The first thing Sylas felt when he woke was pain — a deep, dragging ache across his ribs, sharp enough to remind him of the Frost Wolf's claws. He didn't move at first. The cottage was dim, quiet, the faint line of morning stretching across the floorboards like a blade of light.
He inhaled once.
Held it.
Let it out slowly.
Alive.
It was a start.
Then — he felt something else.
A pulse.
A faint hum.
A presence inside him that hadn't existed yesterday.
It wasn't mana.
Not exactly.
It was awareness.
A whisper surfaced before he could form a thought:
> [System Initiated]
User: Sylas
Awakening Grade: High
Status Interface Unlocked.
Sylas's breath caught. He sat slowly, ignoring the pain as glowing text unfolded in front of him — clear, steady, impossibly real.
---
⭐ [STATUS — SYLAS]
Name: Sylas
Race: Human
Age: 16
Level: 2
Potential: SSS
Affinities: Steel / Unknown (Dormant)
Mana Capacity: Low (Dormant)
Physique: Bladeborn Frame (Unawakened)
Talent: Swordborn Instinct
Mental Resilience: High
Combat Instinct: Exceptional
Emotional State: Pain / Determined / Trust Forming
---
Sylas stared at it, chest rising and falling in slow, shocked breaths.
Not fear.
Not disbelief.
Recognition.
As if his body had always been waiting for this moment.
More lines unfolded:
> [Skill Unlocked — Beginner Sword Intent Perception]
You grasp the flow of a blade faster than most.
> [Skill Unlocked — Momentum Reading]
You sense shifts in weight, stance, and intention.
> [Skill Unlocked — Cutting Principles (Basic)]
You understand the structure and path of a clean cut.
Sylas closed his hand, flexing his fingers.
Nothing looked different.
Everything felt different.
This wasn't strength.
Not yet.
But it was the shape of potential — raw, young, dangerous.
He pushed himself upright, breath hitching with pain.
"Two days…" he whispered.
Arcanis's instructions.
Two days to stand.
Two days to prove he wasn't a burden.
Two days to catch up to someone who carried himself like steel had chosen him.
Sylas set his feet on the ground.
The pain stabbed hard.
He didn't stop.
---
Outside, dawn hadn't fully settled. Mist clung to the grass. A wooden practice sword leaned against Merrin's shed — rough, splintered, meant for village children.
Sylas picked it up.
It felt wrong in his hand.
Too light.
Unbalanced.
Imprecise.
Then Sword Intent Perception activated.
Suddenly he could feel:
the uneven weight
the imbalance in the grip
the drag in the swing
the weak point where it would break
He adjusted his stance.
He exhaled.
Then he swung.
Not elegant.
Not fast.
But correct.
He swung again.
And again.
Each cut smoother, cleaner, truer.
He felt the motion travel from heel → hip → shoulder → arm → blade.
He felt where the world pushed back.
Even with pain burning in his ribs… his body understood.
It recognized the blade the way the river recognized a stone's fall.
Not talent.
Alignment.
A truth finally speaking.
---
He rested against the shed, chest rising with shallow breaths. The system pulsed again:
> [Insight Gained — Rhythm of Blades]
You instinctively recognize tempo and respond to patterns.
Sylas blinked.
"Rhythm…?"
He stood again.
Closed his eyes.
Listened.
To carts in the distance.
To villagers speaking softly.
To the wind brushing rooftops.
He moved.
Strike.
Recover.
Step.
Counter.
Not choreography.
Not drills.
Response.
The world's rhythm guiding his motion.
He didn't force anything.
He simply answered what he felt.
The wooden blade whispered through the air — flawed wood, perfect understanding.
He opened his eyes.
The world felt sharper.
He wasn't strong.
Not yet.
But he was precise.
And precision was its own violence.
---
By midday he pushed harder.
Too hard.
His ribs protested.
Bandages darkened with fresh blood.
His breath went ragged.
But he continued.
Every mistake gave him something:
A bad grip → pressure discipline
A stumble → proper foot placement
A sharp pain → restraint
A burning arm → endurance
More notifications appeared:
> [Cutting Principles — Basic → Stable]
His swings grew heavier. Cleaner. Not fast, but correct — frighteningly correct.
Merrin stepped out once, arms crossed.
"You'll tear open your stitches."
Sylas didn't look away from the wooden post he was striking.
"I'd rather tear them here," he said, "than in front of him later."
Merrin exhaled long. "You have no sense."
"Sense didn't keep me alive," Sylas muttered.
"Instinct did."
He trained until the pain blurred into something distant and the world grew quiet around his movements.
---
That night, he sat outside alone with the wooden sword across his lap.
He thought of Arcanis.
How the prince fought — quiet, composed, without wasted motion.
Strength without noise.
Resolve without performance.
It wasn't admiration.
It was clarity.
There are people you meet once who change your direction.
Arcanis was that kind.
Sylas tightened his grip on the sword.
"Two days," he whispered.
Not to impress Arcanis.
Not to earn a place.
Not to chase a shadow.
But because something in him finally stirred awake.
And it wanted more.
---
The next day, he didn't train long.
He trained right.
Short, precise drills.
Controlled breathing.
Efficient footwork.
No wasted energy.
Notifications appeared again:
> [Momentum Reading → Improved]
[Insight: Angle Recognition Acquired]
He tested it — carving a line into a fallen log.
The wooden blade cut exactly where he intended.
Not deep.
But perfect.
He stared at the mark — straight, clean.
"…I can do this," he murmured.
Not pride.
Realization.
When dusk settled, he packed the little he owned:
a bone knife
dry rations
fresh bandages
the wooden sword
and resolve
He stepped outside, looking toward the dark horizon where the eastern ford lay.
"Tomorrow," he whispered.
"Tomorrow, I walk."