The First Display

Then, the instructor arrived.

He was an elf with a massive build, his frame packed with corded muscle, his arms thick with scars that told of years of experience. His hair was cropped short, and his piercing gaze swept over the gathered students with the weight of someone who had seen countless battles. Everything about him suggested he followed the path of body refinement, honing his own body into a weapon rather than relying on external tools.

He stepped into the center of the arena and came to a halt, letting silence settle before speaking.

"Welcome to combat training." His voice was deep and firm, cutting through the air.

He let the words settle before continuing. "Strength, skill, and technique mean nothing without endurance. A fighter who cannot last in battle is as good as defeated before the fight begins. Before anything else, we build the foundation, stamina."

There was a brief pause, and then he raised a hand, gesturing toward the vast space around them. "Run one hundred laps around the arena."

The students exchanged glances. The arena was massive, but everyone here was an awakened one, enhanced, trained, capable. For most, this was far from an impossible task. The instruction itself wasn't confusing, but something about it felt off.

Someone hesitated before asking, "Do we...?"

"You can use your powers," the instructor cut in, his tone sharp.

Now the confusion deepened. Using their abilities made things even easier. This wasn't even training, it was warm-up at best. Why would he start with something so basic?

"What are you waiting for?" The instructor's voice rang out again. "Start."

At first, the run felt effortless. Everyone moved with ease, their strides long and controlled. A few laps passed, and most barely felt the exertion. But then, something changed. The ground beneath them wasn't just a surface, it was actively pulling at their energy. Every step became heavier, draining them at a pace that was hard to notice at first. The air felt denser, the usual flow of energy in their bodies disrupted.

Some students tried to compensate by drawing more energy to reinforce their movements, only to find it slipping away the moment they pushed it out. It wasn't just about running anymore. They had to carefully regulate their output, keeping a perfect balance between exertion and recovery. Those who couldn't adjust burned out faster, their movements becoming sluggish.

The instructor watched impassively as students started slowing down, their breathing growing labored. "Those who complete 100 laps can proceed to the next stage," he called out, his tone unwavering.

Ian kept his pace steady, running alongside the others.

The moment he felt the pull of the ground, he instinctively adjusted, fine-tuning his energy flow without hesitation. While others struggled to compensate, overcorrecting or exhausting themselves too quickly, he found the balance almost naturally.

His movements remained fluid, his breathing steady. Each step was deliberate, his energy circulating through his body with precise control.

A few had already completed the required laps, moving to the side, their exhaustion hidden behind well-controlled expressions.

Around him, exhaustion was setting in. Some students staggered, barely managing to keep moving, while others had already collapsed to the side, drained. A few had finished, standing off to the side with composed expressions, though their heavy breathing betrayed their struggle.

After Myrra couldn't move anymore, Ian kept going. His breathing was steady, his control precise. While others struggled to push past their limits, he adapted quickly, maintaining his pace until he finally completed the 100 laps.

As he stepped off the track, he noticed a small group of students gathered around the instructor in the next section. Unlike the earlier test of endurance, this one seemed different. Some students were already engaged, their expressions tense as they faced off against humanoid constructs.

The puppets moved with unsettling fluidity, their joints humming with restrained power. They weren't just training dummies; they reacted, countered, and adapted in real time.

"This is your next challenge," the instructor announced. "You will fight against these constructs. Their purpose is to assess your combat level, technique, adaptability, efficiency. The better you fight, the more they will push back."

Ian watched as one of the students rushed in, only to be swiftly countered by the puppet's precise movements. It wasn't just about raw strength, this was a test of control, awareness, and skill.

His turn was coming soon.

Ian stepped forward as the puppet reset, its eyes flickering back to life. The moment it lunged, he moved, not just dodging, but adjusting.

His eyes, blessed by Mindbloom, traced the construct's structure in real time. He recognized the material instantly, an advanced composite. This fight was already decided. The puppet was crude, built for standard combat tests. It was no effort at all to use Architect's Assemble and Disassemble against it.

The puppet struck fast, a precise lunge aimed at his torso. Ian didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped into the attack, his hand meeting the puppet's forearm mid-motion.

A pulse of energy. Disassemble.

The effect was immediate. The material lost cohesion, fragments slipping apart like sand through fingers. The puppet's own momentum betrayed it, its strike collapsed inward, its weight shifting out of balance.

Ian twisted his body, slipping around the falling arm. Before the construct could recalibrate, he stepped in close and dragged his fingertips across its chest. Another pulse.

The plating split apart for an instant, exposing its inner framework. The puppet staggered back, core mechanisms whirring frantically as it tried to compensate.

It adjusted. Fast.

The puppet's arm shot forward in a brutal counterattack. Ian had no time to evade. Instead, he met the strike head-on.

The impact was heavy, but he barely shifted. His body absorbed the force, muscles tensing for just an instant before relaxing. It wasn't just raw strength, his control over his own body let him disperse the force instead of taking the full brunt of it.

Some watching students eyes flickered.

That was a direct hit, but he didn't even move?

Ian exhaled. Time to finish this.

He reversed his technique. Assemble.

The pieces he had dismantled snapped back together, but not in their original alignment. The realignment was deliberately off by just a fraction, throwing the entire structural balance into chaos.

The puppet lurched. A second later, its leg buckled, locked in place by a misaligned joint. Its body jerked, trying to reset, but the instability only worsened. Sparks flared from its core.

It dropped to one knee, servos screeching, completely immobilized.

The fight was over.

A long silence followed. 

Then the instructor's sharp gaze fixed on Ian."This seems like an Architect's ability… but it's too fluid, too fast. I haven't seen it applied like this before." His eyes narrowed slightly. "And his physique, the split-second movements, his ability to directly block the puppet's attack… does he follow a body refinement path as well?"

Ian exhaled, shaking his hand to disperse the lingering energy. He turned to the instructor, waiting.

A pause. Then...

"Not bad," the instructor finally said.

Still, his expression held something unreadable. He studied Ian for a moment longer before asking, "You should be able to handle this class without trouble. Which specialization are you from?"

"Arcane Engineering," Ian replied.

Silence.

A few students exchanged glances. Even the instructor hesitated, momentarily thrown off.

"Arcane Engineering?" The disbelief was almost audible. It was a field known for research, constructs, energy systems, theoretical work. Not this.

Someone muttered from the back, "You're kidding."

The rare few ones who had successfully taken down their puppets were all combat specialists. But Ian, who had dismantled his opponent in mere moments, was from Arcane Engineering

Then, amid the tension, another student, still locked in his own fight, let his mind wander. Just for a second, his focus slipped toward Ian.

And in that moment, he took a clean hit.

The puppet's strike connected with his gut.

"Ugh...!" He doubled over, barely managing to stay on his feet.

Ian blinked, glancing toward him, his expression unreadable.

The instructor exhaled, shaking his head. "Well… good for you." He seemed at a loss for words. A moment later, he clapped his hands together. "Alright! Next!"

Soon, a few more students joined after completing the running and beginning the next stage.

Finally after some time the instructor clapped his hands, gathering the attention of all students.

"Alright, that's it for today. You can't move on to the next stage until you complete the full hundred. Next class, same rule applies, until you hit a hundred, you're not advancing."

Ian exhaled, his gaze flickering to the rough numbers he had picked up from those around him.

Myrra: 54 laps. Not bad, a little over halfway there. Sylve: 82 laps. That was solid. Cailen: 31 laps. …Well, his stamina was terrible.

He shook his head. It was going to be rough for most of them. 

Once they stepped outside the training grounds, the energy restriction disappeared.

As they made their way back, Ian supported Myrra, who leaned against him, her exhaustion making her movements sluggish. She wasn't completely unable to walk, but every few steps, she seemed to sink deeper into his side.

Sylve, despite having been just as drained earlier, walked with ease now. She had restored her energy efficiently, applying runes to herself with practiced precision. Her posture was relaxed but composed, her expression unreadable as always.

In stark contrast, Cailen was practically dragging himself along, groaning dramatically. "I swear... this has to be some kind of torture… My body feels like it's made of lead."

Ian glanced at him, unimpressed. "Maybe if you had better stamina, you wouldn't be suffering right now."

Cailen whined. "Not everyone is like you! And look at Myrra, at least she's got an excuse!"

Myrra, barely lifting her head from Ian's shoulder, muttered, "I'm literally dying."

Cailen gasped as if betrayed. "See?! She gets sympathy, but I don't?"

Ian smirked. "Because she's not whining."

Just then, Cailen stumbled dramatically, nearly falling to his knees. "Alright, that's it. I can't go on. I'm done. Just leave me here, tell my family I fought bravely."

Sylve stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small sigh, she stepped closer and grabbed his arm, pulling him forward just enough to stop him from collapsing.

Cailen blinked in shock. "You're actually helping me?"

Sylve didn't respond, simply continuing to walk at her own pace, her grip firm but distant.

Cailen, regaining some of his strength from sheer excitement, declared, "I owe you now! A life debt! Should you ever need me..."

Sylve gave him a sidelong glance. "Just keep walking."

Cailen grinned. "Of course, of course. But still, I..."

Sylve exhaled softly, shaking her head.

Ian smirked. At least Cailen's suffering had some entertainment value.

As soon as they reached the apartment, Myrra all but collapsed onto the couch, her body sinking into the cushions as if she never planned to move again. She let out a tired sigh, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Ian watched her for a moment, shaking his head with a small smile. "I'll get you something to drink."

She made a small noise in response, barely acknowledging him.

A few minutes later, he returned with a cool glass of fruit-infused water and held it out to her. Myrra peeked up at him through heavy lashes, then pouted slightly. "Ian… feed me."

He raised an eyebrow. "It's just a drink."

She made an exaggerated gesture, weakly reaching for the glass but missing on purpose. "Too tired… help me…"

Ian huffed, amused, but played along. He sat beside her, bringing the glass to her lips. Myrra took a slow sip, her gaze never leaving his. When he pulled the glass away, she let out a soft, satisfied hum.

"Mm… You're nice."

"That's suspiciously vague," Ian mused.

She grinned sleepily. "Means I like when you take care of me."

Ian sighed, ruffling her hair lightly. "Of course you do."

Myrra let out a muffled giggle before closing her eyes. "Hungry…" she murmured after a moment, tilting her head toward him.

Ian glanced at the time, then back at her. "You want me to cook for you now?"

Myrra peeked up at him again, eyes twinkling despite her exhaustion. "Mhm. Please?"

There was no way he could say no when she asked like that. With a resigned sigh, he stood up and moved to the kitchen.

"Just rest. I'll make something quick."

Myrra didn't move from the couch, though she did stretch slightly, making herself comfortable. "You're the best, Ian."

Ian shook his head but smiled.