The Ones Who Burn Too Bright

A few weeks had passed since my first day of sword training. And honestly? Things were going… decent? I guess?

I wasn't dry-heaving after warm-ups anymore, which felt like progress. My arms still shook after drills, and my wrists were a constant state of sore, but at least I could sleep afterward without feeling like I'd been trampled by a warhorse.

I was surviving.

But that didn't mean I was safe.

Every lesson, every swing of the blade, I kept waiting for the question.

Why do you move like that? Why does your balance shift before you fall? Why does your breath catch when it shouldn't?

And today?

Calden was acting different.

Not softer—he was never soft. But distant. Like his body was here, pacing, correcting, calling out my stance... but his thoughts were somewhere else.

We'd finished drills, moved on to some mid-level forms, and I was catching my breath—sword planted in the dirt, arms burning—when he spoke out of nowhere.

"There used to be more than five."

I blinked.

"More what?"

He didn't look at me. Just started cleaning his practice blade.

"Styles," he said. "Sword forms. Call them what you want."

That got my attention.

"Like… more than the five you've been teaching me? Dragon, Demon, all that?"

He gave a short grunt. "Old stories. Forgotten stuff. Things the academies don't talk about anymore. Most of it's probably nonsense—scraps of myth wrapped in hero worship. The kind of crap that gets desperate young swordsmen killed."

His voice had a bitterness to it. Not angry—just... tired. Like someone remembering something that still hurt to think about.

Well, now I really wanted to know.

"So what happened to them?" I asked, wiping sweat from my brow.

"Time. War. Politics." He shrugged. "Maybe they never existed. Maybe they were wiped out. Or maybe someone didn't like what they could do."

He tossed the rag aside and finally looked at me. His eyes weren't sharp this time. They were distant. Like he was seeing someone else.

"Doesn't matter. What you need to focus on is mastering what's real."

And then, as if the air hadn't just shifted around us, he clapped his hands hard.

"Now stop gawking and get back into stance. Your footwork's still garbage."

Fair enough.

But as I picked up my blade again, something twisted in my gut.

If something's forgotten… doesn't that mean it existed once?

Training continued in silence.

We moved through forms. Again and again and again. The repetition was meant to grind the bad habits out of me, but all it did was stir the wrong thoughts loose.

And Calden? He watched me. Too closely.

Not the usual way. Not the "your balance sucks" way.

This was… different.

Judging something he wasn't saying.

He wasn't correcting mistakes. He was measuring something.

Waiting.

"You're adjusting mid-swing," he said suddenly, just as I finished a parry drill.

I froze.

"What?"

"You're compensating—subtly. Too subtly for instinct."

He stepped closer, gesturing at my elbow. "Most people flinch when off-balance. You're correcting before the imbalance happens."

I blinked. Swallowed.

I tried to play dumb. Shrugged. "Lucky reflexes?"

He didn't answer right away. Just stared. Then turned his back and walked over to the weapons rack.

He picked up another wooden blade. Weighed it in his hand like it meant something.

"You ever feel like something's… guiding you?" he asked, tone too casual to be accidental.

My mouth dried.

"Guiding?"

"Like your body reacts to danger before your mind does."

I forced a chuckle. "Isn't that just training?"

"Maybe." He handed me the second blade. "Again. And this time—stop thinking."

That part scared me more than I expected.

Because thinking was how I kept it hidden.

But I moved. I did what he asked. Sword in hand, I let my body take over.

And during one of the swings… I felt it.

Not saw. Not decided. Felt.

My shoulder moved half a second early, like the wind had whispered it would need to.

The strike landed smoother. Cleaner.

And Calden noticed.

His expression didn't change much, but his eyes lingered on me longer than usual. Like he was seeing something familiar.

"You remind me of someone," he said, voice low.

I gripped the sword tighter. "Who?"

"Someone who used to pretend he was ordinary, too."

My breath caught.

"What happened to him?" I asked, the words barely above a whisper.

Calden stared at the ground for a moment.

"He stopped pretending."

Then he turned and walked away.

Said nothing else.

Left me standing there in the dirt with a blade in my hand and my heart pounding against my ribs.

Later that night, when the mansion had gone quiet and my muscles screamed with every movement, I curled up in my bed and stared at the ceiling.

What does he know?

Why hasn't he said anything?

Why is he watching me like that?

And more than anything—

Why did that last swing feel so… right?

--Calden--

--Entry 47--

It's been twelve years.

And I still see his eyes every time I blink.

He was just a village boy. No bloodline. No crest. Just wild talent and the kind of mana that made the air hum when he breathed. I took him in because I saw what he could become—what he should have become.

They called it a blessing. Overflow Mana. Raw, untamed, limitless. But in the end, it was just a spark in a leaking vessel.

And then came the Hollowing.

Not sudden. Not violent.

It started small—fatigue after training. Numbness in his fingers. A flicker of magic that faltered mid-cast.

We thought it was overuse.

We were wrong.

The Hollowing doesn't strike like lightning. It drains. Slowly. Quietly. It strips you, piece by piece, until there's nothing left to hold your soul together.

No mana. No aura. Just a husk.

I watched him fade.

And the worst part?

He knew it.

He felt it happening.

He smiled less. Spoke less. Ate less. Moved like the world didn't weigh anything anymore—because it didn't matter anymore.

They say the only cure is a White Aura sacrifice.

And no one sacrifices something like that for a no-name boy with no title.

Not even me.

He didn't die that year.

He died over the next four.

And I let it happen.

I still train with discipline. I still teach the blade with order.

But I've never taken a student like that again.

Until now.

--Entry 96--

The noble boy. Kaelen, it is.

His father paid me a fortune to teach him swordsmanship.

Money can buy everything these days, huh?

It's been two weeks since we began—Dragon Style, the classic. Posture, control, measured strikes. All noble families want their sons looking like statues with swords. Not warriors. Not killers. Just ornaments with good balance.

But Kaelen...

He's different.

He listens. Not just hears—listens. Moves like he knows what I'm going to say before I say it. Fails, sure. Gets frustrated, like any child. But there's something beneath it.

Something that doesn't make sense.

His father—Dravon Selkareth—is a Ghostborn. So is the mother, Thalira. I've seen both of their aura tests with my own eyes. Flat. Null. Zero resonance.

And yet...

Why can I feel flickers of mana whenever I stand too close to the boy?

It's subtle. Barely there. Like static under my skin.

He never casts. Never speaks incantations. Not even accidental flares, like most young talents.

But the pressure is real.

The spark is there.

And I've only ever felt that once before.

--Entry 97--

I've only ever felt that once before.

That same flicker.

That same instinct that something inside the student burns too bright to stay hidden forever.

The boy from the village.

The one the Hollowing took.

He had that same pressure in the air when he trained. The same impossible rhythm. The same subtle shifts in the flow of mana—like the world was adjusting to him before he even moved.

And no one believed me.

By the time they saw it for themselves, it was too late.

I won't let that happen again.

I won't lose another one to silence.

If Kaelen is what I think he is, he's either going to burn too fast—

—or be the one spark that doesn't go out.

Let's just hope I'm still here to see which.

God I'm getting old.