Blade and the Path Ahead

The air in the training courtyard was sharp with the scent of iron and sweat.

Ray stood under the early morning sun, his jacket folded neatly beside a bench. A simple training uniform replaced the formal robes of court. His silver hair was tied back, sweat dampening his temples as he steadied his breath.

Across from him stood a tall man with a rugged face, a deep scar running from his left brow to his jaw. Dressed in a dark tunic, his hand rested loosely on the hilt of a practice blade.

"Again," the instructor said, voice gruff.

Ray tightened his grip on his sword and charged.

Steel clashed against steel. The impact rattled through Ray's arm, but he didn't let go. His opponent was fast—faster than he looked. But Ray wasn't trying to win. Not yet.

He was learning.

The instructor—Sir Garron Vale—was one of the empire's famed swordmasters. Once a battlefield commander, now a ghost in the palace, training only those deemed "worth the time." In Ray's past life, he never even caught the man's attention.

But this time, after his awakening, Emperor Luke had quietly assigned Sir Garron to him.

"Your left side is still open," Garron barked, sidestepping a horizontal slash and flicking his sword toward Ray's ribs.

Ray blocked, barely, stumbling back two steps.

"Too slow."

Ray exhaled hard and lowered his blade.

"Again," Garron said.

This time, Ray didn't hesitate. He surged forward with Wind Spirit swirling around his limbs. His movements grew lighter, his body faster. He struck with a feint, then twisted, sending a burst of wind toward Garron's feet.

The man didn't even flinch.

His blade struck through the wind, meeting Ray's sword again, pushing him off balance.

"Good try," Garron said, stepping back. "But spirit is not a crutch. Control it, don't rely on it."

Ray dropped to one knee, breathing heavily.

"You've improved," Garron added after a pause. "Your instincts are sharper than I expected for someone trained by books."

Ray smirked faintly. "I had a good teacher. Pain."

The old man gave him a look that was almost amusement, then turned away.

"You'll rest today. Tomorrow, we duel again."

Ray watched him leave, the ache in his muscles flaring. But deep inside, there was a satisfaction he hadn't felt in a long time.

He wasn't being pitied.

He was being pushed.

Treated as someone who could become strong.

Not someone already written off.

---

Ray sat on the stone bench, wiping sweat from his brow. The sound of footsteps reached him before the presence did.

"I wondered where you'd be hiding," Aldren's voice came, smooth as ever.

Ray looked up to see the Crown Prince approaching, dressed in a black and gold formal coat, though slightly loosened at the collar. His silver-blond hair was perfectly combed, not a wrinkle on his gloves.

"I'm not hiding," Ray said. "I'm training."

Aldren raised a brow, eyes scanning the scuff marks on Ray's uniform. "So I see. Sir Garron doesn't usually bother with anyone under twenty."

"I guess I'm special."

Aldren chuckled. "You always were."

Ray couldn't tell if it was a compliment or sarcasm. Probably both.

The prince sat beside him without asking, glancing up at the sky.

"You've caused quite the stir, little brother," he said after a pause. "Even the council is unsettled."

Ray didn't respond immediately. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

"You're here for something," he said eventually.

Aldren smiled. "As sharp as ever. I came to tell you that your transfer papers have been approved."

"Transfer?"

"To the Royal Spirit Academy. You'll begin next month."

Ray went still.

He remembered the Academy.

In his past life, he had never been accepted. His low awakening rank had disqualified him, and no noble faction backed him strongly enough to overrule that.

He spent those years buried in paperwork while others honed their craft, built alliances, gained power.

Now, the Academy awaited.

"That fast?" he asked.

"You made it impossible to ignore," Aldren said. "Four affinities. A-grade. Void. No one wants to say it, but you're the most significant awakening the Empire has seen in years."

Ray didn't answer.

Aldren stood, brushing dust from his sleeve.

"You'll meet others there. Children of dukes. Heirs of military clans. Even those backed by foreign branches of the Church."

"Enemies," Ray said.

Aldren nodded. "Potential allies too, if you're smart."

Ray looked up at him. "And you?"

Aldren turned slightly, just enough for Ray to see the sharp glint in his eyes.

"I'll be watching. As always."

Then he walked away, leaving Ray alone with the sound of the wind and his heartbeat.

---

That night, Ray sat in his private chamber, going over notes George had prepared.

Maps of the Academy.

Names of enrolled students.

Factions.

Timetables.

George leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed.

"You'll have to choose a path soon," he said.

Ray glanced at him. "You mean between Spirit Mage and Spirit Knight."

George nodded. "The Academy will ask for your declaration after your first practical assessment. And your choice will affect how they treat you."

Ray leaned back in his chair.

He'd been considering this.

Most would expect him to go the Mage route. Four affinities meant vast magical potential. Wind and Thunder offered offense and speed. Frost gave control and Void... Void was something else entirely.

But the memory of steel against his hand, the ache in his muscles from the morning's spar, grounded him.

He didn't want to be a weapon locked in a tower.

He wanted to move, fight, defend.

Be there.

Like George had been for him.

"I'll choose Knight," he said.

George smiled faintly. "Then I'll increase your blade training."

Ray reached for the map again. His finger traced over the central tower of the Academy, where the core dueling grounds were located.

In his past life, that place was a rumor. A story others told him about.

This time, he'd walk it himself.

Two days later, Ray found himself back in the training courtyard.

This time, Garron didn't hold back.

The duel wasn't just fast—it was brutal.

Ray was forced on the defensive from the first second. Garron's movements were precise, but heavy, each blow meant to punish mistakes.

Ray ducked under a wide slash, rolled, and came up with a wind-enhanced leap toward the instructor's flank.

Their swords clashed mid-air.

Ray spun with thunder sparking at his boots, throwing Garron slightly off balance. He pressed the advantage, following with a thrust aimed for the man's shoulder.

Garron blocked it—but just barely.

Their blades locked.

"You're not bad," Garron muttered. "Still raw. But not bad."

Ray grinned, his breath short. "Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment."

They pushed apart, both landing with a grunt.

Garron dropped his sword tip to the ground.

"That's enough for today," he said. "Next time, I won't go easy."

Ray straightened. "You weren't easy now."

The old man gave a rare smile, then walked away.

George approached from the shade, tossing Ray a cloth.

"You nearly got him."

"Not yet," Ray said, wiping his face. "But I will."

He looked up at the sky.

The sun was rising higher, golden and bright.

A new chapter was waiting.

Not one written by fate or by others.

But by him.