The Vanguard Club training hall stood empty. The last cadets had departed an hour ago, their laughter lingering alongside the scent of sweat and steel. Drake wiped down the final practice sword and returned it to the rack. His arms throbbed from another brutal session with Alexis, yet sleep eluded him—not with that accusatory voice still echoing in his skull.
Weak. Unworthy.
He seized a dull-edged training blade and assumed his stance.
Horizontal slashes. Vertical. Diagonal. Thrusts. His footwork stumbled, his balance faltered, yet he persisted. Again. Again. The sword weighed like an anchor in his slick palms, his breath coming in ragged gasps—so unlike the crimson fury that had possessed him during the trial.
What am I doing wrong?
Above him, unnoticed, Mr. Leo observed from the guardrail until his fingers flicked.
[Silent Step]
The hall stood vacant one moment. The next, Mr. Leo materialized behind Drake.
Drake whirled, blade lashing out instinctively—
—only for Mr. Leo to arrest its momentum between two fingers.
"Hoh." His eyebrows arched. "Easy there."
Drake strained against the immovable grip before surrendering with a frustrated grunt. "What do you want?"
"Giving up so easily?" Mr. Leo cocked an eyebrow.
"I recognize futility," Drake retorted, turning away.
"Yet you swing your blade without purpose," Mr. Leo observed. The words struck like a spark to tinder.
"What do you know about my life?" Drake's voice cracked like a whip. "What right do you have to judge me?"
"I know you crave strength." Mr. Leo's calm sliced through Drake's fury. "And I know you already possess it. That power at the trials—"
"I don't know what you're talking about." Drake's denial came too quickly.
"Still playing ignorant?" Mr. Leo sighed. "Very well. I'll help you grow stronger."
"Why?" Drake's eyes narrowed. "What's in it for you?"
Mr. Leo scratched his temple. "Partly curiosity. Partly... Principal Winston's request."
"You're lying. He'd send Duron."
"First," Mr. Leo's voice turned icy, "mind your tone. Second, Winston doesn't fully trust Duron."
Drake's breath hitched. "He suspects Duron?"
"Says there's something... off about him. Different." Mr. Leo shrugged. "Frankly, I don't see it."
Different. Drake's mind flashed to that eerie tapestry in Duron's office, the inexplicable dread it inspired.
"Enough speculation." Mr. Leo returned Drake's sword. "Tell me, what's missing from your strikes?"
Drake's knuckles whitened around the hilt. "Aether. Power. Skill."
"No." Mr. Leo's blade appeared in hand, its edge catching the dim light. "You lack will."
"Will?" Drake scoffed. "What does philosophy have to do with swordplay?"
"Everything."
As Mr. Leo paced toward the training circle, his boots echoed in the hollow space. "Define the difference between Unawakened and Soldier."
Drake wiped his brow. "Affinity. Aether augmentation. Basic emission."
"Correct. Soldier to Knight?"
"Full emission. Elemental control."
"Good." Mr. Leo spun, his gaze sharpening. "Now—Knight to Viscount?"
Drake hesitated. "I... don't know."
"Names."
"Names?"
Mr. Leo's sword flashed upward. The air didn't just part—it obeyed, cleaving along an invisible line of intent. "Ryan's finishing move earlier. What did he call it?"
"Winter's Cut," Drake muttered.
"Precisely. He didn't merely cut. He commanded it to slice with frost. That's a Viscount's power—imposing will upon reality itself."
Drake studied his reflection in the blade. "So it's just... shouting fancy names?"
Mr. Leo's laughter rang harsh. "If that were true, every tavern drunk would be a Viscount. The name is merely the vessel. True power comes from absolute conviction—knowing your word shapes the world."
His next swing carried palpable weight, the atmosphere thickening like syrup around the blade.
"And Counts?" Drake asked.
Mr. Leo's smirk turned predatory. "Counts don't just name. They manifest."
His Aether erupted—not as light, but as dominion. Shadows deepened unnaturally. The very air grew viscous, pressing against Drake's skin with almost sentient resistance.
"A Count's will transcends their body. It bleeds into the world as aura. The environment acknowledges your presence—not submission, but... accommodation. Strength flows where you step."
The pressure dissipated, leaving Drake gulping air he hadn't realized he needed.
"Dukes? Kings?"
Mr. Leo sheathed his sword with a definitive click. "Next lesson. For now—" A training sword sailed toward Drake. "—try hitting me."
Drake caught it midair. "Why bother teaching me?"
Mr. Leo's expression hardened. "Because that thing inside you? Master it, or it will master you."
Then he moved.
Drake barely registered the blur before his sword clattered across the floor, his wrist stinging from the impact he never saw coming.