The man was tall, lean, and dense.
He wasn't bulky, but sculpted.
You could practically see the outline of every tendon, as if his flesh was armor tailored to his bones.
Long black hair fell to his shoulder, tied loosely. His eyes were golden and sharp, like he'd once stared down a god and yawned.
And then there were the scars. Not many, but the ones that remained looked like they had stories.
"Form up!" Thalvorr barked.
The students quickly scrambled into rows. Nobody wanted to be on his bad side, after all, this was the first class of their Second Year at the Academy.
"I assume most of you are here because you believe you can swing a sword and instantly become a hero," he began, pacing across the sparring mat. "You're wrong."
Reed found himself listening closely. The man had a voice like tempered steel.
"In this world, swordsmanship is not just technique. It is philosophy. It is discipline. And today, you will begin your journey... by learning the Dragon Style."
A few students perked up.
Dragon Style was one of the academy's more prestigious weapon forms, named after a summoned hero who fought and killed an adult dragon using nothing but his wits, skill, and a broken blade.
Thalvorr walked to the center of the room and gestured toward the runic lines on the floor.
"Observe."
He unsheathed a thin, curved blade from his hip.
It was an Eastern-style sword, enchanted with a purple sheen that shimmered when light touched it.
"The Dragon Style is made of four distinct forms," he said. "Each one is designed not for brute force, but adaptability. Dragons are intelligent. Tactical. Ruthless. So must you be."
He stepped forward, placing his left foot at an angle, sword low and to the right.
"Form One – Serpent Coil."
"It is a defensive stance focused on reacting and countering. Emphasizes patience and observation, drawing opponents in and striking only when their guard is broken. This form is suitable for outnumbered fights or conserving stamina."
Thalvorr's body flowed like water as he demonstrated, pivoting and sweeping his blade in low arcs, then launching into a precise upward slash that looked deceptively slow — until the wooden training dummy near the wall split in two from a shockwave.
The students gasped. Reed blinked.
That was mana-less. Just pure technique.
"Form Two – Draconic Rise."
"An aggressive, upward-focused barrage. Used for overwhelming taller opponents or airborne enemies. Based on the dragon's wingbeat — the idea of creating pressure through ascension."
Thalvorr flipped the sword, charged forward, and leapt — his body spinning mid-air in a spiraling motion.
The blade traced a deadly helix, then struck down with a sharp crack as his feet landed. Dust rose around him like a war god arriving on the battlefield.
Even the nobles looked impressed now.
"Form Three – Crimson Tail."
"A rotational style focused on wide arcs and momentum. Ideal for crowd control or multiple assailants. Requires strong lower body control. Inspired by the whip of a dragon's tail."
He dropped low, spinning with perfect posture, and swung the saber in a broad sweep.
The speed of it forced wind to kick up across the field.
The motion was so fluid Reed thought he was dancing — until a chunk of a practice post shot across the room and embedded into the opposite wall.
Thalvorr didn't stop.
"Form Four – Heartpiercer Fang."
"A finisher. A single, precise thrust designed to end the fight in one move. Draws from all the other forms and channels intent into lethal clarity. Based on the dragon's killing bite."
The air stilled.
Thalvorr took a breath, stepped forward with his right foot, twisted his wrist — and launched the blade forward in a blur.
There was no loud noise. No dramatic slash. Only a single click as the saber's tip touched the reinforced wall.
And pierced two inches deep into solid stone.
He held the position for three seconds, then calmly stepped back and turned.
"That," he said, sheathing the sword, "is what you might one day achieve. If you survive this class."
Silence.
Then a single student from his class raised her hand.
"Uh... Professor Thalvorr, when do we, um, start with... the wooden swords?"
"You'll be given training blades in ten minutes. Until then, memorize the stances. And for the love of the gods, if any of you copy the crimson tail without stretching, you'll snap like twigs."
Soon each student took a wooden sword and stood straight, their faces taut with a mix of fear, excitement, and clueless determination.
Reed looked around — there weren't that many students here, maybe twenty or thirty tops.
The Weapon Class was still seen as optional fluff by most students who fancied themselves high-tier mages.
After all, why learn to swing a stick when you could burn down cities with magic?
Fools, the lot of them.
The training hall was spacious — easily enough for all the students to train comfortably.
Enchantment runes glowed faintly on the polished floorboards, probably to reduce the damage from rogue swings and dumb decisions. Which meant this place had seen plenty of both.
All around him, students were practicing the first stance they had just been taught — Serpent Coil — with varying degrees of success.
Some looked like they were posing for a statue unveiling. Others resembled drunken flamingos.
One unfortunate soul was trying to copy Professor Thalvorr's sweep and promptly landed on his back with an audible wheeze.
Reed stood in front of a training dummy, wooden sword in hand.
He kept his body relaxed, channeling every ounce of posture memory and control he could muster from his old life.
He apparently used to train in a local dojo.
Left foot angled.
Sword low.
Shoulders loose.
Spine upright.
Serpent Coil.
He breathed in and held the stance.
The world didn't change, but his focus narrowed. Everything else faded into the background.
"Focus. Discipline. Clarity."
He whispered the mantra to himself like a prayer.
Then a shadow moved beside him, and Reed turned — only to nearly choke on his own spit.