Chapter 43 : Lessons in losing

Arthur awoke early.

No—that wasn't quite right.

Arthur was awoken early, much earlier than anyone should be, by an incessant, droning sound ringing in his ears. At first, he thought it was the aftermath of all the artillery fire, some lingering battlefield tinnitus finally catching up to him.

But no. As it turned out, the source of the sound was far worse than mere hearing damage.

It was Lieutenant Frost.

The man had apparently risen with the sun, found himself bored, and, in a tragic turn of fate, had decided to seek entertainment at Arthur's expense.

Arthur ignored it at first. If he feigned sleep, surely Frost would lose interest and go find some other unfortunate soul to pester. For a brief moment, it seemed to work. The humming stopped, replaced by an eerie, unnatural silence.

Then Arthur cracked one eye open—just in time to see a human-shaped blur hurling toward him.

Instinct took over. Arthur rolled off the bed an instant before impact, narrowly avoiding Frost's full-body cannonball attack. The lieutenant recovered effortlessly, bouncing to his feet like a cat.

"Ahh," Frost sighed dramatically, stretching. "You're up. Might as well start the day, then."

Arthur clenched his fists, mentally listing every reason he shouldn't commit murder. He had a mission. He had a cover to maintain. He had a future. Surely none of those things were worth throwing away just to strangle one man.

"What's first?" he asked, through teeth that were definitely not grinding together.

Frost grinned, that ever-infuriating glint in his eyes. "Well… since you're such an early bird—"

"You woke me up."

"—and we've got time before breakfast," Frost continued, ignoring him, "why don't we go to the Arena?"

Arthur raised a brow. "Arena?"

Frost's grin widened. "Follow me."

After throwing on a fresh set of clothes, Arthur took a moment to deal with his hair. It was getting ridiculous now—far too long, always falling into his eyes. It was impractical, really. That was the only reason he tied it into a loose bun. Definitely. Not because it looked cool. That would be… completely coincidental.

…Definitely.

Pushing aside such irrelevant thoughts, he followed Frost through a series of winding corridors, the air growing colder the deeper they went. Eventually, they emerged into an open-air arena.

Arthur blinked, taken aback.

Despite the early hour, dozens of soldiers were already gathered on the stone seating that surrounded the combat pit. It was a true arena—oval-shaped, built of reinforced metal, with an array of weapons scattered haphazardly across the sandy ground. The air buzzed with energy, the anticipation of a crowd eager for bloodsport.

Frost spread his arms dramatically. "Welcome to the Arena. The heart of the capital's soldier life."

Arthur took it all in, gaze flitting over the crowd, the weapons, the scuffed battle-worn ground. "I assume people fight here?"

Frost smirked. "Very astute."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I mean, who fights here? Prisoners?"

Frost gave him a deeply offended look. "Arthur, please. What do you take us for? Animals?" He placed a hand over his chest, feigning hurt.

"No, no, no. This started out as a simple training ground. Over time, it evolved into something… more. A place for soldiers to unwind, settle disputes, test their limits. Think of it as a social hub, but with more concussions."

Arthur hummed, intrigued. "Doesn't sound bad. How do I sign up?"

Frost chuckled. "Oh, I'm sorry, lad, but this isn't a playground. You need to be able to wield mana."

Arthur raised a brow. "I can."

Frost's expression faltered slightly. "Odd. I can't detect your mana signature."

Arthur froze. Then, with an internal curse, he reached for the small silver chain around his neck—the pendant Lieutenant Scarlet had given him, the one that suppressed his mana. He tucked it into his pocket.

The reaction was immediate.

Frost's eyes widened. "Ah. Fire and earth affinities, huh? That's a rare combination." He studied Arthur for a moment, then smirked. "And… oh? You've got a blessing, too."

Arthur's muscles tensed. "How do you know that?"

Frost tapped his temple. "A person's mana signature tells you more than you'd think. It's a dying art, unfortunately."

Arthur's mind raced. That… sounded like a skill worth learning. "Can you teach me?"

Frost chuckled, shaking his head. "You don't have the eyes for it."

Arthur exhaled through his nose. Of course. If he were the protagonist, this would be the moment where he miraculously unlocked some hidden potential and instantly mastered the technique. But, alas. He was not the protagonist.

'I bet Noah's got the eyes for it' he complained inwardly. Damn named characters and their genetic freak abilities.'

Arthur sighed, pushing aside the thought. "So?" he asked. "Can I sign up or not?"

Frost grinned. "There's no signing up. Just show up. Anyone who wants to test you can do so."

Arthur shrugged. 'Why not?' A quick spar sounded like a good way to work up an appetite before breakfast.

He hopped down from the stands, landing lightly in the middle of the arena. Though the seats were filled with people, no one was fighting—only watching. Their gazes followed him with curiosity as he strolled across the sand, his boots kicking up small puffs of dust.

Spotting a discarded spear, he bent down and picked it up, testing the weight in his hand. Then, turning to the crowd, he

spoke.

"Uh… my name's Arthur. Pleasure to meet you all." He gave an awkward little bow. "If anyone's up for some light fun, I'd be happy to spar."

Silence.

Arthur could hear Frost dying of laughter in the background, and his face immediately heated up.

Then, finally, someone called out, "You're supposed to say your Rank."

Ah. Right. That made sense.

"Oh. I'm an E-rank."

A low murmur spread through the crowd. Arthur wasn't sure if that was good or bad. By his own judgment, it wasn't impressive—he knew the protagonist of this world would be a solid D+ in a year's time, but that guy was broken. The difficulty of moving from E to D was leagues harder than F to E.

"D-rank here," a voice rang out.

Arthur turned toward the speaker. A young man, a few years older than him, stepped forward. He had striking deep-blue eyes and long blond hair that fell just past his shoulders. Confidence radiated from his every movement.

"If you're willing," the man said, flashing a winning smirk.

Arthur nodded. "Sure."

The blond fighter hopped down from the stands with ease, moving like he weighed nothing. He strode across the sand and bent down to pick up a short sword, twirling it experimentally before settling into a ready stance.

"We'll start on three," he declared.

Arthur shifted his grip on the spear, exhaling slowly.

There were two reasons he had come to the arena today. One: it was a good way to integrate with the people here. Two: it was the perfect place to test out the Falling Sun style freely.

After all, if his plans went right, these people wouldn't be alive by the end of the year, so it would remain relatively hidden.

The moment they both steadied themselves, the air around them shimmered, glowing faintly blue. Arthur felt something settle over him—thin, weightless, but undeniably there.

A protective field, he realized. So we don't accidentally kill each other.

The blond fighter met his gaze. "Ready?"

Arthur nodded.

"Okay, then." The man smiled.

"One…"

Arthur tensed.

"Three."

The bastard lunged immediately, cutting off the count.

Arthur barely had time to react before the man was upon him, moving with startling speed. Fast. Faster than anyone he had faced before.

Arthur responded instinctively—Fireclaw, Imperial First Style. His spear shot forward, four arcs of fire trailing its path. He pressed forward, switching rapidly—Fifth style, Seventh, Ninth. Attack, attack, attack.

Yet, despite the onslaught, his opponent remained unshaken. The man parried or sidestepped each strike with ease, his movements precise and controlled. Arthur was pushing forward relentlessly, yet it never felt like he was winning. The blond fighter wasn't struggling—he was simply defending, waiting.

Then he disappeared.

Arthur blinked. 'What?'

The next thing he knew, something slammed into his back. Hard. He was sent flying, barely managing to twist midair and roll to his feet before he crashed.

He whipped around—nothing.

'Invisibility skill?'

Earthstep.

Arthur bolted across the arena, the ground beneath him turning fluid, pushing him forward with unnatural speed. He needed time to analyze, time to think—so he had to stay moving.

That was the plan, at least.

Instead, he ran straight into something solid.

A grunt of pain left his lips as he slammed onto the ground. His vision spun, and he barely had time to register a shadowlooming over him before he rolled away on pure instinct—just as a sword sliced down, narrowly missing where his head had been.

Arthur's eyes snapped up. 'There you are, you invisible bastard.'

His spear was gone, but that didn't matter. His knuckles itched to meet this guy's face. He surged forward, ready to swing—

The sword disappeared.

His mind barely had time to process what had happened before pain exploded in his shoulder. The strike landed so cleanly, so precisely, that if not for the arena's barrier, he would've lost an arm.

The force of the mana-enhanced blow sent him skidding across the sand.

Arthur's instincts screamed at him to move, but before he could react, the cold touch of a blade pressed against his throat.

A slow exhale.

"I guess that's my win, huh, kid?"

Arthur bit back a growl. His jaw tightened as frustration boiled in his gut. He hadn't even had the chance to use Falling Sun. From start to finish, his opponent had completely dictated the fight. It wasn't like battle, where Arthur could rely on strategy, trickery, and terrain.

This was one-on-one. And in a one-on-one?

He'd been outclassed.

The blond fighter extended a hand. Arthur hesitated—then grabbed it, allowing himself to be pulled upright.

"The name's Ace."

Arthur dusted himself off and nodded. "Nice power you've got there, Ace."

Ace grinned, spinning his sword lazily before sheathing it. "Yeah. Not bad, huh?"

Arthur forced himself to smile, but inside, his mind was already racing.

He'd lost. That was fine.

But next time?

Next time would be different. That blonde breadstick was going to lose. 'I bet the bastard's charm is C rank' he growled inwardly.

Arthur made his way back to the stands, where Frost was lounging as if he hadn't a care in the world. The man looked up with a wide grin, his golden eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Well, now that you've had a good hiding, why don't we grab some food, eh? Whaddya say, Art?"

Arthur groaned. "My name's Arthur."

Frost tilted his head, pretending to think. "Art?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Alright then, Fro, let's go."

Frost blinked in surprise, then threw his head back in laughter. "There might be some hope for you yet, Art," he said,

slapping Arthur on the shoulder and steering him toward the mess hall.

Arthur let himself be dragged along, eager to eat away the sting of defeat.

Unfortunately, the rest of the day proved far less interesting.

Arthur had been hoping—praying—that his transfer to Amne' Fort would give him access to vital information. Battle plans, security details, something useful. But instead? He was stuck doing administrative work.

At first, he held out hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd find something important buried in the endless forms and reports. But no. Everything he handled was mundane. Petty grievances. Supply requests. Scheduling conflicts. Useless.

He glanced at Frost, wondering if he was at least doing something worthwhile.

Nope.

The lieutenant was sitting behind his laptop, playing some game, his fingers tapping lazily against the keys.

Arthur frowned, confusion stirring in his gut. He had been transferred here. So why was he stuck doing this busywork? 

'Was it Officer Reftia?'

It was the only thing that made sense. But if she was behind this, then—

'Where was she?'

By the time Arthur finished for the day, he was carrying a sleeping Lieutenant Frost over his shoulder.

The man had somehow managed to do absolutely nothing and still passed out from exhaustion. Arthur had half a mind to drop him on the floor, but with a sigh, he tossed Frost onto his bunk instead.

Then, he tried to sleep.

And failed.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, mind racing. His body wasn't tired. Not like it usually was. There was no soreness in his muscles, no satisfying ache that signaled a day well spent.

He tossed. Turned.

After an hour, he gave up.

'Fuck it. Let's train.'

Arthur slipped out of bed, changed into his uniform, and made his way back to the arena.

It was empty. Just how he wanted it.

He hopped down into the sand, picking up a discarded spear. First, he stretched. Then, he moved through the forms of the Imperial Spear style, his body flowing on instinct.

He imagined an opponent—Syar. He had sparred with him the most, after all. He pictured the way Syar moved, the way he countered, the way he struck.

And yet, the more Arthur practiced, the more he realized—

This style is too restrictive.

It forced him into rigid forms. It didn't allow for the creative use of his affinities. His fire and earth abilities were too basic, too predictable.

His movements slowed as his mind drifted.

'What can I use Earth for?'

The arena's invisible barrier prevented healing. His Regenerative Blood was useless here. His blood affinity was still locked. His experience with the Falling Sun style was lacking.

There was so much to work on.

'Alright. Priorities.'

First, he needed something like Noah's Wind Sense—a way to detect movement. Earth was perfect for that. Second, he needed to improve Falling Sun. The rest could wait.

Arthur took a deep breath. Tensed. Then he relaxed.

Being stiff was a mistake.

Fluidity. Composure. Those are vital in battle.

"Mana Surge."

Energy coursed through his body, flooding his limbs. He shot forward—

And activated Shooting Star mid-step.

The world blurred. A ripple of power surged around him, his speed doubling in an instant as he thrust forward with destructive power.

And immediately felt the massive drain of mana.

'Shit.'

This wasn't sustainable. He was forcing mana through his body instead of letting it flow.

Like Officer Reftia said—efficiency.

He adjusted. Instead of pushing mana, he tried to guide it. Visualized it running through his limbs like a natural current rather than an external force.

It felt wrong.

Like trying to piss yourself on purpose.

His body fought against the instinct, but—

"Mana Surge."

The effect was immediate. The mana drain was significantly lower.

Encouraged, he tried again—

"Shooting Star."

Mana coalesced—

And then, his concentration broke.

Pain shot through his skull as his reserves emptied completely. He collapsed onto the sand, gasping.

"Fuck, man."

His limbs trembled. His vision swam. But instead of resting, he forced himself to sit up.

Instead of waiting for his mana to recover naturally, he reached down and tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve, tying it around his eyes.

'When the body is drained of mana, it is most open to feeling it.'

That was what Syar had told him.

He took off his shoes, letting his feet connect directly with the earth. Then, blindfolded, he moved through the Imperial Spear forms again.

His body ached. His breathing grew heavy. But he focused.

Tried to feel the flow of earth mana.

Tried to connect with it.

Earthstep.

His mana stirred, guiding his steps, his movements becoming smoother, faster—

SMACK!

Pain exploded through his face as he ran headfirst into the arena wall.

"Ahhh, fuck."

He stumbled back, groaning. Ripped off the blindfold.

His mana reserves had recovered just enough to attempt Shooting Star again.

He exhaled sharply.

'This training isn't going to be nice.' He'd shuffle between developing his Earth affinity whilst using Imperial spear style and his Falling Sun style.

But his fight with Ace had made something clear—

In battle, most of the soldiers he'd fought didn't wield mana anywhere near the level a MageKnight could. And those who did? He had only won through luck, brains, or outside help.

That wouldn't be the case here.

Arthur steadied himself.

'Well. No point complaining.'

He trained for hours.

Over and over. Until his body trembled from exhaustion. Until his mind grew sluggish. Until he had to fight just to keep his eyes open.

And only then, when his muscles screamed and his breath came in ragged gasps, did he return to the barracks.

He welcomed the ache.

It was a good pain. A real pain. A sign that he was getting stronger.

After a quick shower, he changed into fresh clothes and collapsed onto his bed.

This time?

Sleep came easily.