Chapter 17

  Ren awoke to the familiar soreness of overexerted muscles. His arms ached, his shoulders felt stiff, and there was a dull exhaustion settled deep in his bones. Still, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he felt a quiet satisfaction.

  Last night had been productive.

  He turned his head toward the desk where his newly crafted blade rested. After multiple failures, he had finally succeeded in creating something practical—a short sword inscribed with Tier 2 Sharpness, Tier 1 Durability, Tier 1 Mana Conduction, and, as an unexpected bonus, an innate ability to superheat itself for a short period. It was flawed, yes, but it was his. Something forged by his own hands.

  Still… owning a weapon and knowing how to wield it were two very different things.

  Ren exhaled through his nose and pushed himself out of bed. He had spent weeks refining his magical knowledge, but his combat training was still nonexistent. The Summer Tournament was approaching fast, and while his new weapon was an advantage, it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t know how to use it.

  It was time to change that.

  The Academy had several combat training areas, but Ren made his way toward the private sparring grounds, where instructors worked one-on-one with students. Most of those seeking additional training were nobles, refining their already polished skills. He doubted many commoners came here—private tutoring wasn’t something they could afford.

  He was counting on one thing: training was still offered to anyone willing to put in the effort.

  The instructor overseeing the grounds was a middle-aged man with short silver-streaked hair and a broad, muscular build. Instructor Varian. Ren had seen him before in Combat Tactics class, but he had never spoken to him directly.

  Varian was currently watching a match between two nobles, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. As Ren approached, he hesitated slightly—interrupting wasn’t exactly a great first impression.

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to.

  “Something you need, kid?” Varian’s sharp brown eyes flickered toward him without turning his head.

  Ren straightened. “I want to train.”

  Varian finally looked at him fully, his gaze sweeping over Ren’s stance, his frame, and the sheathed short sword at his side.

  “You’ve got a weapon.”

  Ren nodded. “I made it myself.”

  Varian raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “And you want to learn how to use it?”

  “Yes.”

  A moment of silence. Then, Varian smirked.

  “Alright. Let’s see what you can do first.”

  Ren quickly realized just how outmatched he was.

  Varian didn’t even draw his own weapon. Instead, he casually dodged and redirected every one of Ren’s attempts, using nothing but slight shifts in stance and open-handed parries. The worst part? He wasn’t even trying.

  Ren gritted his teeth as he lunged again. His movements were awkward, his balance unsteady—everything he had read about in books felt completely different in practice.

  With a flick of his wrist, Varian knocked Ren’s blade aside, causing him to stumble.

  “Too tense,” Varian commented. “You’re forcing your movements instead of flowing with them. And stop overcommitting—if you miss, you’re leaving yourself wide open.”

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  Ren exhaled sharply, steadying his stance. He was used to struggling with mana reserves, but this was a different kind of limitation entirely. Magic required precision, control, and deep understanding. Close combat? It was instinct, reaction speed, and raw adaptability.

  He wasn’t good at that.

  Yet.

  Varian watched him for a moment before nodding. “You’re not hopeless, at least. You learn fast.”

  Ren blinked. “Wait, really?”

  The instructor smirked. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid. You’ve got no actual skill yet. But you’re adjusting. That’s more than I can say for some nobles who’ve been training for years.”

  Ren straightened. “So you’ll train me?”

  Varian rolled his shoulders. “I’m not running charity lessons, but if you show up here and put in the work, I’ll make sure you’re not embarrassing yourself by the time the tournament starts.”

  Relief flooded Ren’s chest. He nodded firmly. “I will.”

  Varian chuckled. “We’ll see.”

  The wooden training sword whistled through the air as Ren pivoted on his heel, bringing it down in a precise arc toward Instructor Varian. The older man easily sidestepped the blow, but instead of simply dodging, this time he reached out with his free hand and redirected the momentum, sending Ren stumbling forward.

  "Better," Varian remarked, watching as Ren quickly corrected his balance. "You're controlling your strikes now, not just swinging like a wild beast. But you still hesitate at the last moment. You're calculating too much."

  Ren straightened, adjusting his grip. He had spent weeks under Varian’s instruction, drilling basic strikes until his arms felt like lead, refining his stance until movement felt natural rather than forced. His improvements were undeniable—his reactions were sharper, his footwork more stable—but every time he felt like he was making progress, Varian found another flaw to fix.

  "Overthinking will get you killed," the instructor continued. "You read books, don’t you?"

  Ren nodded.

  "Thought so." Varian smirked. "Nothing wrong with studying, but fighting isn’t something you can just memorize. In a real fight, you won’t have time to go through every possible outcome in your head. You see an opening, you take it. Instinct. That's what separates the ones who survive from the ones who don’t."

  Ren exhaled, nodding. Instinct. That was the part he struggled with the most. Magic had rules—strict, structured principles that could be understood and mastered. Swordsmanship, though? It was fluid. Unpredictable. And while Ren had the technical understanding down, he was still learning how to feel the fight.

  But he was getting there.

  He rolled his shoulders, signaling that he was ready. Varian chuckled, shaking his head before raising his own training weapon.

  "Again."

  Ren lunged.

  The next few weeks blurred into a cycle of training, refining his weapon, and pushing himself past his limits. The bruises on his arms and legs became constant companions, his muscles ached even in his sleep, and more than once, he wondered if he was making any real progress. But every time he stepped onto the sparring ground, he could feel the difference.

  His movements became smoother, his counters sharper. He no longer fought purely on logic but on reflex—dodging, striking, adapting without stopping to analyze every little action. And Varian? The once-amused instructor now watched him with something resembling approval.

  "You're finally starting to fight like someone who knows what they're doing," Varian admitted one afternoon, after Ren had managed to last a full three minutes without getting disarmed. "If you keep this up, you might even survive that tournament."

  Ren, breathing hard, grinned despite himself.

  At night, he poured the same dedication into his weapon forging. His original blade had been good—but good wasn’t enough. Every failed attempt taught him something new, every mistake another lesson in mana conductivity, weight distribution, and durability.

  By the end of another two weeks, his newest creation was leagues ahead of his first attempt.

  Tier 3 Sharpness. More than enough to slice through reinforced armor.

  Tier 2 Durability. Capable of withstanding immense force without chipping.

  Tier 2 Mana Conduction. Letting magic flow through it seamlessly.

  Heat Surge Ability. An innate ability allowing the blade to superheat for three minutes or unleash all of its stored energy in a devastating explosion. Risky, but powerful.

  Ren turned the blade over in his hands, feeling the weight of it.

  It wasn’t perfect. It still had limits. But it was his.

  And for the first time since stepping foot into this academy, he felt like he had something that could bridge the gap between himself and the nobles who had been training since childhood.

  As he lay in bed that night, exhaustion pressing down on him like a heavy blanket, he stared at the ceiling and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

  He was getting stronger.

  He was ready.