The proctor's voice cut clean through the murmurs.
"You're here to prove your worth. Not to posture. Not to play."
His boots thudded against the raised platform as he walked to its center. Every step echoed through the square like a challenge.
"We are not here to hand out swords to children who think swinging a stick is enough. You will be tested for poise, instinct, technique, and control. We look for potential. Not performance."
A few examinees shifted nervously. One kid to my right already looked like he regretted waking up this morning.
"You will step forward in pairs. You will be observed. You will not be given second chances. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, sir!" followed, scattered but loud.
The proctor raised his hand, then pointed to a small scribe seated at the edge of the stage. The man unfurled a scroll and began to read names.
"First bout: Cale Rennar of Ashfall and Derry Vint of Southridge."
My stomach tightened.
Cale stepped forward with the kind of calm that made my hands sweat. He moved like he belonged there. Like this was his second home. Derry, on the other hand, looked like he might throw up. His grip on the hilt of his wooden blade was white-knuckled, and his feet shuffled too much.
They took their places. The proctor didn't offer encouragement.
"Begin."
Cale didn't rush. He waited.
Derry panicked.
He charged, swinging wildly, trying to compensate with aggression. Cale sidestepped. One clean motion, followed by a sharp strike across Derry's ribs. Not enough to break anything, but it forced Derry back, gasping.
Another second. Cale advanced. Derry tried again.
Two strikes this time. One to the side. One to the chest. The third would have floored him if the proctor hadn't stepped in.
"Enough."
The match ended.
Derry limped off the stage.
Cale didn't look smug. Just calm. Focused. Like he hadn't even tapped into half of what he was holding back.
The murmurs resumed.
"Told you he was sharp."
"That control—he didn't even draw blood."
"He held back on purpose."
"Bet he gets an offer straight from a banner lord."
I swallowed hard.
The scrollkeeper called another pair. Then another. I watched them all, studying footwork, reactions, mistakes. Some fought with their heads, some with their hearts. The worst of them fought with nothing at all.
When my name was finally called, I felt like the ground had vanished beneath me.
> "Joren Fallow of Ashfall and Tannis Merrel of Westridge."
Tannis was taller. Older. He walked like someone who had already failed this exam once before and didn't intend to again.
I stepped onto the platform.
My legs were lead.
My palms were drenched.
I looked to the crowd. Valerie stood near the back, arms crossed. Corin beside her. Maren was behind the stall again, watching with a stillness that made me more nervous than if she'd been pacing.
Then, just as I gripped the practice blade, something shimmered in the back of my mind.
**Ding.**
> \[Skilled Combatant Detected]
> \[Quest Initiated: "Hold Your Ground"]
> Objective: Survive and defend against the opponent without yielding.
> Reward: +1 to Endurance and +1 to Sword Proficiency (Basic Tier)
I blinked. My pulse kicked harder.
The sword system—again?
"Begin."
Tannis came at me like I expected. Aggressive. Confident.
My instincts screamed.
I pivoted, barely avoiding the first strike. My grip on the hilt tightened. I wasn't fast enough to counter properly, but I remembered Cale's footwork.
Step. Twist. Breathe.
I brought the blade up to parry the next swing, and to my shock, it worked. The wood cracked against mine, reverberating through my arm.
Tannis narrowed his eyes. He pressed forward.
It was a storm after that. A blur of wood on wood, feet shifting on splintered planks. I got hit. Twice. Once on the forearm, once near the ribs.
But I didn't fall.
And I didn't stop.
I swung again, sloppy but determined.
My strike hit him in the shoulder. Not clean, not graceful, but enough to make him back off.
I saw the proctor raise his hand.
"Enough."
I backed away, panting.
Tannis nodded, not unkindly.
**Ding.**
> \[Quest Complete: "Hold Your Ground"]
> Rewards Gained: +1 Endurance | +1 Basic Sword Proficiency
I left the platform unsure of what I had done right. Or wrong. But I hadn't been dismissed. That was enough.
As I rejoined the cluster of examinees, I caught Cale watching me again.
This time, he didn't just glare.
He looked... conflicted.
And maybe, just maybe, a little curious.
The proctor returned to the stage. The crowd silenced.
"Seven candidates have passed this year's examination."
Murmurs erupted.
"Seven?"
"Is that right?"
"It's usually six!"
The proctor raised a hand.
> "This year marks an unprecedented result. For the first time in recent memory, one examinee has claimed the top rank with unmatched technique and presence."
He unfurled a scroll.
"Top rank: Alric Vayne."
Gasps and stunned silence followed.
"Alric? From where?"
"I thought Cale had it in the bag!"
"Henry looked sharper in his bout, didn't he?"
"Second rank: Henry Durand of Fandel."
"Third: Cale Rennar of Ashfall."
"Fourth: Arielle Fen of Vellshire."
"Fifth: Maribelle Thorne of Dunholt."
"Sixth: Mirelle Duskwood of Briarfield."
The proctor paused.
"And the final pass, by narrowest margin and unexpected resilience: Joren Fallow of Ashfall."
I froze.
Did he just say—?
The crowd murmured again, now even louder.
"The farm boy?"
"He made it?"
I just stood there, stunned.
**Ding.**
> \[System Update: Status Menu Unlocked]
> Name: Joren Fallow
> Sword Proficiency: 2
> Endurance: 6
> Strength: 5
> Agility: 5
> Intelligence: 6
> Aura Affinity: N/A
It hovered briefly in my vision before fading.
I wasn't dreaming.
I passed.
---
The morning after felt quieter than it should have. Not the silence of sleep, but the hush of change settling in.
I stood at the foot of my bed, bag packed. Not much inside—just some dried food, a spare tunic, a new pair of boots that still didn't quite fit right, and the carved wooden practice blade Corin had gifted me the night before. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to take it, but it felt wrong to leave it behind.
Outside, the mist lifted from the grass, dew clinging to the thatch roofs like the village itself was blinking awake.
Downstairs, Maren folded a clean cloth over a bundle of wrapped food. Her hands moved with purpose, though her lips pressed into a thin line.
"You'll need to eat before noon," she said without turning around. "They won't stop the transport for someone who forgot their breakfast."
"I'll be fine," I replied quietly.
Corin entered a moment later, placing a hand on my shoulder—solid, grounding. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Valerie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and wearing a crooked grin.
"Don't trip climbing into the fancy wagon," she said. "Or, I don't know, challenge the driver to a duel."
"No promises," I said, lips twitching.
They walked me to the square.
A darkwood carriage stood near the fountain, polished and flanked by two massive horses with plated armor. A silver crest shimmered on the carriage door and on the collar of a man in a navy cloak standing beside it.
The Verdant Bastion had come to collect us.
The other six were already there.
Cale stood with arms crossed, his gear packed to near-military precision. Henry Durand from Fandel leaned against the fountain, speaking animatedly with Maribelle Thorne, whose travel boots were far more worn than mine. Arielle Fen sat calmly on a crate, sharpening her practice blade. Maribelle Thorne chatted with friends, her eyes still red from the night before.
And then there was Alric.
He stood alone, watching the carriage as if it might vanish. No crest on his dark coat. His expression unreadable. When his gaze passed over me, he nodded once—barely.
"All seven present?" the cloaked man asked, voice sharp.
"Aye," one of the village guards called.
The man unrolled a parchment and checked it.
"You've each been chosen based on your skill and conduct during the trials. Your journey to the Verdant Bastion begins now. There will be no stops until the capital border. You are to treat this transport as an extension of the academy—no roughhousing, no dueling, and no spellwork, if any of you know any."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Right," the man added. "Probably not."
Arielle muttered something under her breath. Maribelle giggled. Cale remained still.
We boarded the carriage. Tight fit. Padded cushions, faint smell of cedar and oil. Henry and Mirelle sat across from me. Arielle claimed the far corner. Alric stayed nearest the door.
The wheels began to roll.
Silence lasted about a minute before Henry cleared his throat.
"Guess we should get to know each other, huh? Strange being in a carriage with six strangers and no names."
"Cale Rennar," Cale said curtly. "Ashfall."
"Henry Durand. Fandel Village. My uncle's a Knight-Captain."
"Arielle Fen," said the girl coolly. "Vellshire."
"Maribelle Thorne, of Dunholt!" she said brightly. "I'm just thrilled to be here."
"Mirelle Duskwood," the girl beside her added. "Briarfield. Third time's the charm."
All eyes turned to Alric.
He paused.
"Alric. No village."
The silence returned for a heartbeat.
"Alright," Henry said slowly. "Mysterious. Got it."
Then they turned to me.
"Joren," I said, keeping my voice even. "Also Ashfall."
Cale glanced at me from the corner of his eye but said nothing.
"You and Cale are both from the same village?" Mirelle asked, surprised. "That's rare."
"First time ever, apparently."
"You were the seventh pick, right?" Arielle asked, not unkindly.
I nodded.
"Not bad," she said. "You held your ground."
The words sat heavier than expected.
I did. I held my ground.
And I would keep doing just that.
No matter what came next.
As the carriage rumbled along the worn mountain road, a quiet lull settled over the seven of us. The creak of wheels and the rhythmic clop of hooves filled the silence. I sat nearest the window, watching familiar trees blur into unfamiliar terrain.
Something about the quiet made the question claw its way out.
"Hey… can I ask something?"
The others looked up—some curious, some bored.
"Any of you ever heard of a swordsman in pale colors? Moves like smoke, doesn't speak much… cuts monsters down without so much as blinking?"
That got their attention.
Maribelle leaned forward, eyebrows raised.
"That sounds like every swordsman in a bard's tale. Got a name to go with it?"
I nodded slowly.
"Lucien Vale. Maren said his name after I saw him the morning before the outbreak."
Arielle perked up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"You're talking about the Pale Swordmaster. He's real?"
Henry nodded thoughtfully.
"He's real… sort of. There've been sightings, but no one ever confirms them. My uncle says Lucien fought in the border wars a decade ago. Disappeared afterward."
"Shows up before big disasters," Arielle added. "Monster outbreaks, wild aura storms. People say he's cursed—or cursed things follow him."
Maribelle snorted.
"Or maybe he's just got a flair for the dramatic. Pale cloak, brooding silence? Sounds like someone who knows how to make an entrance."
Mirelle gave a small shrug.
"My father used to say you could always tell the real killers. They're quiet. Quick. Don't waste movement."
Cale hadn't spoken, but I noticed the subtle twitch of his fingers, the flicker of something behind his eyes.
"I only saw him for a moment," I said, leaning back. "But I've never seen anything like it. One second the monsters were charging, the next they were just… gone."
For a while, no one responded. The mood had shifted, like we were all imagining him stepping out of the woods in front of us.
Lucien Vale.
Even the name sounded like a legend trying not to be found.
I looked back toward the road. The dirt path bent with the mountain, and ahead, in the distance, a faint silhouette loomed—spires rising above the treetops like a fortress half-swallowed by cloud.
The Verdant Bastion.
Whatever training lay ahead, whatever trials the academy held—
I wanted to get strong enough to walk in that man's shadow and not be swallowed whole.