As they made their way towards the Weaponry Training Grounds, passing through the moonlit courtyards, they saw two figures emerge from the shadows of a large oak tree.
"Well, well, if it isn't the dynamic duo," a familiar, fiery voice cut through the air.
It was Kaela, her vibrant red hair tied back in a practical braid, a smirk playing on her lips. Beside her stood Rei, his ever-present grin making him look like he was perpetually up to something.
"Kaela, Rei," Liam greeted cheerfully. "You guys heading to Valerius class too?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Rei said, adjusting the grip on his Greatsword, which he used with surprising agility. "Blade work and swords forms this week. Good warm-up for the next batch of Beast Curbs, eh?" He nudged Kaela.
Kaela nodded, her gaze momentarily sweeping over Arin. "You decided to grace us with your presence, Scholar Arin? Thought you'd fused with a scroll by now."
Arin bowed mockingly. "The stars called for me to stretch my ethereal limbs. And Liam here provided a more... grounded invitation."
"Good," Kaela said, her smirk widening. "You might learn a thing or two. Valerius doesn't hold back. He'll make you sweat mana."
"That's the idea, isn't it?" Arin countered, a hint of his 'criminal grin' playing on his lips. The camaraderie with these three, a rare commodity in his solitary academy life, felt genuinely refreshing.
The sun hadn't even crested over the eastern cliff yet, but Ark's Academy training-grounds were already alive with motion and swirls of mana. It wasn't a formal arena. It looked more like a wide-open valley carved into the back of the campus grounds, framed by ancient, rune-inscribed trees and an arcane barrier that shimmered faintly under sunlight. Students from both the first and second years filled the area, their silhouettes darting and clashing like warriors from a war opera. The air thrummed not just with physical exertion, but with the subtle, intricate mana currents generated by every spell, every infused weapon, every desperate dodge. Arin's newly refined mana senses, a direct benefit of his Arcane Frame, picked up on these currents with startling clarity. He could feel the precise mana expenditure of a swift lunge, the delicate flow required for an illusion, the heavy surge of a protective ward. It was like seeing the invisible architecture of combat.
Arin stood at the edge, sipping from a steaming cup of instant mana tea that tasted suspiciously like overcooked cabbage. "Huh," he muttered. "So this is where the prodigies play."
"Alright, listen up, you lot!" A booming voice cut through the din, instantly silencing the various clangs and shouts.
Professor Valerius emerged from the cluster of instructors, a figure of imposing presence. He wasn't overtly muscular, but his frame was compact, wiry, radiating an aura of disciplined power. In his hand, he held a simple, unadorned training blade, its edge dull, yet it felt sharp in his grip. Valerius, known for his pragmatic and brutal efficiency, moved with an almost ethereal grace, a stark contrast to his gruff reputation.
He began his demonstration. His movements were not flashy, but devastatingly precise. He didn't rely on elemental bursts or brute force. Instead, his blade moved like a whisper—a blur of steel that seemed to appear from nowhere and vanish just as quickly. He demonstrated a series of defensive parries against an invisible opponent, each block perfectly angled to deflect, each riposte following with inescapable logic. Then he transitioned into offensive strikes. His footwork was a dance of efficiency, every step perfectly placed to generate maximum power or evade a counter. There was no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourish. It was pure, distilled combat.
As Valerius moved, Arin felt the mana around the professor. It didn't explode outwards in bright colors like a mage's spell, nor did it ripple violently like a knight's aura. Instead, it moved with Valerius, forming a subtle, almost imperceptible sheath around his blade, enhancing its speed and cutting force, but never drawing attention to itself. It was the mana of true mastery, seamlessly integrated into physical prowess. Arin's Mind Vault devoured every detail, every pivot, every minute muscle flex, every subtle mana expenditure. Simulations of Valerius's movements ran in Arin's mind, perfecting the theoretical execution.
Then, Valerius stepped back, a faint mist rising from his brow. "That's the essence of it, class. Efficiency. Precision. Make every move count." He gestured to the various training dummies. "Now, pair up. I want to see you apply what you just saw."
As students dispersed, Arin continued to observe, his mind a whirlwind of analysis. He watched a second-year assassin flicker into sight, launching into a triple-strike shadow step with dual daggers. He cut clean through a wooden dummy before melting back into the shadows with a cheeky grin, earning an approving nod from Valerius.
Not far from him, a thief-class student zipped between pressure plates with unnaturally flexible movements. She twisted through narrow columns using silver-threaded gloves that magnetized momentarily to metal surfaces, essentially dancing on walls. Her fingers flicked, yanked, and pilfered colored orbs from moving targets, each motion followed by a soft chime.
To Arin's left, a broad-shouldered knight let out a guttural roar, swinging a massive two-and-a-half-meter Greatsword with enough force to split the dummy—and the ground beneath it. Dust clouds rose, mana rippled, and the poor trainee sparring with him took an involuntary flying lesson.
Further ahead, mages in tailored uniforms launched bolts of elemental force using intricately crafted staves. Fire arcs. Ice needles. One particularly peppy second-year even summoned a rotating disc of wind blades that circled her like a personal blender.
"Show off," someone muttered nearby.
Another cluster practiced summoning. Some used grimoires, others grasped darkwood staffs or glimmering daggers, chanting low as they pulled feline beasts from tear-like portals in space. One summoner, maybe too enthusiastic, summoned what looked like a flaming rooster the size of a cow—before promptly screaming and diving for cover.
Then came the weird ones.
A whip-user cracked sonic waves with precision, each lash splitting dummies apart at range. A girl with chakrams skated through defensive drills on glowing mana skates. A boy wielding a meteor hammer slung the weighted end into the air before yanking it back with enough force to dent an arcane shield.
"Damn," Arin whispered, eyes wide. "It's like a fantasy arms expo out here."
He stood rooted to the spot for several long seconds, absorbing every motion, every clash, every technique. His mana senses—sharpened ever since Arcane Frame activated—tingled with the sheer amount of elemental and kinetic energy in the air. He didn't just see the movements; he felt the subtle ebb and flow of mana within each student, the tiny fluctuations that betrayed their intent, their exhaustion, their unique combat rhythm. He couldn't keep up with everything visually, not in real-time. But mentally?
Ah, that was different.
The moment a sequence repeated twice, he stored it. When a student invoked a particular combo—say, a three-step wind affinity slash followed by an evasive burst—he locked it in. Mind Vault kicked in like a second brain. Every parry, stance, pivot, feint, dodge, spin—it wasn't just watched. It was catalogued, analyzed, and integrated. Muscle memory simulations ran in the back of his head like an operating system optimizing a new program, building a perfect, theoretical understanding of each technique.
But with all that said, the question remained: what should he use?
He wasn't just here to gawk. He needed to fight. To grow. And that meant choosing a weapon that made sense for his unique build, his skillset, and his extremely cheat-code brain. He thought back to Professor Valerius's efficiency. Subtlety. Precision. No wasted motion.
"Let's see…" he murmured.
"I'm not a flashy spellslinger," he thought, watching a mage girl conjure frost lances that arced like comet trails. "But range matters, especially solo. And Valerius showed how mana can be perfectly woven into a physical attack." After watching a dozen archer-types with different bows—from short recurves to mana-condensed stringbows—Arin found himself drawn to the sheer precision and silent lethality. The ones using elemental arrowheads or mana-charged volleys made it clear how versatile bows could be. A long-range decision? A strong and heavy Bow is good enough.
Sword was the obvious option. Everyone and their dragon's grandma used a sword. But therein lay the problem—too common. Too readable. Arin wanted reach, control, and versatility, something with the efficiency Valerius demonstrated. That's when his eyes locked on a student sparring with a heavy-bladed spear. Not a lance. Not a pike. A proper spear with a tapering tip and a weighted butt. The student twisted, swept low, flipped the weapon in his grip and knocked his opponent's legs out in a single fluid motion, a seamless dance of offense and defense. Elegant. Spear gave him zoning, counter options, momentum. With Arcane Frame boosting his balance and physical reflexes, the footwork could be mastered quickly, mimicking the fluid, almost unreadable movements he'd seen from Valerius. Mid-range combat? Spear.
Daggers? Brutal. Personal. Precise. The assassin-types moved like wind and shadows—stab, vanish, repeat. A few even infused them with elemental properties, creating an almost elemental boxing style. And with Arin's body naturally adapting to environments—and Mind Vault mapping out the muscle patterns—it made sense. Dual daggers were small enough to hide, fast enough to overwhelm, and deadly enough to end a fight before it started. Close-combat decision? Dual daggers.
The best part? He could master all three.
Because learning wasn't a matter of trial and error for him. It was input and output. Study the form, simulate the motion, etch it into muscle memory. Like learning to juggle with your nervous system on cheat mode.
Still holding his now-empty cup, Arin finally exhaled. "This might actually be fun."
A rock hit his foot.
He blinked, turning to see a first-year girl scowling at him. "You gonna train or just monologue dramatically while we do all the work?"
He bowed mockingly. "Forgive me, O Spirit of Harsh Scheduling. I was merely appreciating the artistry." He dodged the second rock with minimal effort, his body already anticipating the trajectory.
"You're weird," she muttered before jogging off toward a group of sparring mages.
Arin smiled and turned back to the battleground.
Today, he would observe. Tomorrow, he'd borrow a bow.
The next day, a spear.
And after that, two daggers.
Step by step, layer by layer, he'd become an arsenal no one saw coming.
Because while others mastered a class…
Arin would master the battlefield.
And the battlefield?
It didn't forgive. It didn't forget.
It favored those who adapted first and struck last.
And Arin? He was built for both.