After Mark signed his life away to a mega-corporation, it was finally time for class to begin.
To everyone's surprise, the cold and callous Professor Everett was nothing like her usual self.
She burst into the classroom, her hands creating thunderous claps that reverberated throughout the hall. Her movements were loose and fluid—contrasting her usual tired stoicism.
Everett then declared that the class had 'a lot of fucking shit to do today' along with 'everyone's present, I don't care' and then told the class to 'get a fucking move on' to the Training Facilities.
'Maybe if she sent a message to start class in the Training Facility we wouldn't have to waste all this time walking.'
Class 1-A collectively trudged through the campus, eventually reaching the Training Facility.
It was a colossal, sterile expanse that loomed overhead—the facility juxtaposed the more classical style of Kolzig-Bondra's campus with an out-of-place futuristic, brutalist, and pragmatic style.
The walls were a blinding white, polished with a shine. Just about everything at the Academy exuded tangible wealth, and the facility was no different, despite its unique appearance.
Along the facility walls, Professor Everett fiddled with a screen. About two dozen sparring platforms promptly emerged from the floor—groundhog-style
"Partner up with whoever is closest to you in rank. 100 with 49, 48 with 47, 46 with 45, and so on. Hurry up."
The class crowd promptly began to pair up with one another.
Ranni went with Prince Charming, Valeria went with the nerdy Ronald Montour, and Natalia Cristall went with some random named Cole Sillinger.
But amidst the sea of shifting bodies, Mark locked eyes with his partner—a boy who stood eerily still, his bug-eyed stare punched straight into Mark's soul. All other bodies faded and blurred; Mark only saw the wide-eyed boy.
It was Rank 49, Zac Cristall. As Mark saw the dark blue-haired boy for the first time face to face, he couldn't help but wish he was higher ranked.
'This guy might slobber on me. Wait… is he intentionally drifting his eye to the side?'
"Oh hi Mark," Zac said as the two—sort of—locked eyes.
'Did he just…'
Mechanical whirring sounded. A wall turned into a massive weapon rack—a massive array of practice weapons.
Every single weapon imaginable— including duplicates and altered versions— appeared. While the handles seemed normal, the blades were grey with thin blue lines running through them.
"Everyone grab weapons," Everett called out. "Your task is simple. Only use your Art. I will be watching over every single one of you. And if I see any goofing off, lack of trying, or use of anything other than your Art, then I'm failing you for the day. This will be very important for your future within this class."
And with their instructions in tow, everyone began to migrate toward the weapon wall.
Well, everyone besides Mark and Zac—who remained in a standoff. Though Mark occasionally looked around for help.
Zac kept a massive smile on his face, his eyes as wide as humanly possible, all while his left eye drifted far off to the side.
'This has to be intentional, right? He's fucking with me…'
"Abbott, Cristall, get a move on," Professor Everett called out.
"Professor, can I have a word with you?" Mark asked, still staring at Zac.
"Make it quick."
With that, Mark was freed from the standoff. Zac took it as a sign of victory, quickly moving with the rest of the class to the weapon wall.
"What is it?" Everett asked, maintaining a watchful eye on the class majority.
Before asking his question, Mark couldn't help but notice her foot, which jittered against the smooth concrete at an unnatural speed—which was quite obnoxious during a conversation.
'Is she coked out of her mind or something?'
"You said we had to use Arts, right?" he asked.
"That's right. Got a problem?"
"I do, actually. I don't have an Art."
"Seriously?" Everett side-eyed.
"Yes."
"Library it is then," Everett sighed. "Make it quick. If you aren't back here in time, I'm failing you for the week."
"You're saying I can just get an Art from the library?" Mark said in confusion.
"A one-star Art. Rarely used though. How the hell did you even get into this Academy without an Art? You're lying to me to get out of class, aren't you?"
"No, I really don't have an Art," Mark adamently denied. "And aren't you Vice-Principal…?"
"Don't get me fucking started, Abbott. Beat it."
'Guess that's a soft spot. Was something weird with my admission? What did I even do during the Placement Test?'
Every passing moment seemed to rub his face with Mark's own impoverishment—money could answer all of his questions.
But the joke was on the universe; he would be rolling in Gold within the week.
With a light jog, Mark left the Training Facility.
***
Mark made it to the library using his special technique—speedwalking. He needed to hurry his pace, but running would be too much for him. More time away from Zac was for the better.
The library had exquisite carpeted floors, two-story high bookshelves, and extravagant wood lined with gold garnish.
When he asked the librarian for directions to the one star Arts, he was promptly pointed to a far, dark, and dusty corner of the library.
'Just like the Skills section. Just how much more can these novels milk the 'finding good in the undervalued' theme?'
Arts in essence were different styles and techniques that enhanced weapons. It wasn't impossible to use a weapon without an Art, but at higher levels, they were practically required. They gave great boosts to power depending on the Art.
Mark was quite happy to get an Art for free. While a one-star Art wasn't in his future plans, learning an Art now would help him learn a better Art in the future.
Much like music, it was easier to pick up other instruments when you already mastered one.
But a lot of Mark's thoughts were dedicated to his future build. While he had initially planned to stray away from close combat, the arrival of the Hidden Hand dictated where a lot of his Stats would end up.
Now, it was advantageous for Mark to learn a melee weapon, no matter how difficult it may be compared to magic. The Hidden Hand acted as a range attack that could synergize extremely well with close-range attacks. All he needed to do was take the plunge.
Using magic would be redundant. Barring himself from power just because it was hard? Mark had to get a grip.
'Fine. Swords it is. Gonna be so fucking cool when I learn it though. Swords are much cooler than magic. Magic is shiny, but at the end of the day it turns into a boring gimmick.'
Mark had extensive experience with plastic Star Wars lightsabers when he was a kid. He felt more than qualified to use a sword.
He began to touch all the books, opening up the System prompts as he got a general idea of them.
Every single one-star Art followed the same format: type of weapon—offense, or defense.
Unfortunately for Mark, there was no grand destined Art ripe for the taking.
'No way I'm using a katana… daggers are too close and personal for my liking… what the fuck is a khopesh?'
After exercising all of the extensive but equally underwhelming options, Mark settled on an Art.
Feeding his inner child, Mark took one of the most classic and standard swords in the defensive style.
┌─────═━┈┈━═─────┐
✩ Academy Longsword: Defensive Style
Description: A basic form emphasizing tight and controlled movements. Gains openings through fundamental, sturdy parries. Lacks offensive power or deception.
└─────═━┈┈━═─────┘
'A good Western weapon, as God intended. None of this Jian, Dao, or Odachi crap. This is the real shit.'