Leon and Caelir walked across the academy grounds, their footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone paths.
Overhead, the midday sun cast long shadows, and the faint scent of freshly cut grass lingered in the crisp breeze.
Their next class was Fundamentals of Swordsmanship—a subject they had eagerly anticipated, though a tinge of nervousness buzzed beneath their excitement.
When they arrived at the sprawling training grounds, something immediately struck them as odd.
There was no instructor.
No knight Shouting orders. No robed mentor lecturing about form and honor.
Instead, standing alone at the center of the field was a tall, broad-shouldered senior student.
His arms were crossed, posture relaxed yet somehow commanding, and his calm gaze swept over the gathering first-years with a quiet authority.
As the students shuffled closer, exchanging puzzled looks, the senior finally stepped forward, boots crunching against the gravel.
"My name is Garrick Hesse," he said simply, his voice deep and unwavering.
"I'm a sixth-year student. Your instructor, Sir Beric, is currently occupied with training the senior batches.
For now, I'll be handling your lessons. Occasionally, others may fill in as well."
Leon blinked in surprise, a flicker of doubt flashing through him.
He glanced at Caelir, who merely shrugged— Let's see where this goes.
Garrick didn't wear any ornate robes or brandish any gleaming, ceremonial sword.
Just a plain, sturdy training uniform, dusted faintly with chalk, and a long, jagged scar running down his left forearm—a living testament to battles fought and lessons learned the hard way.
He didn't need fancy armor to prove his worth. His very presence—steady, unshakable—was proof enough.
"Now, listen carefully," Garrick continued, his tone patient but strict.
"Today, you are here to learn swordsmanship. However..." He let the word linger, hanging heavy in the air.
"Swordsmanship isn't something you just pick up because it sounds heroic. To wield a blade properly... you must first prove yourself worthy. That means you'll be taking a test today."
His sharp, assessing eyes swept the crowd.
A student near the middle tentatively raised a hand. "Um... Senior Garrick, what happens if we... fail?"
Garrick offered a small, amused smile that somehow wasn't cruel, but not entirely comforting either.
"Simple. You'll be reassigned to a different subject. Or, if you prefer, you can choose another specialization. Swordsmanship isn't for everyone."
From his pocket, he produced a folded sheet of paper, neatly creased and worn with use.
"Before we start, let me show you your daily training schedule. Fair warning—it might be a little... demanding."
He unfolded the paper and raised it high for all to see.
As students squinted at the neatly written list, a wave of gasps and whispers rippled through the crowd.
"10-kilometer morning run... 100 push-ups... 100 pull-ups... daily sparring sessions?!"
"This is insane!"
"There's no way we can keep up!"
Beads of sweat broke out on foreheads before a single sword was even drawn.
The sheer brutality of the schedule seemed to suck the spirit out of many of them, leaving only doubt and second thoughts.
Garrick chuckled lowly at their reactions, not unkindly.
"If you think it's too much, you're free to switch subjects. No shame in it.
Swordsmanship demands more than ambition. It demands discipline. Pain. Willpower."
His words, delivered gently, were like daggers to some.
Temptation gnawed at their resolve. Dreams of wielding a flashing blade, of standing proud on the battlefield... they evaporated like mist under the harsh light of reality.
In the end, several students turned away—quietly, sheepishly—choosing comfort over challenge.
By the time the dust settled, only about a quarter of the original group remained.
Leon and Caelir were among them, standing side by side.
Even so, the remaining students still numbered enough to fill a large classroom.
"Alright," Garrick said with a nod of approval. His smile, though brief, was genuine.
"Let's begin the test. First up—two laps around the training field. Follow me."
Without another word, he turned on his heel and began jogging, his pace measured and effortless.
The students scrambled after him, their feet slapping unevenly against the ground.
Leon ran with everything he had. His lungs burned, his legs protested with every step, and sweat slicked his brow.
Beside him, Caelir kept an easy, almost serene rhythm, barely winded.
Half-wheezing, Leon managed, "How are you... so calm?"
Caelir gave a sheepish grin. "My father made me run and exercise since I could walk. Kind of forced training, I guess."
Leon could only groan internally. Of course he had a head start...
Around them, other students struggled. A few already lagged behind, gasping for air. The gap between the prepared and the unprepared grew wider with every lap.
After two brutal circuits, they staggered to a stop.
Two students had collapsed along the way and had to be carried off.
Garrick counted the survivors with a critical eye, then gave a small nod.
"Good," he said, voice carrying across the field. "Since I'm in a generous mood today, there will only be one more test."
He led them into an adjoining indoor training hall, where the scent of leather, iron, and sweat filled the air.
Heavy racks of dumbbells, weights, and lifting equipment lined the walls.
Garrick gestured casually toward a rack of heavy dumbbells.
"See those 30-kilogram dumbbells? Each of you will complete two sets of lifts. If you can manage that, you pass."
The students stared, wide-eyed.
But none dared to whine or object.
Garrick divided them into groups of ten, instructing one set to act as spotters while the others lifted.
Turning to the spotters, he added with a smirk, "You lucky ones only need to do five lifts after everyone else finishes."
Hearing this, Leon couldn't help but smile.
Got lucky, he thought, feeling a little lighter.
Soon, the first group of lifters lined up.
Grimacing, gritting their teeth, they tackled the dumbbells.
Some struggled, faces red and muscles quivering, but almost all managed to complete the sets—thanks, Leon realized, to something critical.
Mana.
He remembered the lessons he read that morning:
Mana inside the body doesn't just allow spellcasting—it enhances physical strength, reflexes, and endurance.
It was why the academy only accepted students with a minimum threshold of mana.
That invisible, vital energy made all of this possible. Without it, no ordinary child could dream of surviving this harsh regimen.
Soon, the second batch stepped up, a mixture of excitement and nerves palpable among them.
Caelir was among them—smiling confidently but keeping his focus sharp.
But another student drew everyone's attention.
He was tall—easily a head above the others—with broad shoulders and arms packed with visible muscle.
His face was serious to the point of grimness, a deep scowl etched permanently into his features.
Leon stared, half in awe.
The guy looked less like a first-year and more like a seasoned knight.
His forearms alone told the story: thick, knotted with muscle, marked by faint scars.
It was obvious—this student would pass without breaking a sweat.
Even Garrick, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow, clearly taking mental note.
Motivated by the energy around him, Garrick casually grabbed a nearby barbell and began curling it with slow, practiced movements, muscles flexing easily.
As Caelir moved toward the dumbbells, Leon caught his eye.
"Good luck, Caelir," he said, offering a genuine smile.
Caelir returned it with a bright grin and gave a thumbs-up before stepping up to his station.
The second batch of students, now standing in front of the heavy dumbbells, steeled themselves.