The training ground buzzed with chatter as students lined up — just before the professor arrived.
"Students, in today's class, we'll take a precision test," he announced.
"Every student will be assigned a distant target dartboard. Whether you strike with a spell, a weapon, or sheer instinct… we'll be judging your focus, precision, and reaction time. Let's see how sharp your senses really are."
Some combat class students used their physical strength to shoot arrows at the target with great speed.
One student cast a spell to sharpen his arrow before firing it.
Alice added lightning magic to his shot, making it fly even faster.
Some used daggers. Everyone was doing something different.
While everyone was busy with the test, Aslan was still confused about what to do.
He looked to his right, where a student cast a fire spell and hit the target.
Aslan thought, I'll try fire too.
He took a deep breath.
In his mind, he simply thought, Fire — and suddenly, a huge burst of flames erupted from him.
The dartboard was completely destroyed — and half of the wall behind it was gone.
Everyone stood surprised.
The entire training ground had gone dead silent.
It all happened so fast — they barely had time to react.
Even the senior students passing by were impressed.
"Wow… I still can't believe that was a first-year," one whispered in awe.
"Did you see the flames? The explosion?" another added.
"And he didn't even cast a magic circle," a third murmured.
"No spells either," the second said. "He just pointed his hand — and boom."
"That's impossible," the third said, surprised and curious.
"Only a few high-class mages can cast without spells or circles…"
Farther down the corridor, behind one of the tall white pillars,
a green-haired boy with brown eyes watched the scene in silence.
He pressed his thumbnail to his lips, gnawing on it in stress — frustration.
His gaze fixed on Aslan, burning with hatred.
"That filthy commoner… that son of a bitch…!"
He spat the words under his breath, seething.
"Always looks down on nobles…"
His furious eyes didn't leave Aslan even for a second —
a look filled with pure hatred and loathing.
Aslan placed a hand over his forehead, voice low with heartbreak.
"I guess I have no talent in magic…
I can't even cast a small fireball…
And when I finally did, it got so big—
I couldn't even control it…"
The instructor clapped his hands loudly.
"That's enough for today. Back to class, everyone."
Aslan didn't move.
Evening — Training Room
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows through the tall windows.
Inside the training room, Aslan stood alone.
Sweat dripped from his brow. His shirt clung to him, damp from hours of silent practice.
Slash.
Swoosh.
Hoosh.
Each strike carried frustration. Each motion was a quiet scream.
He was breathing hard.
"Haa… Haa…"
His heart was beating fast.
BADUMP—BADUMP.
He dropped to one knee, gasping. The training dummy lay split behind him.
Aslan stared at the sword in his trembling hands.
His crimson eyes burned with exhaustion… and something else.
Suddenly, Aslan flinched.
A faint shift in the air.
He spun around instantly, his sword drawn — its tip pressed against the neck of a hooded stranger standing just behind him.
"Whoa," the man said, clearly surprised. "I didn't expect you to sense me so quickly."
He smirked. ""Well, well… doesn't matter now. You still have to die."."
His voice was low, eerie — like a whisper dragged from the shadows.
Without warning, the stranger lunged, grabbing his blade and charging straight at Aslan.
Aslan stepped back, dodging the strike as their swords clashed.
Clang!
The man grinned. "Aren't you curious? About who I am? Why I want to kill you?"
Aslan didn't reply. He countered with a brutal slash that forced the stranger back.
"Bastard," the man hissed. "I'm trying to be nice here."
He ducked, then added with venom, "It's that attitude of yours — that's why I want you dead."
Their blades met again — a violent symphony of metal.
Thud.
Clash.
Whoosh.
Aslan's eyes darkened, his voice a low growl.
"I don't waste words on scum like you."
The stranger chuckled darkly.
"Ohh… rude, are we? Let's see how long you can keep up that attitude once I tear you apart."
Both fighters grew serious.
Then—
With a roar, the stranger raised his sword, unleashing a thunder-like strike that crashed toward Aslan.
BOOM!
Aslan was thrown back — his body slammed into the far wall with a dull thud.
He hit the floor hard.
But in the very next instant—
He rose to his feet, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth… eyes blazing red.
His voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
"You made a mistake."
He extended his sword, the air around him beginning to tremble.
"Let me show you the price."
Then— Zero Cut was unleashed.
He pointed his sword — straight at the target.
Silver winds began to spiral around the blade, crackling with energy.
A sudden flash of silver light tore through the air —
SWIP! SWIP! SWIP!
Multiple clean slashes shot out from every direction, slicing toward the target with terrifying speed.
The man tried to defend, raising his arms —
But the wind pressure was overwhelming. It crashed in from all sides, breaking his guard before he could react.
CRACK!
The sheer force shattered everything around him — even the stone beneath his feet cracked.
He staggered back, blood spraying. Deep gashes marked his body.
And then —
SLASH!
With a single sharp gust, his left arm was severed, flying across the room.
"AaaAAAHHHH!!" the man howled, his voice raw with agony. "You bastard—! I'll kill you! I swear I'll tear you to PIECES!"
His screams bounced off the stone walls — desperate, guttural.
The kind of pain that cracks bones… and breaks minds.
But Aslan didn't flinch.
His sword still gleamed — the silver wind still howling around it.
And his eyes were colder than death.