The morning was cool and damp, carrying the scent of dew-soaked earth through the cracked window. I stood beside it, arms crossed, watching as the first light of day lazily stretched across the horizon. My tunic clung tightly to my chest, belt already buckled. I'd been ready for an hour.
What was taking her so long?
It wasn't like my mother to sleep in—especially not with market duties waiting. She was always the first one up, sharp as ever. As soon as I heard the thud of her footsteps descending the stairs, I straightened up like a soldier caught out of line.
She appeared, tightening her shawl around her shoulders. Her brows rose slightly when she saw me.
"Oh. You're awake."
I shrugged, trying not to sound too eager. "Couldn't sleep."
"Good. That saves time." She gestured toward the basement stairwell. "Come."
Down we went, into the cellar's chill. Dust swirled in the golden beams of sunlight peeking through the narrow windows. She crossed the room to an old wooden crate shrouded in a dusty cloth and flung it open with a single motion.
I stepped forward, and my breath caught.
Inside lay real swords. Steel swords—gleaming and sharp, nestled perfectly in lined compartments. Each one looked like it had its own story.
"Whoa," I whispered. My hand hovered over the nearest hilt. "These are real…"
Just as my fingers brushed the pommel—WHACK.
I yelped, jerking my hand back and rubbing the spot she'd smacked. "Hey!"
"Wrong box," she snapped. "Don't touch anything in here."
"Okay, okay!" I muttered.
She moved to a second crate, this one heavier and rougher. It opened with a groan, revealing rows of wooden practice swords. Most were plain, worn down by age, the dark wood faded and chipped. But one stood out—a blade carved from dark oak, the hilt etched with flowing patterns. It practically called to me.
"This one…" I whispered, reaching for it.
Her hand snatched mine back before I could touch it. "No."
"But why?"
"Because you haven't earned it."
And just like that, I was handed the most boring sword in the box. No carvings. No symbols. Just dull wood and a few splinters.
"You could've at least picked one with some personality," I muttered.
"You're not here to impress anyone," she replied coolly. "You're here to survive."
And that was the end of that.
She led me out into the backyard—a worn patch of dirt and grass boxed in by stone walls. It had once been my father's training ground. I could almost hear echoes of him here. Now, it was mine.
"First, stance," she ordered.
She moved slowly, deliberately. Feet apart, knees bent, sword lowered at the side—relaxed but ready. I tried to copy her, but I kept sliding, my balance off. Everything about my body felt wrong.
"No," she said flatly. "Your weight's too far back. Again."
I adjusted. She corrected. Again. My shoulders burned. My thighs screamed.
"Better," she said at last. "Now hold it."
So I did.
One minute passed.
Two.
My arms trembled. My back felt like it was splintering.
Then—smack—a whack across the back of my legs.
"OW!"
"Your back knee straightened," she said, as if explaining why the sky was blue. "Hold it again."
And so it went. Brutal repetition. Barked corrections. Sudden whacks whenever I messed up. My pride took more hits than my body did.
Eventually, when she'd finally decided I was upright enough to not fall over, she stepped back and raised her wooden sword.
"Our family style is called The Ardent Gale," she announced.
I blinked at her. "Gale? As in… wind?"
"Yes," she said. "But it's not just about speed."
Then she moved—and my jaw nearly hit the dirt.
She was fast. Not just fast—fluid. Her blade swept through the air in arcs, her feet dancing across the ground like it was instinct. Every slash, every motion was part of a rhythm I couldn't hear but felt in my bones.
"It's about pressure," she said between movements. "Precision. Striking from angles they don't expect. Flow like wind, strike like a storm."
I stood there, wide-eyed.
"You're not strong enough to overpower anyone. Not yet," she added. "So you'll rely on speed. Strength will come. Intuition follows. But first—master the flow."
I tried to mimic her. I really did. But the moment I got a grip on the motion—whap! A sting to my ribs. Then my wrist. Then my ankle.
She circled me like a predator correcting a cub. Every mistake earned a sharp reminder.
But slowly… the pattern started to make sense.
That was when I heard it—THUD.
Something heavy landed on the dirt behind me.
I turned around—and just stared.
Two thick bracelets. Two heavier anklets. Polished metal, glowing faintly with embedded Arcana stones.
"What… is that?" I asked, already dreading the answer.
She smirked. "Your new friends. Each weighs four to five times your body weight."
"You're kidding."
She was very much not kidding.
"Put them on."
"I can't even lift one!"
"Then figure it out."
My jaw dropped. "Am I supposed to live in these? How is a human supposed to wear these?! I'm going to die!"
I kept complaining—loudly—until something in her changed. A slow, creeping pressure filled the yard. Her eyes narrowed, her posture shifted, and suddenly, I felt like prey.
I froze. "…Fine."
Straining, I forced the anklets onto my legs, then the bracelets onto my arms. Instantly, everything slumped. My shoulders dropped. My knees buckled. I stumbled forward like a dying donkey.
"From today until your exam," she said, turning away, "you wear them. Always. Morning runs. Sword practice. Sleeping. No exceptions."
"Even when I sleep?!"
"Yes."
Tears prickled behind my eyes. "This is abuse…"
"You'll thank me when you don't die in your first fight."
With that, she vanished through the garden gate, off to the market like nothing had happened.
And I stood there, a walking boulder, too exhausted to even curse.
By the time I limped back into the house, I wasn't even sure my legs were still attached. My ankles throbbed with every step. My wrists screamed in protest. I collapsed against the stair rail and muttered to myself:
"…This is illegal. I'm sure this is illegal."
But I still got up.
Somehow.
I staggered out into the street, legs dragging like they were made of stone. I ran—or at least, I attempted to. It was more of a dying shuffle. People stared. A few merchants chuckled as I passed, probably betting how long I'd last before face-planting into the gutter.
If it weren't for the Arcana Core pulsing faintly inside me, lending me just enough strength, I was sure I would've passed out before even leaving the yard.
"I'd be dead by now… if not for this thing inside me," I muttered under my breath.
The days that followed blurred into each other.
Wake up before the sun. Run until my lungs burned. Sword drills until my arms went numb. Stance drills until my legs locked. Laps with weights. Meditation at night. Collapse. Repeat.
I adapted.
Not all at once. Not easily.
But slowly.
My muscles stopped screaming and started enduring. I didn't fall as often. I lasted longer before collapsing into the grass like a discarded rug. I even started predicting her strikes before they landed. Sometimes, I blocked them. Sometimes.
Then, after a week of torment, she placed a new wooden sword in front of me. This one curved slightly, sleeker, lighter.
"Time for real sparring," she said.
I blinked. "Wait, I still have these weights on. And you don't. That's cheating."
She looked at me like I was a toddler asking for dessert before dinner. "That's life. Your enemies won't make it fair."
"But—"
THWACK.
That was the start of our first sparring match.
I ate dirt.
Hard.
The second match? Same thing.
The third? I actually managed to parry one of her strikes before she flipped me.
Progress.
I was bruised, sore, soaked in sweat, and probably missing a few brain cells from all the head-smacks—but for the first time, I was grinning.
Every aching step I took felt like I was shedding the skin of the weak, outcast boy who'd been shoved and laughed at in alleyways. That boy was gone. Or going. And what remained—what I was becoming—felt like someone new.
The days kept rolling by, like sand slipping through clenched fists. Morning bled into evening. Pain blurred into habit.
Two weeks in, and my reflection started to surprise me.
There was a sharpness in my eyes now. A focus. My movements, once hesitant and clumsy, now had intent. The wooden blade no longer felt awkward in my hand. It felt right.
Mom didn't say much. She never did. But I caught her watching—really watching—when she thought I wasn't looking. Not with softness, but with this quiet, guarded… pride.
She saw it too.
I'd stopped reacting. I'd started acting. Attacking with purpose. Moving not just to survive, but to win.
The Arcana Core still hummed deep in my we. Not roaring. Not volatile. Just… present. Watchful. Waiting. It responded to my growth, lipke it recognized the training as something meaningful. It hadn't spoken to me or flared up, but I could feel it learning me as I was learning myself.
Mom never let up. Ever.
The sessions grew harsher. Faster. Our wooden swords clashed so violently that sometimes sparks flew from the embedded arcane stones in my weights. Rain or shine, she drove me to the edge.
No mercy.
No breaks.
Only forward.
One evening, as I struggled to stay on my feet in the fading light, she barked her usual order for another round. I raised my sword, legs trembling, when she suddenly lowered hers.
"That's enough."
I blinked, almost not registering the words. "What?"
"That's enough for today. You'll need your strength for tomorrow."
Tomorrow…
My breath caught. I'd lost track of the days, but her words made it hit like a punch to the ribs.
The entrance exam.
It was here.
I didn't argue. I just nodded, every breath coming like a sigh through grit. My shirt was soaked. My hands blistered. My knees shook beneath the weighted cuffs.
But I was ready.
Or… as close to ready as I'd ever be.
I turned and walked back inside, the training yard quiet behind me. For the first time, my back didn't hunch from exhaustion. My steps didn't drag. I carried the weight like it belonged there.
Mom watched in silence.
She didn't speak, but I could feel it—her approval. Not loud or obvious, but present. Real. I wasn't just her son anymore. I was her student. Maybe even her heir.