I continued, chopping trees for three days straight. Every day, my cuts grew cleaner—to the point where you couldn’t even tell where the impact had started. My muscles burned with exhaustion, but each swing felt sharper, more controlled. My body moved on instinct now, the weight of the axe familiar in my grip.

  "I haven't slept for three days straight… Are we still not done?" I ask her, my voice rough from the cold air and fatigue.

  Seria glances around the clearing, her sharp silver eyes tracing the rows of fallen trees. "You've almost cleared the north side," she says, then turns her gaze back to me. For once, there’s no teasing in her voice. Just something… thoughtful. "And your aura—" She tilts her head. "It’s clearer now. More defined."

  I pause, resting the axe against my shoulder. "Aura again? You keep bringing that up."

  "You’re starting to show your nature." She walks closer, her boots barely leaving prints on the snow. "Most people never awaken an aura. But you…" Her eyes narrow slightly. "Yours has been there all along—muted, but heavy."

  "Heavy?" I frown.

  She stops a few feet away. "Your aura carries weight. Like an executioner’s blade. There’s no hesitation, no flare—just cold, unyielding intent. That’s Himagsikabo."

  I blink. The words hang in the air, and somehow… it fits. That quiet pressure that’s always been there—driving me forward, even when everything else told me to stop.

  "There’s a story about that aura," Seria continues, her voice softer now. "Long ago, there was a knight—no name, no title. No one remembered where he came from. He didn’t burn with righteous fury or shine with glory. He simply was. Cold. Unstoppable. He didn’t speak of justice—he just cut down what needed to be ended. That’s what you remind me of."

  I grip the axe tighter. Silent. Steady. Deadly. Yeah—that sounds about right.

  "But," she adds, her smirk returning, "Himagsikabo isn’t the only aura out there. There are others—rarer, wilder. If you ever cross paths with them, you’ll know."

  I raise an eyebrow. "Like what?"

  Her smile fades as she looks toward the distant horizon. "Take Sinagtala, for example."

  "Sinagtala?"

  "A quiet aura," she explains. "Like moonlight—gentle on the surface, but impossible to escape. The wielder of that aura isn’t loud or flashy. But they strike with perfect clarity—never wasting a movement. It’s said the Moonlit Guardian who wielded it once fought an entire battalion without a single wasted strike. It wasn’t their strength people feared—it was their precision."

  I exhale slowly. Precision, huh? I glance at the smooth, near-flawless cut on the latest tree I felled. That… might not be so far off.

  "And then there’s Alabningas," Seria continues, her tone growing sharper. "A burning aura—pure, unyielding energy. It doesn’t cut quietly like yours. It blazes. Breaks. Burns through everything in its way. The Sunbreaker, the warrior who held that aura, was said to walk through battlefields like a storm—unstoppable because his power never wavered."

  I picture it—a blinding, golden blaze, cutting through the darkness. It sounds nothing like me, but the thought of someone wielding that kind of relentless force makes my grip on the axe tighten.

  "Of course," she adds, "not every aura is about control or destruction. Some… are just chaos."

  "Chaos?"

  She nods. "The Sulóngunos. It doesn’t stick to one form. It shifts—fire, lightning, water—pure elemental fury. The one who wielded it was called the Storm Herald. They didn’t fight nature—they became it. Anyone who faced them never knew what would strike next. Imagine your enemy being burned, frozen, and torn apart—all in the blink of an eye."

  I whistle low under my breath. "Sounds… excessive."

  "Excessive is how you win," she says, shrugging.

  "And the last one?" I ask, sensing there’s more.

  Her expression turns distant—almost cautious. "The rarest. Himpilan."

  "Himpilan?"

  "A quiet aura," she says, her voice lowering. "But not like Sinagtala. This one… is eerie. Silent. Like the calm before something catastrophic. It doesn’t radiate power—it hides it. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike. There’s a legend that the Shadow Sovereign, the last person to wield Himpilan, could walk through an army without anyone realizing he was there—until it was too late."

  A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.

  "And you think… what? That I could manifest one of those?"

  Seria snorts. "Please. You can barely chop wood without collapsing." Her smirk returns, but there’s a flicker of something serious beneath it. "But you already carry Himagsikabo. If you survive long enough… who knows?"

  I roll my shoulders, feeling that familiar, heavy calm pressing against the edges of my senses. Maybe she’s right—this weight, this quiet drive—it’s always been there. And now… it’s stronger.

  "Enough talk," she says, turning back toward the temple. "You’ve cleared the north side. Rest up. You’ll need your strength for what’s next."

  I watch her retreating figure before looking down at the axe in my hand. The clean cuts. The heavy, muted calm in my chest.

  Himagsikabo.

  It fits.

  And maybe… just maybe, I’m only getting started.

  ...

  I was able to rest for a day, and I took the opportunity to explore the nearby village. (Which meant climbing down the mountain and back—because nothing can ever be easy.)

  The village was… well, a village. As ordinary as it could get. Thatched roofs, dirt roads, and the faint smell of livestock hanging in the air. A few vendors called out as I passed, peddling simple goods—fresh produce, rough fabrics, and basic tools. Nothing caught my attention. No mysterious artifacts, no strange figures lurking in the shadows. Just a quiet, peaceful place. A reminder that not everyone was caught up in demons, training, and whatever mess I’d stumbled into.

  Still, the walk was a good break. My muscles ached, but the tension that had knotted itself into my shoulders after three days of chopping trees had finally started to fade.

  By the time I made it back to the temple, the sun was beginning to set behind the jagged peaks. Seria was already waiting, perched on her usual spot—the boulder. The one covered in a web of deep, precise cuts.

  When she saw me approach, she held out her hand. "Give me the axe."

  I raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, handing it back without question. For a moment, she examined the blade, running her fingers along its edge before opening a small portal and slipping the axe inside.

  Without missing a beat, she pulled out something else—a wooden sword. Plain, sturdy, and a lot less impressive than the axe I’d grown used to.

  "A wooden sword?" I asked, twirling it experimentally. The balance was decent, but the weight was far from the solid heft I’d grown used to. "What happened to ‘breaking everything down’ with raw strength?"

  "You’ve got enough brute force to flatten a bear," she said dryly. "What you don’t have is control. And this"—she tapped the wooden blade lightly—"will teach you just that."

  I sighed, resting the sword against my shoulder. "Alright, what’s the drill?"

  She pointed toward the boulder. The same one she always meditated on. The one with too many thin, clean cuts.

  "You’re going to do what I did," she said, her voice calm but firm. "Cut that boulder—again and again—until your strikes are clean enough to slice through stone without splintering the blade."

  I blinked at her, glancing between the wooden sword and the massive, scarred rock. "With this?"

  "With that," she confirmed. "If you can cut stone with a wooden sword, you’ll be able to cut anything with a real blade. Until then—" She shrugged. "You’re just a lumberjack with good aim."

  I sighed again, louder this time for dramatic effect. "Great. More hitting things."

  She smirked. "Unless you’d rather go back to the forest. I hear there are still a few trees left standing."

  Without another word, I walked toward the boulder. My fingers tightened around the hilt of the wooden sword as I took my stance. The weight was lighter, but if I’d learned anything over the past few days, it was that power without precision meant nothing.

  I raised the blade.

  And I swung.

  The first strike barely scratched the surface.

  Seria’s voice drifted over my shoulder. "Again."

  So, I did.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  As the sun slipped behind the mountains, I kept going—each swing carving a little deeper, each strike sharpening my focus. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, but one thing was clear.

  I wasn’t leaving this boulder until I had cut it clean.

  I kept swinging.

  The sound of wood striking stone echoed through the clearing—sharp, repetitive, relentless. Each strike sent a dull vibration crawling up my arm, but I barely noticed. My focus narrowed to the blade in my hand and the boulder in front of me. Nothing else mattered.

  Swing.

  The blade scraped against the surface, barely leaving a mark.

  Again.

  A shallow groove. Still not enough.

  Again.

  My muscles burned with every movement, but I welcomed the ache. It meant I was pushing past my limits. Every time the blade connected, I adjusted—faster, cleaner, sharper.

  The hours blurred together. My breathing grew steady, rhythmic, matching the motion of each strike. I stopped caring about how much time had passed. There was only the sword, the stone, and the space between them.

  And then—something shifted.

  At first, I thought I was imagining it. As I swung, the air seemed to ripple around the blade. A thin, invisible line trailed behind each strike—a sensation like cutting through something softer, lighter than stone. It wasn’t resistance exactly… more like I was slicing the very air itself.

  I shook my head, tightening my grip. I’m just tired.

  But it happened again. And again.

  With every swing, the sensation grew stronger. The air felt thinner—almost fragile—as my blade cut through it. My movements grew faster without losing control. For a brief moment, it felt like the sword wasn’t just hitting the boulder—it was cutting through the space between us.

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  I swung again, and this time the blade whistled softly.

  My eyes widened. What the—

  Behind me, Seria stirred. At first, I thought she was about to tell me to keep going, but she didn’t say a word. I felt her gaze on my back, sharp and focused. That calm, detached expression she always wore? Gone.

  I swung again, and the sound returned—clearer, sharper. Like the air itself was being sliced apart.

  Seria’s voice cut through the silence, low and unreadable. "Impossible…"

  I froze mid-swing. "What?"

  She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped closer, her eyes locked on the wooden sword in my hand. For once, her usual confidence wavered. "You…" she started, then shook her head as if trying to dismiss whatever thought had just crossed her mind. "You shouldn’t be able to do that—not with a wooden sword."

  I lowered the blade, turning to face her. "Do what?"

  For a moment, she didn’t speak. Her lips pressed into a thin line before she finally answered. "That technique. Cutting through the wind itself. That’s not something you stumble upon by accident." Her gaze hardened. "Who taught you?"

  I blinked, confused. "No one. I’ve just… been swinging like you told me to."

  Her eyes narrowed, scanning me as if searching for a lie. "Don’t mess with me. That technique isn’t something you pick up in a few days. Only a few swordsmen in history have ever mastered it. The Lagibeks."

  I frowned. "Lagibeks?"

  "A lost sword style," she said, her tone serious. "Those who truly master it can cut anything. Their blades are so swift and precise that even the wind itself is sliced apart." Her gaze sharpened. "And you—without even knowing it—are starting to touch that realm."

  I looked down at the wooden sword in my hand. It didn’t feel special. Just a simple training tool. But the air around the blade still felt… different. Like it was thinner somehow. Easier to cut.

  "I’m not a swordsman," I muttered. "Why would I even—"

  "Doesn’t matter," she cut in, her voice firm. "What matters is that you’ve awakened it. Whether you understand it or not, you’re already walking the path of Lagibeks."

  I felt a chill creep down my spine—not from the cold, but from the weight of her words. This wasn’t just some ordinary sword practice anymore.

  Seria’s expression softened—just a little. "Congratulations," she said quietly. "You’re no longer just chopping wood. You’re cutting through reality itself."

  I swallowed hard, lifting the sword again. My heart pounded in my chest.

  And for the first time since I started this insane training, I felt it—

  A door had opened.

  And I was stepping through.

  For the next two weeks, I trained relentlessly.

  Every morning, before the sun even rose, I was back in the clearing, swinging that wooden sword. Each strike was sharper, faster. The whispering sound of wind parting beneath my blade became more frequent. It no longer felt like an illusion—I was really cutting through the air itself.

  Seria didn’t say much after that first day. She just watched, occasionally giving pointers or correcting my stance. But I could tell she was keeping a closer eye on me.

  My body adapted. My muscles screamed less, my grip steadied, my footwork improved. I wasn’t just enduring anymore—I was refining, shaping myself into something more.

  ...

  Two weeks later

  I sat on a fallen log, breath misting in the cold air, checking my status.

  [SYSTEM]

  [Name]: Kelvin

  [Class]: Former Sergeant (Aerospace Engineer)

  [Level]: 26

  [STATS]

  [STRENGTH]: 48 (50% reduction)

  [VITALITY]: 125

  [AGILITY]: 69

  [ENDURANCE]: 54 (+4)

  [DEXTERITY]: 67 (+10)

  [AURA]

  Himagsikabo

  Desc: TBD

  [SWORDSTYLE]

  Lagibeks - Mastery: Beginner

  I hadn’t leveled up, but my body was evolving in ways that mattered. My endurance had increased from sheer repetition—swinging that sword, enduring the exhaustion, pushing past my limits. My dexterity had shot up from refining my technique. Every movement was faster, smoother.

  I flexed my fingers, feeling how much steadier my grip had become.

  "Not bad," I muttered to myself.

  Seria, sitting nearby, glanced at me. "Checking your progress?"

  I looked up at her, shrugging. "Something like that."

  She smirked. "You’re stronger now. More controlled. But you still have a long way to go before you can truly wield that style."

  I sighed, standing up. "Figures."

  She tilted her head. "Are you satisfied?"

  I tightened my grip on the wooden sword. No. I wasn’t.

  I wanted more.

  I wanted to see how far I could take this.

  I met her gaze, eyes filled with quiet determination. "Not yet."

  Seria grinned. "Good. Then let’s see if you’re ready for the real thing."

  She stood up, walking toward the temple. I followed, heart pounding.

  The next phase of my training was about to begin.

  "You will fight against me," Seria says, her voice calm but carrying a weight that makes the air feel heavier.

  I wasn’t shocked—not even a little. After two weeks of relentless training, this felt inevitable. If anything, I was excited. I’ve never fought a mage before. And Seria? She’s no ordinary mage.

  I roll my shoulder, feeling the ache in my muscles fade as adrenaline starts to kick in. "Alright," I say, a smirk tugging at my lips. "I’ve been wanting to test how far I’ve come."

  Her eyes narrow slightly, the faintest glint of amusement flashing across her face. "Good," she replies. "But don’t get cocky. I won’t hold back."

  I grip the wooden sword tighter. My senses sharpen, enhanced by the weeks of training. If I can land a clean hit on her… No, I will land a hit on her.

  I think back to the Archdemon—the sheer helplessness I felt as I lost my arm. Never again. If I ever face one of those monsters again, I’ll make sure to cut their heads clean off.

  I exhale slowly, focusing. The weight of Himagsikabo hums beneath the surface, steady and unyielding.

  Seria raises her hand, and a faint shimmer dances around her fingers—magic. "Whenever you’re ready," she says.

  I lower my stance, feeling the ground beneath my feet. This wasn’t just training anymore. This was my first real step toward being strong enough to survive—no, to win.

  "Let’s do this," I say, and the fight begins.

  Seria didn’t even move. She stood there—calm, steady—like she wasn’t taking this seriously at all. And maybe she wasn’t.

  I circled her, my grip on the wooden sword tightening. My instincts screamed to find an opening, a weak point, something. But there was nothing. Her posture was flawless—no wasted movement, no gaps to exploit.

  Damn it.

  I pushed forward, moving as fast as I could. My feet barely touched the snow as I closed the distance, the weeks of training making my steps lighter, faster. I swung the sword in a clean arc—

  But she was already gone.

  I barely caught the blur of her figure before a sharp pressure grazed my side. She didn’t hit me—but she could have. Easily.

  I spun around, swinging again, faster this time. Still nothing. No contact. It was like chasing smoke.

  "You’re too slow," she said, her voice as steady as ever. "And your footwork—sloppy."

  I grit my teeth. I wasn’t slow. I had been training nonstop. My endurance had grown. My reflexes were sharper. But compared to her, it still wasn’t enough.

  I launched myself forward, channeling every ounce of speed and precision into a downward strike. For a split second, I thought I had her—

  But she simply stepped aside, as if I were moving in slow motion.

  A cold breeze brushed against my neck as she passed me, her voice low and unimpressed. "If this is all you’ve got, you’ll die the next time you face something real."

  My heart pounded in my chest. Frustration burned in my stomach. I wasn’t going to lose—not again.

  I adjusted my stance, lowering my center of gravity. This time, I focused everything—every sense, every muscle—into the next strike.

  I could still catch her. I just had to be faster.

  I pushed myself harder, ignoring the burn in my muscles. No relying on the UI. No shortcuts. All I had was my swordstyle, my aura, and the relentless training Seria had drilled into me.

  Focus. Breathe. Move.

  Seria’s stance shifted. It was subtle—but I caught it. For the first time since we started, I could tell. She was preparing for something. Why?

  And then—I felt it.

  A cold pressure coiled inside me, heavy and sharp. It wasn’t the calm, unyielding focus of Himagsikabo. This was something else—something darker. My pulse quickened, my grip on the sword tightening as the feeling spread. My thoughts grew quiet. Only one thing mattered now.

  Cut.

  I didn’t think. I moved.

  I swung the wooden sword in a single, fluid arc. There was no resistance—no hesitation. Just the simple act of cutting. It felt… natural. Too natural.

  The moment my strike finished, the pressure inside me vanished. Everything fell still.

  I stood there, breathing hard, trying to process what just happened.

  Seria didn’t move. Her eyes were locked on me—wide and unguarded. I’d never seen her like that before. Not once.

  "...What was that?" I asked, my voice low.

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she slowly turned her gaze toward the forest behind her.

  I followed her line of sight.

  And my stomach twisted.

  The entire south side of the mountain—the trees I hadn’t even touched yet—was gone. Not broken. Not splintered. Cut. Cleanly. Precisely. As if an invisible blade had swept through them all at once.

  The wind whistled through the empty clearing, carrying the scent of fresh wood and cold air.

  I swallowed hard. "I only swung once…"

  Seria let out a quiet breath, but her usual composure hadn’t returned. She was still staring at the destruction. "That wasn’t just a swing," she said softly. "Your aura… it awakened. And not just any aura."

  She met my eyes again—this time, there was no teasing in her voice. Only cold, sharp certainty.

  "BLOODLUST."

  I flexed my fingers around the sword. The warmth of my body felt distant, drowned out by the memory of that cutting pressure.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  Seria stepped closer, her voice steady but low. "It’s not just power—it’s a manifestation of your intent. The desire to cut. To kill." Her expression darkened. "Most people never touch it. It’s too dangerous. Too consuming. But you…"

  She gestured toward the ruined forest.

  "You didn’t just touch it—you let it take over."

  I exhaled slowly. Fear should’ve crept in. Maybe it should’ve scared me. But it didn’t.

  If anything… it felt right.

  Because this power wasn’t foreign. It wasn’t something borrowed.

  It was mine.

  And if I could control it—no one would stop me.

  "What are you doing just standing there?" Seria’s voice cut through the cold air, sharp and unyielding. She raised her arms, and the ground trembled beneath my feet.

  The fallen trees—the ones I had cut clean through—rose into the air, hundreds of them, their jagged ends aimed directly at me. Twisting and shifting under her control, they hovered like a storm of spears ready to tear through my body.

  Her golden eyes burned with a strange excitement. "Don’t you want to master your aura?"

  I tightened my grip on the wooden sword. My heart pounded in my chest, but it wasn’t fear. It was something else. Something deeper.

  I should have been exhausted. I should have felt drained after releasing that power—but instead, I felt alive. My blood was humming beneath my skin.

  I exhaled slowly. "Thank you…" My voice came out steady—too steady.

  Her lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t her usual mocking smirk. This one was colder. Sharper. "Good. Then don’t die."

  Without warning, she brought her hands down.

  The sky above me darkened as the trees shot forward like a hailstorm.

  I didn’t hesitate. My body moved before I could think—before I could doubt. I stepped forward and swung.

  One clean strike.

  Snap.

  The first wave of trees shattered in an instant. My blade—just a simple wooden sword—cut through them as if they were nothing. The air around me shifted, and for a moment, I could feel it again. That edge. That hunger.

  Bloodlust.

  I pushed forward, cutting again—another clean sweep. Each movement felt faster, more natural, as if my body was finally catching up to the power buried inside me.

  But Seria didn’t let up. The storm of wood twisted, curved, and came at me from every angle. She was testing me—pushing me to the limit.

  Good. I wanted it.

  I darted through the onslaught, my wooden sword blurring as I struck. Every swing was cleaner, sharper. It wasn’t just brute strength—I was cutting with intent. The world slowed down, my senses sharpened.

  Cut. Cut. Cut.

  Splinters filled the air, raining down like snow as I carved through everything she sent at me. My lungs burned, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

  When the last tree splintered against my blade, silence fell over the clearing. Only the faint sound of wood falling to the ground echoed around us.

  I stood there, breathing hard. My body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of what I had just done.

  Seria lowered her hands, her expression unreadable. For once, she didn’t speak right away.

  I broke the silence. "Is that all you’ve got?"

  Her smile returned—this time softer, more curious. "No," she said quietly. "But maybe you’re ready for what’s next."

  I wasn’t sure what she meant. But one thing was clear.

  I wasn’t done yet. And neither was she.

  ...

  Seria’s golden eyes glinted with something new—interest. Maybe even a little thrill. "Not bad," she said, rolling her shoulders. "But you’re not done yet."

  I tightened my grip on the wooden sword. My heart pounded harder, but it wasn’t from exhaustion. It was from the fire crawling beneath my skin—the same fire that had pushed me to destroy the entire southern forest in a single swing.

  She raised her hand, and a surge of magic flared to life. The air around us grew heavy, crackling with unseen energy. This wasn’t a test anymore. She was serious.

  "Again," she commanded.

  I didn’t need to be told twice.

  I lunged forward, pushing my body to its limit. My wooden sword blurred as I swung toward her chest. But she was faster—her figure vanished, reappearing to my left. Without thinking, I twisted mid-strike and slashed toward her new position.

  A sharp crack echoed through the air as my sword clashed against an invisible barrier.

  "Good," she said. "You’re starting to track me."

  I wasn’t just tracking her—I was feeling her. Every move she made, I sensed it. The shift in the wind, the faint pressure of her magic. My senses were sharper than ever before, and I wanted—no, I needed—to keep pushing.

  I swung again, harder. Faster. My body felt like it was moving on its own. Every strike came with more force, more hunger. I could see the cracks forming in her barriers, even as she layered them thicker.

  Seria didn’t back down. Her hands moved gracefully through the air, conjuring spears of ice and whips of wind. They lashed toward me, but my blade cut through them without effort.

  I should’ve been slowing down—but I wasn’t. Each step forward made me faster. Each strike made me stronger. My vision narrowed, the world shrinking until all I could see was her.

  I wanted to tear her defenses apart. I wanted to see her struggle.

  I wanted—more.

  A low growl escaped my throat as I advanced. My sword cut through her barriers like they were nothing. For the first time, I saw a flicker of tension in her face.

  And I loved it.

  More.

  A sharp pain flashed through my head, but I ignored it. The world seemed distant—like I was watching from somewhere far away. I didn’t care. I just needed to win. Needed to break her.

  Another barrier shattered under my swing. Another step closer.

  I could almost reach her.

  Another growl tore from my chest. My hands trembled with the need to cut—to destroy. The blood in my veins felt molten, and my vision tinted red.

  Somewhere distant, a voice called out. "Kelvin—stop."

  I didn’t.

  I couldn’t.

  Seria’s hand twitched, and suddenly, the air around her burned gold. I swung again, aiming to tear through her final defense—but this time, my sword stopped cold.

  A massive force slammed into me. My entire body froze mid-strike.

  In an instant, my vision cleared. The bloodlust—the hunger—snapped like a rope pulled too tight.

  I staggered back, panting. The wooden sword trembled in my grip, splinters falling from its edge.

  Seria stood in front of me, her golden aura blazing like a second sun. Her hair floated around her as waves of raw magical power rolled off her body. She wasn’t holding back anymore.

  Her expression was cold. Unforgiving.

  "You’re losing yourself," she said quietly. "And I’m not letting you go any further."

  Before I could react, she moved.

  I barely saw her hand before it pressed against my chest. A surge of magic exploded from her palm, and everything around me blurred.

  A heartbeat later, I was on the ground. My limbs felt heavy—too heavy to move. My head throbbed as if someone had driven a spike through my skull.

  I tried to push myself up, but my body refused to obey.

  Footsteps approached. She knelt beside me, her power still simmering beneath the surface.

  "You felt it, didn’t you?" Her voice was softer now—but there was no trace of warmth. "That hunger."

  I couldn’t speak. I could only nod weakly.

  She sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Bloodlust is a double-edged sword. If you let it consume you, it won’t matter how strong you are—you’ll lose everything else."

  Her words cut deeper than any blade. Because she was right.

  I had lost control.

  I’d let the bloodlust win.

  And even now, as I lay broken on the ground, a part of me still wanted more.