Training for tomorrow

The hallway to the training wing was quieter than I expected. Maybe most students were off eating or blowing off steam after class. I didn't blame them. If I weren't walking around with the weight of tomorrow's dungeon pressing on my shoulders, I might've done the same.

The red book Instructor Keal gave me felt heavier in my bag than it actually was, like it carried more than just pages—maybe expectations too. I kept my head down as I walked, one hand brushing the spine of the book through the fabric of my bag.

The door to the training hall let out a low hiss as it slid open. Inside, the room was wide and open, the floors smooth and reinforced, marked with faint lines and dull scuff marks—evidence of students who'd come here before me, trying to sharpen their skills or burn off frustration.

I stepped in and let the door shut behind me.

A couple of upper-year students were still around, spaced out across different corners, some practicing hand-to-hand moves, others working through slow, deliberate forms with weapons that shimmered faintly with essence. They didn't pay me much attention—and I was grateful for that. I didn't need an audience right now.

I walked over to a quiet corner where training dummies stood lined up against the far wall. Most were already worn—some had scorch marks, others were cut up and patched. I picked one that still looked intact enough to last through what I had planned.

I reached into my system inventory and summoned the Obsidian Fang Daggers.

They formed in my hands with a flicker of shadow sleek, curved, and weightless, yet solid. Holding them sent a small jolt through my arm, like the blades themselves were waking up the second they touched my grip.

I took a deep breath.

Then opened the red book.

The first few pages were basics—grips, stances, edge awareness. Obvious things. But as I flipped deeper, the book began to describe movement: flowing from one strike to the next like a dance, never letting your energy break between attacks. It wasn't about slashing wildly or stabbing fast,it was about knowing why and where you aimed.

"Every step must mean something. Every strike should carry the weight of intent. Your body is not separate from your blade. It is the blade."

I read those words twice, then slid the book to the side and moved toward the dummy.

I started with footwork,simple sidesteps, front lunges, pivots. I wasn't graceful. My balance was off, and my foot dragged twice on the smooth floor when I shifted weight too fast.

But I kept going.

Sweat beaded on my brow quickly. It wasn't from exertion,it was nerves, too. Every move felt like it echoed. Every misstep was loud in my own head.

I started adding in the dagger. Slashes across the dummy's chest. Thrusts to its side. A step in, elbow forward, stab. Pull back, slash across the throat. The dagger whistled through the air, and for a moment, it felt right. Like something was clicking.

I could hear Keal's voice in my head:

"Control the fight before it controls you."

And I tried.

Strike. Turn. Low sweep. Roll under the imaginary counterattack. Drive the blade into the spot the book called the "lung shadow."

I messed up more times than I wanted to admit. My wrists twisted wrong. My footing slipped. I misjudged distance and overextended, feeling the pull in my shoulder.

But I didn't stop.

Time passed—I don't know how long. At some point, most of the other students left, and the room grew quieter. My arms were starting to ache. My legs, too. My breath came shorter.

But I was still moving.

Because tomorrow, I'd be in a real dungeon. There'd be no dummies. No helpful diagrams. Just monsters. Just pressure. And if I hesitated, I wouldn't get a second chance.

With one last pivot, I stepped in and drove the dagger into the chest of the dummy with a shout louder than I meant to. The blade bit deep into the material with a hard thunk, and I stood there, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping from my temple.

It wasn't perfect.

But it was something.

I pulled the dagger free and let both vanish back into my system, then leaned against the wall to catch my breath. My shirt clung to my back. My muscles ached. But beneath all that… there was a tiny ember of satisfaction.

-----------------------------

After catching my breath from dagger practice, I knew I should've been done. My arms were sore, my shirt clung to my back, and a dull ache had settled into my legs. But even as I leaned against the wall, staring at the faint scuff marks on the floor, my thoughts kept drifting to the bow.

The Star Bow.

It had been quiet all day, like it was waiting. Watching.

I pulled the red dagger book from my bag and gently slid it back in. Then I reached into my system inventory and summoned the bow.

It appeared slowly, like it was being drawn out of the sky itself sleek, dark, and impossibly quiet. The kind of weapon that didn't need to shout to demand respect. Light rippled faintly across its surface in soft violet hues, like stardust moving under glass. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at it.

It felt heavier now, in more ways than one. As if it knew what was coming.

I headed toward the far end of the training room where the range targets were lined up. There were a few left floating mid-air, glowing faintly with runes, probably recharged by some instructor earlier in the day. A perfect place to test something I barely understood.

I took my position.

Feet shoulder-width apart. Spine straight. Elbow tucked.

Just like the archery book Keal gave me had described.

I raised the Star Bow and pulled back the string. No arrows in my quiver there never were. As soon as I drew, the bow responded, forming an arrow out of pure energy: a narrow point of soft white light edged with flickers of deep purple.

I exhaled slowly.

Then let go.

Thump.

The arrow flew true, hitting the target . It didn't explode or flare it just... disappeared into it, leaving a soft ripple of light where it struck.

I blinked.

That wasn't normal. Most essence weapons had a bit of flare, some kind of impact glow. But this felt different. Like the bow didn't care about showing off at least

It only cared about the result.

I fired again. And again.

The more I shot, the more I started to notice something: each time I adjusted my stance, corrected my breathing, the bow responded faster. The arrows became more stable, the string hummed steadier, the glow around the bow brightened slightly. It wasn't just reacting, it was learning me.

Or maybe it was the other way around.

I kept going. Slower shots, then faster ones. Mid-range, then long-range. At one point I tried moving between two spots and firing in motion, and though I missed slightly, the shot still held power.

But the cost…

Every shot drained a little more out of me than expected.. Like the bow demanded focus, clarity, presence. If I fired it carelessly, it pushed back. Miss a breath, and it would make me feel it.

This wasn't a weapon for brute force.

It was precise. Demanding. Patient.

And it didn't forgive laziness.

I stepped back after the last arrow, sweat dripping down my temple. My hands were shaking slightly—not out of fear, but from the strange weight of the weapon still vibrating faintly in my grip. I dismissed it slowly, letting the dark metal dissolve into light before fading completely.

For a moment, I just stood there, quiet.

The hall had emptied while I trained. Only a few lights glowed along the walls, casting long shadows on the floor. The windows overhead were tinted orange now, the sky outside bleeding into dusk.

I finally exhaled, my breath fogging just slightly in the cool air.

It wasn't perfect.

My aim was still off at times, my footing clumsy when I moved too fast. But I had taken a step today. I'd started to understand the Star Bow.

Tomorrow would be chaos.

But I wouldn't be walking into it empty-handed.

I turned toward the exit, the last one out of the training hall.

Time to rest. Tomorrow, the real test begins and I knew I wasn't perfect yet but I had to try my best.