— Flashback —
The courtyard was quiet that morning, washed in pale sunlight and the faint scent of stone warmed by dawn. Training dummies stood in neat rows at the center, their surfaces scarred from countless strikes—silent witnesses to years of effort and failure.
Kael stood barefoot on the stone tiles, a wooden sword held loosely in his hand. His posture was straight, attentive, but there was a faint stiffness in his shoulders, as if he were bracing for something unseen.
Robert stood opposite him.
Unlike Kael, Robert carried himself with relaxed confidence. He rolled his shoulders once, adjusting his grip on his own wooden sword, emerald eyes soft but focused.
"Today," Robert said gently, "I'll teach you how to control mana during a fight."
They stood facing each other at the center of the courtyard.
Kael blinked, tilting his head slightly.
"Didn't I just need sword art?"
His tone was low, genuinely curious rather than resistant.
Robert smiled, amused—not at Kael's ignorance, but at his sincerity.
"Yes," he replied, "but most people combine swordsmanship with mana to achieve greater impact."
He turned and faced a training dummy. With a simple motion, Robert swung his wooden sword.
Thud.
The dummy split cleanly into two halves.
"This," Robert said, lowering his sword, "is what happens when I don't combine it with mana."
Kael watched intently, eyes following every movement.
Robert inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment. The air around him seemed to settle as he focused inward, gathering mana—not forcefully, but patiently—letting it flow toward his arm and into the wooden blade.
Then he swung again.
The impact echoed sharply.
This time, five dummies shattered at once, wood exploding outward instead of merely splitting. Fragments scattered across the courtyard floor.
"There," Robert said, exhaling. "I wasn't very good with a sword to begin with." He glanced back at Kael with a small smile. "But you used to break about twenty dummies at once in the past."
He stepped closer and raised his hand toward Kael, palm open in invitation.
"Now try. Take a deep breath. Imagine a flow moving through your entire body."
Kael nodded. He closed his eyes.
"Guide that flow to your arms," Robert continued, voice calm and reassuring. "Then into your sword."
The courtyard seemed to fall silent.
Kael focused, listening inward. He felt it—something subtle at first, then clearer—a current moving beneath his skin. As he guided it toward his arm, a sudden sharp pain stabbed through his hand.
Robert flinched.
In an instant, he was at Kael's side, gripping his arm carefully.
"It seems you pushed all your mana at once," he said, concern creasing his brow. "Relax. Don't use too much. You don't have enough mana reserves to overexert yourself in the first place. Try not to force it."
Kael's gaze drifted back to his wooden sword. Slowly, the pain eased.
Robert watched closely, relief washing over his expression as he felt Kael's tension lessen.
"…Good," he murmured. "Now, try again."
He stepped back, giving Kael space.
Kael nodded once more. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself. This time, he didn't rush. The flow returned—gentler, obedient. He guided it carefully, letting it settle into the sword instead of flooding it.
Then he opened his eyes and swung.
Seven dummies were completely destroyed, reduced to splintered remains scattered across the courtyard.
Robert clapped his hands, genuinely delighted.
"That's it! You did great!"
He smiled brightly, pride clear in his expression.
"Practice this daily. But be careful—if you use it incorrectly, your muscles will suffer. I used to hurt myself often when I was a child."
He gestured for Kael to repeat the exercise again.
And again.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Until one day, Kael finally mastered it.
His swings became clean, precise. The dummies split exactly where he intended, mana flowing in perfect balance—neither excessive nor lacking.
Robert clapped once more, stepping to Kael's side. Without a word, he reached behind him and produced a wooden spear.
Kael blinked at the sight of it, momentarily reminded of Reinhardt—the way he used to stand, weapon in hand, watching silently.
"My swordsmanship isn't that impressive," Robert said honestly. "But I take pride in how I use a spear."
He turned, leveling the spear toward Kael—not threatening, but purposeful.
"Now," Robert said, eyes sharp with focus, "try to control it while fighting me."
The courtyard held its breath.
-----------------------------------------
Pain still burned along Kael's back, dull and persistent, but it no longer ruled him.
He could feel everything clearly.
The weight of the sword in his hand.
The rhythm of his breath.
The flow moving through his body—steady, obedient.
Robert's voice echoed in his memory.
Imagine a flow moving through your entire body… Guide it. Don't force it.
As John released another volley of black lances, Kael stepped forward.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Precise.
He guided his mana into his sword exactly as he had been taught—no excess, no desperation. The moment the first lance reached him, Kael moved.
Clang.
Steel met steel.
The cursed lance shattered mid-air.
Another followed. Then another.
Kael's body responded before thought could interfere. Each swing was clean, deliberate, his blade tracing controlled arcs through the air. The poison screamed as it met resistance, but it could not cling to him.
To Kael, every second stretched into minutes.
The battlefield slowed.
He could see the distortion in the air before each lance formed. He could feel the instability in John's mana, the cracks spreading beneath its surface. Kael adjusted instinctively, redirecting, deflecting, destroying.
John froze.
His eyes widened as realization dawned.
"…You—" His teeth ground together. "You're adapting."
Rage twisted his expression. He poured more power into the spell, forcing the black mana to thicken, to sharpen, to multiply.
But it didn't matter.
Each attack was met—and broken.
Elric stared in disbelief.
Kael stood in front of her, calm and unyielding, reflecting every cursed lance as if he had done this a thousand times before. There was no recklessness in his movements now—only discipline.
"DIE!" John screamed.
"DIE! DIE! DIE!"
He unleashed everything.
The ground cracked beneath his feet. Lances erupted wildly, uneven and unstable, their formation collapsing even as they formed. Kael moved through them, blade flashing, advancing one step at a time.
John staggered.
Blood poured from his nose, dripping onto the shattered earth. It seeped from the corners of his ears, staining his collar red. His breathing grew ragged.
Kael took another step forward.
Then another.
John's knees buckled.
He coughed violently, dark blood splattering onto the ground. His body shook uncontrollably, mana tearing at him from the inside.
Just as Varyn had warned.
The limit had been reached.
Kael stopped.
The lances no longer formed.
He stared at John—collapsed, trembling, broken. Slowly, Kael lowered his sword.
"Stop this," Kael said. His voice was quiet, but it carried. "You still have time."
He took a careful step closer.
"If you keep going," he continued, pain flickering briefly across his face, "you'll destroy your body completely. Please… stop."
There was no hatred in his eyes. Only exhaustion—and something close to sorrow.
John lifted his head.
Blood continued to drip from his nose, staining his chin. His eyes burned as they locked onto Kael standing before him.
"No…" John whispered, trembling. "You don't understand…!"
He raised his hand again, forcing his mana to respond.
Nothing came.
Only blood spilled from his mouth as his body convulsed. He collapsed forward, coughing violently, his frame crumpling under its own weight.
Kael startled.
"Wait—!"
He rushed forward, reaching out instinctively to steady him.
The moment his hand touched John—
Something pulled him.
Hard.
Kael's vision shattered, the battlefield dissolving into fragments of glass and light. A crushing pressure wrapped around his consciousness, dragging him downward as unfamiliar images surged forward.
Memories.
John's memories.
And Kael was being pulled straight into them.