I was in the training camp with the other recruits, all with visible dark circles under their eyes and that sleepy feeling that only early morning brings. The commander of the third detachment of the royal guard, Sir Meloch, was standing in front of us, with that scowling expression of someone who has no patience for bullshit. He seemed determined to crush our hopes and remind us that we were nobody there. If the king got the gingerbread, Meloch got the whip.
He took his hand out of his trouser pocket and unhurriedly pointed his finger directly at the first recruit he saw. He then yawned, as if it was all just a waste of time, boredom showing on his face.
"You! How much mana do you have?" Meloch's voice cut through the air.
"Unity," the boy replied, a little awkwardly.
After hearing what the boy had said, Meloch let out a low laugh - dry, full of mockery. One of those laughs that doesn't hide contempt, but lays it bare like a blade sheathed in restrained anger. For him, it was still almost nothing. A warm-up, at most.
"Come on. Take a training sword from the rack," he said, with a lazy gesture, but his gaze fixed and attentive. "I want to see what you're capable of."
The boy staggered over to the weapon, while Meloch turned his gaze to the rest of the class.
"Today I'm going to teach you something that anyone with fifty units of mana can master," he announced. "Body enhancement. It's essential for anyone who wants to be a real warrior."
The instant Meloch uttered those words, the boy - the same one who until then had exuded a timid aura and an almost shrunken posture - changed completely. It was as if something dormant inside him had awoken at the exact moment his fingers touched the hilt of the sword. His shoulders aligned, his gaze steadied and his breathing slowed to a controlled pace. For anyone with the slightest knowledge of martial arts, that stance spoke for itself: he knew what he was doing. And it was no small feat.
The boy actually had a decent physique. Nothing impressive, but functional. He held the sword with confidence, as if he knew what he was doing - even if the blade was light and thin, clearly of beginner level. Still... there was something about his posture. Firm, centered. That wasn't just any beginner. I crossed my arms and watched for a second longer than I would have liked. (This one's going to make me sweat a bit), I admitted mentally, with a slight smile at the corner of my lips.
Meloch realized, too late, that he was starting to let out a slight smile - his excitement was betraying him. He was enjoying himself, and that was unacceptable. He quickly wiped any trace of excitement from his face, replacing it with a bored, almost annoyed expression. He arched an eyebrow with false indifference and waved his hand like someone shooing away an inconvenient puppy - a lazy gesture, laden with disdain, as if to say: Come on, get it over with.
"No chance"
As soon as he had finished saying those words, Meloch suddenly felt something change around him. The atmosphere became heavy, dense - as if the air itself had stopped circulating for an instant. The boy in front of him no longer looked the same. His gaze hardened, rid of any trace of hesitation. It was cold now, sharp, like the edge of a blade exposed to winter.
Then he moved. He lowered his body with calculated precision, all his weight concentrated on his right leg. The muscles were tense, ready to fire like compressed springs. The sword rested firmly in his hands, pointed down and to the left in an aggressive diagonal. That posture... wasn't that of a beginner. It was that of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. And who was about to attack.
For a second, Meloch could have sworn he saw a thread of steam escape from the boy's mouth - subtle, almost imperceptible. As if his breath was condensing the very air around him. That wasn't normal. It wasn't just technique or posture.
And then, without warning, the boy had shot towards Meloch. His feet tore through the ground with restrained haste, and in one fluid movement, he unleashed an upward arcing blow - fast, precise, with the blade slicing through the air as if drawing a line of intent in the void.
Meloch's body even tried to react in time, but the precious seconds he had lost while mentally insulting the boy took their toll. When he became aware of the attack, the moment he had to dodge simply wasn't enough. In a desperate reflex, all he could do was raise his sword to block the blow - no technique, no elegance, just pure instinct.
(What the hell?!) thought Meloch, gasping, his eyes wide: (I almost didn't react!) he muttered to himself, still feeling the impact vibrate through his arms. The boy's blow had come with surprising force and speed, far beyond what he expected from a beginner.
He was moving too fast - he seemed to be using some acceleration, but without spending any mana.
Adrenaline started coursing through Meloch's body almost instinctively - a silent warning, triggered by his gut, trying to protect him from something his pride was still reluctant to admit was dangerous. It was subtle, but real. His heart raced. His muscles tensed. After all, it was the first time he had seen - and felt - someone exude such skill during a simple training session. And that wasn't common. Not at all.
"Where did you get that from?" asked Meloch, more out of provocation than real curiosity. But the answer didn't come. The boy didn't even react. He was oblivious to what was going on around him, as if he had cut himself off from the world. That wasn't simple concentration - it was a trance.
His eyes were fixed, his breathing measured, his body rigid and perfectly aligned. An absolute, frightening focus. Meloch soon understood: the boy would only return to normal when that 'order he had given' was carried out. And that order was clear.
Defeat Meloch... or fall trying.
[POV Remy]
I entered the usual state of combat concentration that I used so often in training. Clarity came like a snap. Everything slowed down around me. Sounds seemed dampened, distant. The man in front of me - Sir Meloch - posed like an irritated sergeant major trying to command respect. But I was no longer just any recruit.
He was holding a huge two-handed sword, something between a gun and a train track. Too heavy. Almost a brutal extension of his own ego. Just by looking at it, you could tell: he wouldn't be able to counterattack with speed. Not with that.
As I imagined, he set up a block. Perfect. From this position, the next obvious move would be a vertical blow - brute force, without refinement.
I take a step back, dodging the blow from above. The blade comes down with the weight of a landslide, but only hits the ground.
And there's my opening.
While his sword is still down, I launch my attack. I bring my blade down from above, aiming for the exposed head. I exhaled sharply, concentrating my strength on the movement.
But he... he dodged.
He dodged with ease - frightening, even - and, in one fluid movement, he counter-attacked from the side.
I instinctively raised my guard. The impact shook me from the inside out. The blow almost knocked me to the ground. My feet slid on the compacted sand. My bones vibrated.
What kind of monster is this?
I force myself to refocus. He barely wastes any time and comes at me with another blow. I duck, almost falling, narrowly escaping. My sword cuts through the air in a horizontal arc, aiming for his neck. Not to hit him, but to force a defense.
He raises his sword. That's what I wanted.
As he blocks, I "order" the skill: more adrenaline, more oxygen, support leg. It's all there. The muscle responds. A jolt. I launch myself under the blade, sliding down his back. The world stretches, perception accelerates. I feel the air in my pores, every speck of dust, every micro-adjustment of balance in my ankle.
I take a deep breath, turn with the momentum of my stride and focus everything - everything - on the horizontal cut, aiming for the back of his head.
The sword becomes a blur.
Contact.
I feel the impact vibrate up to my shoulder. I hear the deafening sound of the blow meeting flesh and bone. An eternal instant.
I take a step back, assuming a defensive posture by instinct. The silence is absolute.
Sir Meloch staggers. His eyes seem glazed. His hands let go of his sword. He falls to his knees... and then, like a statue losing its base, collapses completely.
Body on the ground.
I take a deep breath. I'm calm.
My heart beats steadily. Total control. No trembling in my hands. No guilt. Just... tranquillity.