The training field was a kill zone.
Not in the literal sense—though Elric Marrow seemed determined to change that. It was barely dawn, yet the air already stank of sweat, iron, and churned-up soil. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around boots and blunted blades. No birds. No wind. Just the sound of ten simultaneous sparring matches and the occasional grunt of pain.
Leon exhaled through clenched teeth and reset his footing.
He and Fena had been locked in a mock bout for five minutes straight, with no pause. That was the rule today: no resets, no corrections, no interruptions. Fight until one of you dropped or the bell rang.
She lunged low, trying to get under his guard. He pivoted, redirected, and clipped her shoulder. Not a clean hit, but enough to make her curse and backpedal.
They circled. Sweat dripped into Leon's eyes. His calves burned from the constant shifting.
"You're getting faster," she said.
"You're getting predictable."
She grinned. Then came at him again.
Elric stalked the rows like a warden in a prison yard, barking observations, critiques, and the occasional insult. Rellan was two lines down, partnered with a long-legged duelist from the eastern dominion. Neither held back. Sparks flew with every clash.
Leon barely registered them. His world had shrunk to Fena's blade, the heat rising in his spine, and the rhythm of threat and answer.
Then, a bell.
Sparring ended. All at once.
Leon stepped back, breathing hard.
Fena dropped her blade into the grass and flopped backward. "Stars, I hate him."
"You hate everyone who makes you sweat."
"That's not true. I like you."
He sat beside her. The grass was wet. His shirt clung like a second skin.
Elric approached the center of the field. "Form up," he ordered.
They did. Slowly. Grudgingly. But no one disobeyed.
"You want to know what rank means?" Elric said, pacing before them. "It means nothing if you fight like children. Power is a product of control. And right now, half of you would die the moment you crossed swords with someone who's lived through real war."
He turned toward Leon.
"You. Thorne. Step forward."
Leon did.
"Draw."
He drew.
Elric pointed to another. "Rellan. You too."
A hush fell over the cohort.
Rellan smirked as he stepped forward. "Again? I thought you wanted us fresh for evaluations."
"I want you honest. Both of you. No blunted blades this time."
That changed everything.
Real swords.
Leon saw it in Rellan's eyes—that flicker of delight. The invitation for blood.
"On your marks," Elric said.
They took position.
Leon could feel it again—that low thrum in his bones. Not fear. Not quite. But something very near it.
Rellan moved first. Quick. Confident.
Leon met him halfway.
Steel rang like thunder.
The clash echoed across the stone pillars bordering the field. Leon's grip numbed briefly from the force. Rellan twisted his blade immediately, trying to catch Leon off-balance with a follow-up sweep to the ribs.
Leon dropped low. Not a crouch—too obvious—but a sudden body check that disrupted Rellan's footing and robbed him of clean leverage. His sword nicked Leon's shoulder as they passed.
Pain flared. Sharp and real.
Leon didn't flinch. He pivoted and brought his blade down in a diagonal slash, but Rellan rolled through it, fast and low.
Students shouted, pulling back from the boundary.
Elric said nothing.
Leon adjusted his breathing, shifting stance. The weight of the live blade changed everything. His balance had to be tighter, his reach precise. One mistake and blood would mean more than a scratch.
Rellan grinned. "That hurt?"
Leon didn't answer. He waited.
Rellan advanced again. Faster now. The strikes came in rapid succession—one high, one low, a third flicking for the neck.
Leon parried the first, blocked the second with his forearm guard, and leaned just far enough to feel the third graze the edge of his ear.
He gritted his teeth and stepped into Rellan's space.
A hard shoulder ram knocked them both off balance, but Leon followed through, slashing down.
Rellan twisted, his blade catching Leon's mid-air. The steel locked.
For a second, neither moved.
Leon stared into Rellan's eyes—wide, focused, unblinking.
Then Leon did something Rellan hadn't expected.
He let go.
Hand still on the hilt, he released the pressure and allowed Rellan's strength to carry forward. Leon stepped under the swing and used the momentum to elbow him in the ribs.
Rellan stumbled.
Leon retrieved his grip, reversed the blade, and drove it toward Rellan's hip.
A whistle split the air.
"Enough," Elric barked.
Both swords stopped mid-motion.
Leon breathed out hard.
Rellan coughed, one hand pressed to his ribs.
They stepped back.
Blood dotted Leon's arm. A clean line cut through his sleeve.
He didn't feel it.
Elric walked between them.
"You're learning," he said to Leon.
To Rellan: "And you're not untouchable."
The crowd murmured, low and uncertain.
Leon turned. Eyes followed him.
He didn't care.
He'd survived.
And this time, they saw it too.
He started toward the barracks, but Elric's voice cut through the stillness.
"Thorne. Not done yet."
Leon paused. Turned.
Elric gestured to the northern end of the field, where training dummies and obstacle rigs stood.
"You're up for strength and speed trials. No lunch. No breaks."
Leon didn't argue. He just nodded and walked.
Fena passed him a flask wordlessly. He took a long pull and handed it back.
The course was brutal. Weighted logs. Rope climbs. Ring bridges. The dummies were enchanted to strike back now—testing reflex and endurance.
Leon went through all of it.
Three rounds. No shortcuts.
By the end, his muscles trembled with exhaustion. But he didn't drop. He didn't sit.
Elric watched silently. Then nodded once.
Leon nodded back.
That night, as he lay on the hard cot in the Cohort barracks, bruised and aching, he felt something unfamiliar settle into his chest.
Not pride.
Conviction.
He hadn't come back just to survive.
He came to surpass.
And the fault line was shifting.
It was well past lights-out when Leon finally sat up again. The barracks were quiet, save for the rhythmic creak of ropes from the upper bunks and the faint snores of exhausted trainees. His shoulder throbbed where Rellan's blade had grazed it. The pain was constant now—a dull reminder that he was still too slow.
He dressed silently and stepped outside, boots crunching over the gravel path leading to the back yard of the training compound. The night air bit through his sweat-damp shirt, but he didn't flinch. He made his way toward the isolated sparring circle—far from the eyes of Elric or the cohort.
He needed more.
More cuts. More bruises. More hours.
He drew his sword.
The moonlight shimmered against the steel as he moved through the first form. Slow. Deliberate. He winced as the motion pulled at his wounded shoulder—but he didn't stop.
Footwork. Thrust. Recover. Step. Cut.
Again.
His breathing slowed, deepened. The pain became a part of the rhythm.
He pushed into the next form—one he hadn't used since the old life. A sweeping arc followed by a half-step feint and twist. The edge sliced through the night air cleanly.
Again.
And again.
He wasn't training to impress them.
He was training for war.
Far behind him, a window shutter clicked open. A faint glow spilled across the ground, but Leon didn't look. He knew someone was watching. Maybe Fena. Maybe Elric. Maybe no one.
Didn't matter.
He moved through the drills until his legs ached and his arm wouldn't lift.
Then he sheathed the blade, and walked back inside.
Tomorrow, they'd all line up again.
And tomorrow, he'd be sharper.
Faster.
Closer.
To the man he should've been the first time around.