Chapter 4: Training
The sun had barely risen, but the sky already burned with orange fire. A pale mist hung over the training field, curling around the edges of the trees like breath on glass. Ekki stood alone at the center, his sword glinting faintly in the dim light.
Two days remained until the exam. Two days until the kingdom decided who among them was worthy of becoming a Dravon.
Ekki raised his sword, feeling its familiar weight. The steel hummed softly, alive with a quiet pulse that matched his heartbeat. He closed his eyes and breathed in, letting the cool air settle his thoughts. The voices of doubt—the whispers that had chased him since childhood—tried to rise again.
No magic. No future. No place among the strong.
He gritted his teeth. "Not anymore," he whispered.
He swung.
The blade cut through the mist with a sharp whistle, leaving a faint ripple in the air. Again, he swung—faster, harder, until the rhythm became a heartbeat of its own. Each strike was a memory burned away, a scar rewritten.
A voice interrupted him. "You'll wear yourself out before noon if you keep that up."
Sero's laughter broke the silence as he stepped into the field. The wind followed him as if it knew his name, lifting the ends of his jacket and scattering dust in spirals.
Ekki lowered his sword, smiling faintly. "Can't waste a single hour. Two days, Sero."
"Two days is still time to breathe," Sero replied. "You'll need your strength." He stretched his arms, letting small eddies of air twist around his fingers. "Besides, training alone doesn't make you sharper. You need someone to push you."
Before Ekki could respond, another figure came running down the path. Taki stumbled slightly on a rock, muttering under his breath, "How are you two always up before sunrise?"
"Fear," Sero said with mock seriousness. "Ekki's fear of failure and my fear of watching him break something."
Taki snorted. "Then maybe I should fear sleeping less."
Ekki sheathed his sword briefly. "If you're both here, let's make it count. We train together today. No breaks. No mercy."
Sero's grin widened. "Now that sounds like you."
They began with sparring. Sero took his position opposite Ekki, wind swirling lightly around him. "Try hitting me," he challenged.
Ekki lunged forward, his sword a blur. Sero's wind bent the air, deflecting each strike with invisible pressure. Ekki adapted, changing his rhythm, stepping in and out, feeling the resistance and cutting through it like waves against stone.
"Faster," Sero said, teasing.
Ekki's strikes came quicker, relentless. Dust rose around them, glowing gold under the morning sun. Sweat traced lines down his face, but he didn't slow. Every movement felt sharper, cleaner than yesterday.
Finally, he feinted left, twisted, and brought his sword low. The blade stopped an inch from Sero's ribs.
Sero blinked in surprise, then grinned. "You're learning."
Ekki lowered his sword. "No. I'm remembering."
Taki watched from a distance, arms crossed, flames flickering faintly between his palms. He stepped forward. "My turn."
Ekki turned to face him. "You sure? You still burn your own sleeves half the time."
Taki rolled his eyes. "That was one time. Maybe two."
He took position, fire gathering at his hands. The orange glow painted his face in fierce light. When he moved, it was with sudden speed, hurling arcs of flame toward Ekki.
Ekki dodged the first easily, but the second came close enough to scorch the ground near his feet. He countered with a slash, cutting through the flames. The sword's edge shimmered with faint darkness, splitting the fire apart like smoke.
"Nice," Taki said, panting. "You finally figured out how to cut through energy instead of blocking it."
Ekki nodded, breathing hard. "Still not perfect."
Sero, standing nearby, called out, "Then don't stop until it is."
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, baking the field in heat. The ground beneath them was torn with marks of their efforts—craters of flame, scorched grass, and long, clean cuts from Ekki's sword.
Sero practiced controlling the wind to throw Ekki off balance while Taki sent waves of heat to distort the air. Ekki fought against both at once, every muscle straining, every instinct pushed to its edge.
He moved like someone dancing on the edge of a storm—each step deliberate, each swing alive with purpose. The sword was no longer a burden. It was part of him, an extension of his resolve.
At last, exhaustion forced them to stop. They dropped to the ground under the shade of an old oak tree.
For a moment, none of them spoke. The sound of the wind filled the silence—soft, alive, carrying the scent of sweat, ash, and metal.
Sero broke the quiet first. "You know," he said, "a year ago I thought you'd never even hold a sword properly."
Ekki chuckled weakly. "A year ago, I thought I'd never have a reason to."
Taki picked up a small stone and tossed it into the air. "And now look at you. The guy with no magic… making the rest of us look lazy."
Ekki smiled. "It's not about power. It's about not giving up."
They fell silent again, letting the words linger.
When the sun dipped low, they started their final exercise—a test of unity.
Sero used his wind to lift Taki several feet into the air. Taki focused, channeling his flames downward, creating bursts of controlled fire that propelled him upward like rockets. Ekki moved beneath them, slicing at the bursts of energy to stabilize their flight paths.
The air shimmered with heat and motion. It was chaos—and yet, somehow, it worked.
"Again!" Ekki shouted.
"Still not dizzy enough?" Sero called down, laughing.
Taki yelled, "If I throw up, you're cleaning it!"
They repeated the move again and again, each time more precise, until finally they collapsed onto the ground, laughing breathlessly.
Sero looked up at the stars beginning to appear. "Do you think we'll make it?"
Ekki turned his head toward him. "We already have. The exam is just proof."
Taki sighed contentedly. "Then tomorrow, let's rest. I don't think my arms can take another day of this."
Sero smirked. "Resting is for the weak."
"Then you can train alone," Taki replied, eyes closed.
Ekki watched them, a faint smile touching his lips. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel alone. The laughter, the rivalry, the bruises—they meant more than victory ever could.
He looked up at the stars. They burned quietly, distant yet constant. "Two days," he murmured. "No matter what happens, we face it together."
Neither of them answered, but both understood.
The wind stirred the leaves gently, as if echoing his words.
That night, as they parted ways, Ekki lingered at the field for a moment longer. His sword rested in his hand, glowing faintly in the moonlight. He raised it toward the sky.
"Thank you," he whispered—to the weapon, to his friends, to the silent stars above. "For giving me a chance to fight."
The sword gave a soft hum in response, like a heartbeat answering his own.
And so ended their final day of true training—three souls bound not by power, but by the will to rise above it.