(Arin's Perspective)
The air inside the training arena felt sticky, heavy with the steam of sweat and the body heat of hundreds of students packed together. The smell was sour; a pungent cocktail of raging teenage pheromones, weapon lubricant, and the ozone scent of burnt mana. The high stone walls of the arena seemed to trap this heat, turning the training ground into a giant oven baking the resolve of anyone too weak to endure.
My feet refused to stay still, constantly shifting to find a patch of the damp stone floor that wasn't slippery. My worn-out boots squeaked softly, a small protest drowned out by the noise.
Clang! Clatter! Thud!
A cacophony of clashing metal and spirited shouts echoed, bouncing chaotically off the walls. In the midst of this frenzy, I stood swinging my sword, trying to maintain a rhythm among giants.
One... two... three...
I pushed this body beyond the limits of exhaustion. I repeated the basic longsword techniques over and over: vertical slash, horizontal sweep, thrust. My movements had to be sharp and efficient. Not a single millimeter of motion could be wasted because, for me, stamina was the most expensive currency I possessed. Thankfully, my arm injury had fully healed.
Around me, the other students looked like young gods of war. Their swords glowed dimly, wrapped in Aura of various colors as they smashed wooden training dummies into sawdust with a single strike. They laughed, showing off the magical strength that made heavy steel weapons feel as light as cotton. To them, a sword was just a sharp-shaped wand.
And me? I was fighting gravity.
The muscles in my arms screamed, feeling as if they were being forcibly torn from the bone. My hands began to tremble under the weight of the standard iron sword that felt heavier with every swing, as if gravity around me worked twice as hard as it did for everyone else. Cold sweat poured down, stinging my eyes, but I didn't dare wipe it away.
Without mana to reinforce my physique, I was the only human in this nest of monsters. A sheep trying to learn to headbutt among a pack of wolves.
"Soft! You are all soft!"
A thunderous shout sliced through the noise of the arena, instantly silencing the students' laughter.
A short but muscular man walked through the crowd. His steps were steady, creating subtle vibrations in the floor. The black instructor's uniform he wore looked tight, straining to contain muscles as hard as granite. It was Instructor Brook, a legendary Dwarven knight and the only teacher who refused to include wands in his curriculum.
"Kill your Aura!" he barked while kicking the leg of a student whose stance was shaky. The student face-planted comically. "Without that shroud of light, your stances look like toddlers learning to walk! A true Knight is forged by technique and calluses, not just by showing off mana!"
Brook was an anomaly. In a kingdom that worshipped magic as the solution to every problem, he was a purist of physical technique. He believed that mana could run dry, but muscle and technique would stay loyal until death. And for that reason, he was the only teacher I respected in this hell.
The heavy tread of his iron boots approached me. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced myself not to stop swinging the sword.
Brook stopped right in front of me. His sharp eyes beneath thick, whitening brows scrutinized every inch of me, searching for errors as small as dust motes.
"Your defensive stance is full of holes, boy," he criticized sharply, yet his tone was not demeaning. There was the firmness of a teacher in it. He tapped my wrist with a rattan cane. "Don't use the sword's weight as a crutch. Use your hips; make them the pivot of your rotation. And don't grip the hilt too hard or your wrist will snap at the first clash if it's too rigid."
"Yes, Instructor!" I shouted firmly, immediately correcting my hip position and loosening my grip.
"Good. At least one person here understands that a sword is an extension of the arm, not a magic wand." Brook grinned widely, revealing a row of strong teeth behind his short beard. "Improve it further. This semester, you might actually master the basics correctly. Don't let those who fly forget how to walk."
"Yes, Sir!"
That rare praise injected fresh adrenaline into my veins. The fatigue in my shoulders evaporated instantly, replaced by a small swell of pride. I refocused, absorbing every correction like a dry sponge soaking up water.
Time passed until the sun began to climb high, burning the tops of our heads. The students' breathing began to sound heavy as their mana drained, and that was when their messy, original techniques began to show.
Suddenly, Instructor Brook walked to the center of the arena and clapped his hands. The sound echoed like a small cannon blast, killing all activity.
"Attention!"
"YES, SIR!" In unison, hundreds of swords were lowered. Silence descended abruptly, leaving only the sound of ragged gasps.
Brook's eyes swept over us one by one, a gaze that shrank courage, before his finger pointed straight at the crowd, and then at me.
"We end this session with a sparring duel. Gordon, front. Arin, front."
My blood rushed. A chill crawled up my spine.
Gordon Kyle. A Class B noble and a follower of Elian Delphine. He belonged to the same faction as Gareth, whom I had beaten the other day. He was big and tall, a typical frontline fighter who relied on brute strength and thick armor. He was the antithesis of everything I studied: slow, strong, and arrogant.
Gordon stepped into the center of the arena with a sneer. He wore a full breastplate and a training helm that gleamed expensively, while his greatsword dragged lazily on the floor, creating a nerve-wracking scrake sound.
"Hey, Cripple," he whispered when we stood face to face, quiet enough to escape Brook's ears but clear enough to bait my anger. "I heard you played dirty against Gareth. Don't hope your tricks will work on me. Here, in front of everyone, I will crush you legally. Your bones will be a warning to other trash."
From the edge of the arena, provocative jeers began to rise, forming a choir of hatred.
"Get him, Gordon!"
"Break his legs! Make him crawl out!"
"Show the garbage bin where he belongs!"
I ignored the barking. Inhale. Exhale. My focus narrowed, blocking out the noise until only my own heartbeat remained.
"Duel rules are simple," Brook's voice broke the tension, firm and uncompromising. "Aura usage is limited to Basic Level. No elemental magic. Ready yourselves. One... two... three... START!"
Gordon did not attack immediately. He spun his sword arrogantly, showing off the faint yellow Aura that coated the iron blade. "Given up already, Stupid? Your knees are shaking. Do you need a walking stick?"
He was trying to bait an emotional reaction, hoping I would make a foolish mistake out of anger. Too bad his mental game was shallow. He didn't know that I fought against pain every single day.
Instead of adopting a safe, high defensive guard, I did something crazy. Something that violated every basic doctrine of swordsmanship.
I dropped the tip of my sword until it touched the floor. My shoulders relaxed, looking for all the world as if I had totally surrendered. My entire upper body—head, neck, heart—was wide open without any protection.
The Fool's Guard.
An invitation to death for the novice, but a deadly trap for the expert. It was a gamble of life. If my reflexes missed by a single second, my head would roll on the floor.
Gordon's face turned a deep red. Veins bulged in his neck. He felt insulted. For a noble who worshipped hollow honor, seeing an opponent lower their weapon was the ultimate mockery. I had spat on his pride without needing to produce saliva.
"Die!"
Provocation successful.
Gordon charged forward, forgetting his technique, forgetting his defense. He raised his greatsword high above his head, exposing his armpits and ribs wide open. He committed his entire body weight and Aura into a single lethal vertical slash.
He didn't want to defeat me. He wanted to split me in two.
I didn't move. My eyes didn't blink as I watched the sharp blade rushing down. I let it come. I let the shadow of the sword fall across my face, bringing with it the wind of death.
Right when gravity took over and the attack reached the Point of No Return: a moment where the momentum was too great to be pulled back.
I moved.
THUMP!
I inhaled and jerked my breath in a rapid, painful rhythm. My heart pumped a small amount of hot mana to my right arm, just a tiny bit, enough for a momentary burst that burned my blood vessels with a stinging sensation.
This was not a block. Catching a sword that heavy directly would only pulverize my collarbone and arm into powder.
I stepped diagonally to the right, slipping out of the death path by a hair's breadth. The wind of Gordon's slash swept my bangs.
Simultaneously, I snapped the base of my sword upward.
Not using the sharp edge, but the thick, blunt back of the blade.
CLAAANG!
Metal met metal with a ringing sound that deafened the ears, creating small sparks.
I struck the flat of Gordon's sword from below while his weapon was descending at full speed.
Simple physics. A massive vertical downward force, if disturbed even slightly from the side at the right angle, would cause the blade to deviate wildly.
Gordon's sword bounced violently to the right, dragging its owner's body with it as he lost balance from his own momentum. He stumbled, his defense completely open. Chest, stomach, and neck were exposed without a shield, like an oyster whose shell had been pried open.
The tip of my sword stopped exactly two centimeters from Gordon's neck, which was now gaping. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, swallowing a gulp of fear.
Silence.
The entire process took three seconds. The dust on the arena floor hadn't even had time to settle.
"Arin wins!" shouted Instructor Brook, his voice full of satisfaction.
The arena fell silent with a terrifying stillness. The gazes of hundreds of students were glued in disbelief, their mouths hanging slightly open. A Class C 'cripple' had just humiliated a Class B noble in one move; without magic, without explosions of light. Just pure physics and guts.
I pulled my sword back, checking my wrist. Slightly numb and red, but not painful. My cardiovascular breath control was becoming more precise. I could switch Aura on and off in milliseconds to minimize the strain on my body.
Meanwhile, Gordon fell to his knees. His face was beet red, a mix of burning shame and unbearable rage. His hand trembled as it reached for the sword hilt on the floor. His shattered pride blinded him. He was about to get up and attack my back as I turned away.
Thud!
An iron boot stomped hard onto Gordon's blade, pinning the weapon to the ground.
Instructor Brook stood there, staring down at Gordon with a cold, murderous gaze. "It is over, boy. Don't make yourself even more pathetic. Defeat in the arena is a lesson, but attacking a victor who has turned his back is a disgrace."
Gordon shrank, his courage dwarfed instantly in the face of the old Dwarf's intimidating aura. He let go of his sword hilt, bowing his head deeply.
Brook turned, looking at the entire class with pride, then pointed at me.
"Did you see that?!" his voice echoed. "This Static kid knew he lost in power. He knew his bones would snap if he blocked that attack. So he didn't block it! He manipulated gravity and his opponent's momentum! He used the enemy's strength to defeat the enemy. That is the essence of combat! The rest of you are just spoiled brats playing hit-and-run with glowing sticks!"
I sheathed my sword, regulating my slightly ragged breathing. A sense of pride bloomed in my chest, not because of the praise, but because I had proven my theory once again.
In the distance, on a VIP balcony sheltered by shadows and overlooking the arena, a pair of red eyes observed the event with a different intensity.
A blonde man stared down with a cold expression that was hard to read, then turned to leave, his luxurious cloak fluttering arrogantly.
"Boring," he muttered softly, leaving the arena with unspoken disappointment, as if my small victory was merely cheap entertainment unworthy of his attention.