild idea that came to his mind had proven right. He looked around the training hall and licked his lips.
He was surrounded by a feast.