Morning light filtered through the curtains of Tristar's dorm room, casting long shadows across the floor. The academy had come alive with the sound of students preparing for the day ahead, but Tristar lay still in bed, eyes open, his mind already racing. Today was the first day of official training. This was it—the moment he had been waiting for.
He sat up slowly, his body stiff from a restless night. His sword leaned against the wall by the bed, a silent reminder of the commitment he had made. For a few moments, he simply stared at it, feeling the weight of the coming day settle over him.
"I can do this," he whispered, gripping the hilt of his blade. "I have to."
After dressing in his academy-issued uniform—dark gray with the academy's crest embroidered on the chest—he strapped his sword to his side and made his way toward the training grounds. As he stepped outside, he was greeted by the sight of dozens of other students heading in the same direction, each with their own weapons or magical tools. Some chatted nervously, while others walked in focused silence.
Tristar felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety churn in his stomach. They're all here to become heroes, just like me, he thought, scanning the crowd. But as he looked at their confident faces, doubt crept into his mind again. What if he wasn't good enough? What if his swordsmanship, the one thing he had poured everything into, wasn't enough?
But before those thoughts could take root, the academy grounds opened up in front of him, revealing a sprawling training area. Rows of students gathered in groups, each standing at attention as instructors barked orders. The sound of metal clashing against metal filled the air, accompanied by bursts of magical energy from those who wielded it.
A towering figure with a scarred face and a booming voice stood at the center, directing students into their assigned sections. "New recruits!" the instructor called, his voice carrying across the grounds. "Line up! Today, you'll begin with basic drills. Swordsmanship, hand-to-hand combat, and elemental testing. Follow your section leaders!"
Tristar hurried to find his place among the students, his heart pounding. He could see the older students practicing on the far side of the grounds, their movements sharp and precise. He felt a sharp pang of envy. One day, he thought, I'll be just like them.
His section was assigned to swordsmanship training first, which brought a wave of relief to Tristar. This was his domain, the one thing he felt confident in. The group gathered around an instructor—an older woman with short, graying hair and an aura of authority. She surveyed the students with piercing eyes, her expression unreadable.
"I am Instructor Rhen," she began, her voice firm but calm. "You're all here because you've demonstrated some level of skill, but let me be clear—today is not about showing off. It's about fundamentals. No matter how far you think you've come, it's nothing compared to what you'll face here. We'll see if you have what it takes."
As she spoke, Tristar noticed a few of his classmates, their faces revealing a mix of excitement and apprehension. There was a girl with vibrant red hair and freckles, her name tag reading Sakura Hoshino. She stood confidently, her sword gleaming beside her, a calm smile on her face that seemed to light up the space around her.
"Let's show them what we've got, Tristar!" she called, her bright smile instantly easing some of his tension.
Next to her, a boy with tousled dark hair and glasses, Leon, adjusted his grip on his sword, muttering, "I just hope I can keep up…"
"Don't worry," Sakura reassured him, her voice warm and supportive, "we're all in this together!"
Tristar felt a swell of camaraderie as he lined up with his classmates. He introduced himself quietly, but he could tell they were all eager to prove themselves.
Instructor Rhen gestured for the group to spread out. "We'll start with basic drills. Footwork, balance, and control. If you can't master those, you won't survive the real challenges."
Tristar gripped his sword tighter as the drills began slowly—simple movements, step by step. He could feel the weight of his sword in his hand, the familiar rhythm of practice. It felt natural, but the pressure of being watched—evaluated—was intense.
The other students moved around him, some with confidence, others struggling to keep up. Tristar focused on his own form, keeping his movements precise. This is just the beginning, he reminded himself. Stay focused.
Instructor Rhen moved through the students, correcting stances and offering sharp critiques. She barely glanced at Tristar, which he took as a good sign. At least I'm not messing up, he thought. But as the drills continued, the strain began to set in. His muscles ached, and sweat dripped down his brow. Every swing of his sword felt heavier, and his steps faltered.
Still, Tristar pushed through, his mind flashing back to the hero's smile—the one that had saved him. That was his goal. That was the reason he was here.
"Keep your feet steady," Instructor Rhen barked as she passed him. "If your foundation is weak, everything else will fall apart."
Tristar adjusted his stance, gritting his teeth. He wouldn't let this beat him. Not on the first day.
The drills went on for hours, and by the time they finished, Tristar's arms felt like lead. His shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat, but a sense of accomplishment settled over him. He had survived the first round.
The students were given a short break, and Tristar found a quiet spot near a tree, dropping to the ground with a groan. His sword lay beside him, its blade glinting in the midday sun. He stared at it, breathing heavily. This is only the beginning.
As he rested, a group of students nearby chatted excitedly about the training, their voices a mix of exhilaration and exhaustion. Tristar overheard them discussing elemental magic, how some of the students had performed well during their testing. A pang of envy hit him again. He had never been particularly gifted with magic. His magical pool was average at best, and in a place like this, that could be a disadvantage.
He closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the academy wash over him. He had to remind himself of his strength—his swordsmanship. That was the key. It had to be.
After the break, they moved on to elemental testing—a part of the academy's curriculum designed to assess each student's magical potential. Tristar stood in line with the others, waiting for his turn as he watched those in front of him display their abilities. Some students summoned fire with a flick of their wrist, while others created gusts of wind or manipulated water with ease.
When it was finally his turn, Tristar stepped forward, feeling a wave of anxiety tighten in his chest. He placed his hand over the elemental stone, a device designed to measure the flow of magical energy. A soft hum vibrated through his palm, and after a few moments, a faint light flickered in the stone—a barely visible glow of energy.
The instructor overseeing the testing made a note, his expression neutral. "Average magical output. You'll need to compensate for that in other areas."
Tristar nodded, stepping back. He had expected this result, but hearing it said aloud still stung. It doesn't matter, he told himself. I'll focus on the sword. That's where I'll shine.
As the day drew to a close, Tristar returned to his dormitory, his body aching but his spirit unbroken. He stood by the window, looking out over the academy grounds as the sun set, casting long shadows over the training fields. The day had been hard—harder than he had expected—but he had made it through. And tomorrow, he would face it all again.
He gripped the hilt of his sword, feeling the weight of it in his hand. This is only the beginning, he thought, his resolve hardening. I will grow stronger. I have to.
The hero's smile flashed in his mind once more, that reassuring presence that had carried him through the darkest moments of his life. Tristar closed his eyes, feeling the determination rise within him. He was here. He was ready.
And no matter how tough the path ahead, he would keep moving forward.