The Afternoon air at Training Field C was heavy with the scent of damp earth and dew. The rugged terrain sprawled ahead, scattered with uneven ground, combat dummies, and obstacle courses. Students huddled together in small groups, murmuring anxiously. Overhead, a faintly humming essence-measuring device stood sentinel, its crystal orb glinting in the morning sun.
This was the venue for Abyssal Weapons Mastery class.
Cadets gathered in clusters, some shivering from expectations of the next teacher, who was said to have been given the title of war hero and a medal of honor, others were fidgeting nervously. Conversations buzzed through the air in hushed tones, punctuated by occasional laughter from the confident nobles and merchant-class kids.
A sharp whistle cut through the air, silencing the murmurs. General Danik strode into view, his boots crunching against gravel with military precision.
He was a hulking figure, broad-shouldered and clad in a dark combat uniform that bore countless scars, much like the man himself. The man exuded authority—a mountain of muscle in a crisp black-and-gray uniform.
A jagged mark ran down the left side of his face, cutting through the milky orb of a ruined eye. His remaining eye was piercing and hard, sweeping over the group like a predator sizing up prey.
His scarred face, like a weathered map, carried stories of countless battles. A patch over his left eye only made his penetrating gaze sharper.
Danik stopped in the center of the field, resting his hands on his hips. "Essence," he began, his voice gravelly and loud enough to carry over the field, ignoring any greetings, "is nothing but a crutch if your body can't back it up."
His words struck like hammer blows, silencing even the cockiest students. "What good is throwing fire if you drop after three swings? What's the point of fancy water shields if you can't dodge a punch? Let me make this clear—resilience keeps you alive. Not essence. Not tricks. You fall? You die. Simple as that."
"You know, they said the same thing at CQC" Cole whispered into Roland's ear earning a chuckle from him.
Danik began pacing, his boots crunching over gravel. "Some of you," he gestured broadly, "think your fancy family names or your expensive abilities will save you. They won't."
His eye fixed briefly on Roland, then shifted to Cole and the Frost twins, as if he already knew who would stand out. "And for those of you starting with nothing—good. You've got no excuses when you fail."
Roland stood still, his hands clenched at his sides. Danik's words resonated deeply, though not in the way he intended. Roland knew what it meant to have nothing—to claw for every ounce of strength.
'Do people even fail military school?' They all asked themselves, no one daring to say it out loud.
Danik's claps shattered the silence. "Pair up! Hand-to-hand first. No essence. Let's see what you've got!"
The students scrambled into pairs, the field erupting in movement. Roland found himself standing opposite a boy with slicked-back hair and a uniform far too clean for the gritty arena. Alan Tyrex, a merchant-class cadet whose family owned a string of weapon shops, looked him over with a sneer.
"Empty, right?" Alan drawled, flexing his fingers like he was warming up for a game. "This won't take long."
Roland didn't respond. He shifted into a low stance, keeping his movements precise and deliberate. Alan lunged first, overconfident and telegraphing every step. Roland sidestepped cleanly, catching his opponent's wrist and twisting just enough to make Alan stumble.
"What the—" Alan hissed, regaining his balance. He came at Roland again, this time faster, throwing wild punches. Roland ducked under one and delivered a quick jab to Alan's ribs. The merchant-class boy grunted, staggering backward.
The crowd's whispers grew louder. Roland heard snippets:
"Wait, the Empty's winning?"
"How's he moving like that?"
Alan, his face flushed with humiliation, charged recklessly. Roland pivoted, sweeping his leg and knocking Alan to the ground with a loud thud. The watching students gasped as Alan sprawled in the dirt, clutching his side.
Sergeant Danik watched with a neutral expression, but a faint nod betrayed his approval. "Hmph. Not bad, Kuiper. You're rough, but you've got guts."
Before Roland could savor the moment, the second phase of sparring began. This time, essence was allowed. Alan's smirk returned as he unleashed a gust of wind essence, sending Roland stumbling back. The disparity was painfully clear now—Alan's attacks were erratic but powerful, and Roland lacked the experience to counter.
By the time the drill ended, Roland was breathing hard, his arms scraped from repeated falls. Alan shot him a triumphant glare, but Roland didn't care. He'd proven something, if only to himself.
Not far away, another match was brewing—and exploding—into chaos. Cole faced off against Braxion Grey, a noble with sharp cheekbones and a colder-than-ice demeanor. Braxion's water abilities flowed in controlled arcs, dousing Cole's aggressive fire strikes with maddening ease.
"Typical Inferno," Braxion taunted, stepping back with a smug grin. "All flash, no control. You're just another hotheaded Cindercrest."
Cole's jaw tightened, flames flaring hotter in his palms. He shot a wild fireball at Braxion, missing completely and scorching a nearby training dummy instead. Braxion laughed, taunting, "Pathetic."
The insult snapped something in Cole. He unleashed a massive wave of flame, the heat crackling through the air. The fire shot past Braxion, slamming into a stack of equipment. The sudden burst of destruction silenced the entire field.
"CINDERCREST!" Danik's roar was louder than the flames. He stormed over, his eye blazing with fury. "Reckless. Disgraceful. Control is everything, and you have none. SIT OUT!"
Cole, his face burning with shame, trudged to the sidelines. His hands clenched and unclenched as he muttered something under his breath.
The tension carried into the evening. Back in their dorm, Roland returned to find Ian alone, sitting cross-legged on his bed. The faint hum of a broken fan filled the silence. Cole was still out somewhere, likely enduring one of Danik's infamous lectures.
Roland tossed his bag onto his bed and sat down, the mattress creaking under his weight.
Despite not wanting to talk to him and as much as he hayed it Roland brought himself to ask, "rough day?"
Ian looked up, startled by the question. "It's always rough," he admitted softly, his voice barely audible. "Doesn't matter how much I try. I'm always a step behind."
Roland hesitated, unsure how to respond. He wasn't great at this kind of thing, plus he still didn't trust Ian so he just kept quiet.
Late that night, long after Ian and Cole had gone to sleep, Roland slipped out of the dorm. The indoor training field was silent, its polished floor gleaming under the dim moonlight. Roland settled into a lotus position in the center of the room, closing his eyes and focusing on the essence around him.
Drawing in raw essence was like trying to tame a storm. Every breath brought a mix of chaotic energy that swirled and fought against his control. But Roland persisted, shaping and converting the essence into something he could claim as his own.
A dark-grey holographic screen materialized before him, its slick, particle-like edges shimmering faintly.
[Daily Mission Completed]
[+1 Essence Control]
[+0.5 Stamina]
Roland exhaled deeply, sweat dripping down his temples. The process was exhausting but satisfying, a small victory in a world where every step mattered.
"Status," he whispered. The screen shifted seamlessly.
[Host: Roland Kuiper]
[Age: 16]
[Ability: Lux Umbra - Current: Umbra]
[Attributes:]
Strength: 12 (Average 10)
Stamina: 12 (Average 8)
Agility: 6 (Average 6)
[Essence Points (EP): 27/27 (Ember)]
[Health Points (HP): 82/100]
A new notification flickered into view.
[Daily Mission Received]
[Improve Physicality]
[-Lateral Plyometric Drills (30 jumps)
- Stand next to a hurdle or a raised surface, then jump sideways over it, focusing on explosive power and quick, controlled landings.]
[-20 Diamond Push-ups]
[Reward: +0.7 Strength | +0.4 Agility]
Despite his aching limbs, Roland rose and began the drills. His movements were slow at first, but determination fueled him. Each jump, each push-up, was a step closer to closing the gap between himself and those who underestimated him.