They arrived at the training grounds shortly after, where the instructors directed the class to change into the training uniforms issued at enrolment—uniforms they had been instructed to bring for their first practical session.
Inside the changing halls, rows of lockers stretched along the walls. They were clearly divided by year, then further separated into male and female sections. Senior lockers were placed deeper within, marked with worn sigils and faint scarring from years of use.
They changed quickly.
Veynar and Nerith couldn't help but glance over at Caelan once he finished.
"...Huh," Veynar muttered. "Nerith. Caelan's actually really well-built."
Nerith nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. Defined muscles. And he doesn't act our age either—more like an adult."
"I saw that much already," Veynar said casually.
"Oh, yeah," Nerith added without thinking. "I noticed back in the baths while you were asleep."
Veynar froze. "You—what?"
"I mean—yeah," Nerith waved it off. "He's strange. But... likeable. Kind too."
Veynar snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah. Somehow, he just fits."
They exchanged a look, both silently agreeing—whatever Caelan was, they were glad he'd become their friend so quickly.
________
The class gathered outside on the open training field.
Some of the boys openly stared at the girls, earning sharp looks in return. The nobles carried themselves with polished confidence, refined posture and easy charm, which drew curious glances from several common-born students.
A tall man stepped forward.
"Attention."
His voice alone silenced the field.
"I am Captain Valen Erynd Orivian," he said calmly. "I oversee foundational combat training."
He gestured to his left.
"This is Instructor Lyris Teryn Caelith. She will guide aerial techniques and fluid weapon motion. Those of sky-born lineage will find her instruction particularly valuable."
Lyris smiled warmly, waving lightly. Her blonde hair caught the sunlight, and her black eyes sparkled with genuine enthusiasm.
Captain Valen gestured to his right.m
"And this is Trainer Keath Drake. Heavy weapons, fortification, and inner strength. Stone-kin, you will be under his care."
Keath inclined his head slightly. He radiated calm patience, his presence solid and unshakable.
Captain Valen himself stood straight-backed and composed—black hair neatly tied, golden eyes sharp yet measured. Strict, refined... but undeniably charismatic.
Then—
"Huh?"
Captain Valen blinked.
"Yo!"
A loud voice echoed across the field.
"What are you doing here?" Captain Valen snapped.
A man slung an arm around his shoulders casually. "What do you mean, Valen? I'm an instructor too, y'know."
"Then act like one," Captain Valen shot back. "I'm surprised you even acknowledge that fact."
The students stared in stunned silence.
An instructor... being scolded by the captain?
Captain Valen exhaled sharply. "Everyone," he said reluctantly, "this is Master Rynar Kethis Xyther. He is... an instructor as well."
"Unfortunately," he added under his breath.
"Hey!" Rynar protested. "At least give me some face in front of the recruits!"
He turned to the students with a wide grin. "Newbies! I'm Master Rynar. I teach survival combat and unpredictability. Nice working with you all!"
Master Rynar looked clumsy at first glance—scruffy whitish-blue hair, uneven posture, black eyes that never quite stayed still.
But Caelan felt it.
A faint, wordless pressure.
An instinct.
The kind you developed only by surviving wild places.
He's lived where rules don't matter, Caelan thought.
"He will be... helpful for sea-folk," Captain Valen said after a pause.
"...Maybe."
Several sea-folk students stiffened nervously.
"Come on now, Valen," Rynar laughed. "Don't scare them off."
"What good image could I possibly ruin?" Captain Valen replied flatly.
The field fell quiet again.
And Caelan, watching the instructors, felt a strange certainty settle in his chest.
This place taught more than strength.
It taught what kind of strength survived.
Captain Valen's expression hardened as he shifted the tone.
"You will now undergo a series of foundational drills," he said crisply. "All instructors will be observing. These exercises are not meant to shame you—but to reveal where you must improve."
His gaze swept over the field.
"Give your best."
He paused.
"You will address us by our titles."
Then, without ceremony, he continued, "We will begin with something simple."
Several students relaxed.
"Running."
That relief died instantly.
"I want five laps around this track," Captain Valen said, gesturing toward the field. "With weights."
Instructor Lyris and Trainer Keath stood beside a long table stacked with metal bands.
The students lined up and fastened the weights around their wrists and ankles.
"...These are heavy," Veynar muttered, testing his arm.
"You're kidding, right?" Nerith groaned. "How is this 'easy'?"
He turned. "You agree, yeah, Caelan—"
Nerith froze.
He nearly fell into Veynar as he stood back up.
"Watch it," Veynar snapped—then stopped when he saw Nerith's expression.
They both stared.
Caelan stood calmly, rolling his shoulders and stretching his legs as if nothing were wrong.
"...How are you fine?" Veynar demanded.
Nerith pointed at Caelan, his finger shaking. "How?"
Caelan blinked, then smiled awkwardly. "Oh. Sorry—I said I'd keep you updated."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I lived in the mountains for eight years. My father trained me every day. I'm used to this kind of weight."
"Oh," Nerith said weakly.
"You accepted that fast," Veynar muttered.
"I've got a feeling," Nerith replied slowly, "that Caelan's going to keep surprising us."
"I agree," Veynar said.
"You're exaggerating," Caelan said, half-smiling, scratching his cheek.
________
"Once you've secured your weights," Captain Valen called, "we will begin. Ten students at a time."
The drills proceeded in waves.
Some students performed well—especially those from known combat lineages.
Others struggled.
Some failed outright.
When Veynar and Nerith returned, breathing heavily, Caelan nodded.
"You both did great. Above average, I'd say."
"Y-yeah... thanks," Nerith panted. "Your turn now."
Caelan's group was last.
"Begin," Captain Valen commanded.
They ran.
The pace was decent. Nothing exceptional.
Master Rynar yawned. "Looks like this batch is nothing special."
Then he tilted his head.
"...Oh?"
Veynar's hands trembled as he pointed. "Nerith... Caelan's insane."
Nerith stared, stunned into silence.
________
I need to do my best, Caelan thought as he ran.
I don't want to have nothing here.
I failed to awaken—but these drills... I can do these.
The signal echoed.
Two seconds passed.
Then Caelan sprinted.
Not explosively. Not recklessly.
Just... clean.
In moments, he caught the runners ahead of him.
Then passed them.
By the time most students neared the end of their first lap, Caelan was already on his third.
When they reached their third—
Caelan finished his fifth.
He slowed to a stop, breathing steady, sweat barely forming.
Silence followed.
"Next," Captain Valen said after a beat, "push-ups. Weights on your backs. Time-limited. Maximum repetitions."
Again—
Caelan finished first.
"Pull-ups," Captain Valen ordered.
Again—
Caelan led.
Terrain running followed—mud, sand, shallow water.
Again—
Caelan excelled.
By now, even the instructors had stopped disguising their attention.
Those who performed well watched him as an equal.
Several nobles glared, resentment flickering behind composed faces.
Some commoners who had mocked him earlier looked away, ashamed.
Veynar and Nerith could only stare.
Drill after drill, Caelan endured.
When it finally ended, he stood upright—sweaty, breathing heavier now, but far from exhausted.
Around him, students leaned, knelt, or collapsed outright.
His shirt clung tightly to his frame, outlining a body honed through years of hardship.
Everyone noticed.
And for the first time—
No one laughed at Caelan Drask Korthal.
"Ahem."
Captain Valen's voice cut cleanly through the murmurs.
"We will take a short recess," he announced. "One hour to recover before we proceed to the next segment—weapon training."
Relief rippled through the field.
Caelan let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding and rolled his shoulders, finally allowing himself to relax.
That was when he was grabbed.
Hard.
"Oi—!"
Caelan barely had time to react before Nerith seized him by the collar and dragged him a few steps away, Veynar following close behind with a dark look that did not match his usual grin.
"Guys," Caelan said quickly, trying to pry Nerith's hands loose, "what's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" Nerith snapped. "What's wrong is you."
"Yeah," Veynar added, arms crossed. "Care to explain why you just embarrassed half the class and made the rest of us question our life choices?"
Caelan blinked. "I... what?"
Nerith tightened his grip. "Don't 'what me. You ran like the weights didn't exist. You didn't even look tired. That wasn't normal."
Veynar leaned in. "You said you lived in the mountains. You said your dad trained you."
His eyes narrowed.
"What exactly did he train you to do?"
Caelan finally managed to pull free, rubbing his collar. "Alright, alright—relax. I'll explain."
They both stared at him, waiting.
"My father," Caelan began, choosing his words carefully, "never believed in easy terrain. He used to take me across cliffs, broken ridges, snow paths, mud flats—anywhere footing was bad."
He gave a small, sheepish smile.
"He made me run there. Carry weight. Balance. Fall. Get up. Then do it again."
Nerith frowned. "That's it?"
"He said," Caelan continued, "that strength built on comfort collapses the moment things go wrong."
A pause.
"He also trained like that when he was young. In the northern coldlands."
Veynar whistled softly. "That explains a lot."
Nerith crossed his arms, staring at Caelan with new eyes. Then—
"Oh."
A beat.
"Right."
He pointed at Caelan. "You are a noble."
Caelan winced slightly. "Barely."
"Tch," Nerith muttered. "Figures. Only nobles would call mountain torture 'basic training'."
Veynar laughed. "Still," he added, clapping Caelan on the shoulder, "next time you say you're 'nothing special,' I'm throwing you off the training field."
Caelan smiled faintly, warmth spreading through his chest.
"Fair," he said.
Veynar stretched his arms overhead and flopped down onto the grass.
"I swear," he groaned, "if weapon training is worse than that, I'm filing a complaint with the sky."
Nerith snorted and sat beside him. "You are the sky. Who are you filing it to?"
"The clouds," Veynar replied seriously. "They'll understand."
Caelan lowered himself onto the ground as well, legs stretched out, breathing finally steady. For a moment, none of them spoke.
The academy grounds were loud around them—students laughing, complaining, boasting—but the three of them felt strangely... separate.
Nerith broke the silence first.
"You know," he said, staring ahead, "back there? When everyone was staring at you?"
Caelan stiffened slightly.
"I didn't feel jealous," Nerith continued. "I felt... relieved."
Caelan glanced at him. "Relieved?"
"Yeah," Nerith said. "Means we've got someone strong watching our backs."
Veynar grinned. "Exactly. If things go bad, we just point at you and run."
Caelan let out a short laugh. "You're terrible friends."
"Efficient ones," Veynar corrected.
Another pause.
Then Caelan spoke more quietly.
"Thanks. Both of you."
They looked at him.
"For not treating me differently," he said. "Before. After. Any of it."
Nerith shrugged. "You're still you. Strong or weak doesn't change that."
Veynar nodded. "Besides, if everyone here were normal, this place would be boring."
Caelan smiled—genuinely this time.
Ahead of them, instructors began calling students back into order.
Veynar stood up first, cracking his neck.
"Alright," he said. "Weapons next."
Nerith rose beside him, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"Let's see if mountain boy here bleeds like the rest of us."
Caelan stood last, rolling his shoulders once more.
"We'll find out," he said.
And for the first time since arriving at Tartarus Academy, he felt like he truly belonged.
"Now," Captain Valen called, his voice carrying across the training grounds, "we will begin weapons training."
The murmurs died down.
"This session is not about mastery," he continued. "It is about choice. You will select a weapon you feel comfortable with—one that suits your body, instincts, and temperament."
He gestured toward the instructors beside him.
"Afterwards, you will submit a form. Your weapons will be forged and adjusted accordingly."
Captain Valen turned, pointing in sequence.
"Those who prefer heavy weapons—broadswords, greatswords, war hammers—report to Trainer Keath."
Keath inclined his head calmly.
"Those inclined toward aerial combat—lightweight spears, rapiers, flexible blades—report to Instructor Lyris."
Lyris smiled brightly.
"And those favouring balanced weapons—spears, swords, staffs—report to me."
The students began to move—
All three instructors spoke at once.
"Caelan Drask Korthal. You're with me."
The training grounds froze.
"...Huh?" Captain Valen turned sharply. "He's whose now?"
"Valen," Lyris said smoothly, her smile sharp at the edges, "you heard me."
Trainer Keath folded his arms. "He is better suited to my instruction."
The air shifted.
The three instructors stared at one another, tension thick enough to taste.
"He lacks aerial refinement," Keath said evenly.
"He lacks nothing but polish," Lyris countered.
Captain Valen's golden eyes narrowed. "Enough. He fits my path best."
The argument grew—not loud, but intense—three veterans assessing the same thing from different angles.
A rare specimen.
Nerith leaned over to Caelan, grinning smugly.
"See? Told you."
Veynar crossed his arms, smirk widening.
"Try not to let it go to your head, rising legend."
Caelan stood there, stunned.
Around them, reactions split sharply.
Some commoners looked away, embarrassed—ashamed of how they had laughed earlier.
A few nobles clenched their jaws, resentment burning quietly.
And Caelan—
Caelan felt the weight of attention settle on him, heavier than any training weight he had worn that day.
Captain Valen finally raised a hand.
"Enough," he said flatly.
The instructors fell silent.
"We will decide shortly," he added, eyes still locked on Caelan. "For now—stand by."
Caelan nodded, heart steady but racing.
Whatever path he chose—
—or whatever path chose him—
It was clear now.
Tartarus Academy would not let him remain ordinary.
"Before anyone else chooses," Captain Valen said, his voice firm, "we will first call the students we have selected."
A ripple moved through the crowd.
"That is why you were given an hour's rest," Instructor Lyris added smoothly. "So we could decide which talents we wished to polish."
Names followed.
"Mira Calverin. Alira Valen Solmire. Selira Erynd."
"Instructor Lyris and I will be teaching you three," Captain Valen said.
"Sara Ilford. Keith Bryn Eyre... Kira Croft," Captain Valen continued. "You will train under me."
"Karen Dun. Lisa Ain Warren... Veynar Lyrion," Instructor Lyris called. "You're with me."
"Thoryn Durvryn Korveth. Draven Drask Thorrien... Nerith Corath," Trainer Keath said calmly. "You'll train under me."
Murmurs rose.
Out of nearly two hundred students, only fifty had been chosen outright—those who had clearly excelled in the drills.
Captain Valen raised a hand.
"The rest of you may now freely choose an instructor," he said. "Do not be discouraged if you were not selected. Talent is not fixed. Work harder. Choose wisely."
The training grounds erupted into motion as students tested practice weapons and clustered around instructors.
Caelan remained where he was.
That was when a shadow fell over him.
"Yo, young man."
Caelan looked up to see Master Rynar crouched beside him, hands on his knees, grin lopsided.
"Why so gloomy?" Rynar said. "Lighten up."
Caelan looked away.
"Master Rynar," he said quietly. "Why are they arguing over me? I'm a failed awakener. You've all heard the rumours. I know you have."
Rynar's grin vanished.
"Oi," he said sharply. "You think we instructors are idiots?"
Caelan flinched.
"You think we don't know who our students are?" Rynar continued, leaning closer. "You think we don't see?"
Caelan shrank slightly, eyes downcast.
"We know everything," Rynar said softly.
He lowered himself until they were eye level.
"We know," he repeated. "That's why we chose you."
Caelan looked up, confusion etched across his face.
"That... doesn't make sense."
Rynar snorted.
"It does, y'idiot."
His voice dropped—no humour now.
"The failed awakener. The disgraced noble. The unwanted commoner."
"The child, made of flaws and contradictions."
The words hit harder than any insult.
"You," Rynar said, eyes sharp, "outperformed every one of them."
He gestured vaguely toward the other students.
"Those nobles have been trained since childhood. Those commoners who mocked you."
"Every single one of them fell behind you."
Rynar straightened.
"None of you are proper cultivators yet," he said. "And you're already ahead."
Silence stretched.
"That's why we chose you."
Caelan dropped his head into his hands.
Rynar reached out and placed a rough palm on his head, patting it once.
"So don't belittle yourself," he said quietly. "You're precious."
Then, softer still:
"You're just a boy."
After a long moment, Caelan looked up. His eyes were clearer now.
Rynar's grin returned, wild and crooked.
"Alright," he said, clapping his hands. "Enough sulking."
He jerked his thumb behind him.
"Now get up and show me what you've got."
Caelan blinked.
"You want to spar?"
"Yeah," Rynar said cheerfully. "And don't worry—I nicked training weapons from the other three."
He gestured to the rack beside him.
"Plenty of choices."
Caelan stepped toward the weapon racks.
He scanned them slowly.
Tridents. War hammers. Lightweight aerial blades.
He passed them all.
In the end, he reached for a simple short sword.
"I'll take this one for now," Caelan muttered.
It was quiet—but not quiet enough.
Master Rynar's grin stretched wide.
Far too wide.
Caelan turned.
That grin.
His chest tightened.
It was the same expression his father wore right before pushing him past his limits.
"I see," Rynar said, staggering closer, eyes bright. "You've used them all."
Then he laughed.
"Ha. Hahaha!"
"Caelan," Rynar said, voice sharp with delight, "now I want to see it. I really want to see it."
Rynar grabbed a practice sword of his own.
Steel rang.
The first clash echoed across the training grounds.
Their movements were clean. Efficient. Alive.
Rynar tested. Probed.
Caelan responded—fast, controlled, precise.
Neither went all out.
Yet.
Sparks flew. Footwork shifted. Momentum built.
They were smiling.
Rynar tilted his head mid-exchange.
"Why aren't you using full power, boy?"
"I'm getting into the flow," Caelan replied, breath steady.
"I see," Rynar said, grin sharpening.
"Then hurry up. I'm adding force."
The pressure increased instantly.
Their blades collided harder now—enough that nearby students and instructors turned to watch.
The short sword cracked.
Snapped clean in Caelan's hand.
Rynar stepped back, amused.
"Now what, boy?"
Caelan didn't answer.
He turned calmly, grabbed another weapon.
A spear.
Rynar's eyes lit up.
He took one too.
They clashed again.
This time, reach and rotation. Thrusts met redirection. Shafts splintered under strain.
The spear broke.
Caelan switched.
Staff.
Rynar matched him.
The staff dented, warped, then split.
Daggers.
Gone.
Still smiling.
Finally, they abandoned weapons altogether.
Bare hands.
Fists met forearms. Knees twisted. Footwork tangled.
Only then did Caelan stumble back—and collapse onto the ground.
He laughed.
So did Rynar.
Loud. Unrestrained.
Rynar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Oi," he said.
"Become my disciple."
Caelan's laughter died instantly.
He stared up at him.
"...Really?"
Rynar's grin softened—not playful now, but serious.
"Yeah," he said.
"I want you."
He held out a hand.
"Become my disciple."
Caelan takes his hand and stands.
That was enough for Rynar to know he had accepted.
"Nice to meet yah, disciple," Rynar said, patting Caelan's head.
Both smiling.
"Ugh... agh... ngh..."
Captain Valen's expression twisted.
"WHY?"
His voice cracked like a blade snapping from its sheath.
"What was the point of our argument during the break?" Valen continued, fury boiling over.
"And now this?"
"If you were just going to go behind our backs—"
Veynar and Nerith exchanged looks, then grinned smugly.
They whispered excitedly about how the instructors had argued over Caelan during the break—and how Master Rynar had just gone and claimed him outright.
"RYNAR!"
Valen's sword was already out.
"Caelan has exceptional sword and spear aptitude," Valen snarled.
"He needs me."
"Die."
Instructor Lyris stepped forward, her smile sharp—dangerous.
"Such fluid movement," she said lightly.
"And those dagger transitions..."
"With proper guidance, he would dominate aerial combat."
She tilted her head.
"Die."
"Huh," Caelan muttered.
"Déjà vu."
Veynar and Nerith smirked from the sidelines.
Trainer Keath took a slow step forward.
His warhammer rested on his shoulder.
"His hand-to-hand combat is refined," Keath said calmly.
"And that body—trained, balanced, conditioned."
His eyes locked onto Rynar.
"He would have excelled with heavy blades under me."
A pause.
"Die."
"...Ah, shit," Rynar said.
He turned and ran.
For the next twenty minutes, chaos ruled the training grounds.
Rynar sprinted, dodged, slid, and barely avoided lethal strikes as the three instructors chased him with murderous intent.
Eventually—
Thud.
Rynar collapsed to his knees, panting.
The instructors closed in.
Weapons raised.
"Wait—wait—WAIT," Rynar begged.
"Relax, all of you! Listen!"
They hesitated—barely.
"We can all train him," Rynar said quickly.
"I'm terrible with war hammers, so Keath—you're perfect."
Trainer Keath paused.
Then nodded.
"...True."
His hammer lowered.
"I will teach him," Keath said, looking at Caelan with approval.
"And Lyris," Rynar continued, turning.
"I'm useless in aerial combat. You help with that."
Lyris relaxed, her killing intent fading.
She glanced at Caelan.
Then looked away, faintly blushing.
Rynar swallowed and turned to Valen.
"And, uh... Valen—"
"Die," Valen said flatly.
"WAIT!" Rynar shouted.
"You teach him staff and spear—I'll handle the trident!"
Silence.
Valen stared.
Then, slowly, his sword slid back into its sheath.
"...Fine."
Rynar collapsed backwards.
"Fuuuh... safe."
Caelan stood there, stunned.
Veynar and Nerith nodded smugly.
Rynar pushed himself up, brushing dirt from his clothes.
"Alright, Caelan," he said, grinning.
"From now on, we'll be your co-masters."
Keath placed a firm hand on Caelan's shoulder—heavy, grounding, approving.
Lyris leaned in, lightly cupping his face for a moment, eyes bright.
"You did well."
Valen gave a single, sharp nod, resting a hand briefly against Caelan's chest—right over his heart.
"Do not disgrace our instruction."
Caelan froze.
"...Okay," he managed.
The four instructors turned as one toward the class.
Silence fell.
Every student understood.
This wasn't favouritism.
This was recognition.
"Ahm," Captain Valen said, clearing his throat as he forcefully changed the topic.
"Now that you've all chosen your weapons, you'll each be receiving a set of forms."
Instructor Lyris stepped forward, holding a neat stack.
"Fill them out and hand them to us. We've already completed several sections while assisting you during training."
"So there's very little left for you to do," Valen added.
"Starting tomorrow, each of you will receive a personalised timetable."
Lyris glanced toward the sky.
"It's nearly one in the afternoon—lunchtime."
A small wave of relief passed through the students.
"Fill out the forms, hand them in," she continued with a smile, "and then you're free to go."
Valen nodded.
"Oh, and you'll be in the same group as your first rituals class for cultivation lessons. Those begin after lunch."
The students wasted no time.
Forms were filled, signatures signed, and soon the grounds emptied as everyone returned to their rooms—to bathe, to eat, or simply to collapse.
Before leaving, the instructors turned back.
"Take care, Caelan," Keath said calmly.
"We'll see you tomorrow."
Caelan hesitated for half a second.
"...Hm. See you tomorrow... uh... Masters."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then—
"Hahaha!" Valen laughed loudly.
"That's my disciple."
The others smiled.
The instructors departed together, forms in hand, their voices fading into the distance.
Left behind were only Caelan, Veynar, and Nerith—standing quietly in the training grounds, the weight of the day finally settling in.