The academy's grand auditorium buzzed with restless energy. Rows of students filled the seats, all looking up as the head instructor, a woman with a sharp, commanding presence stepped onto the stage. Her uniform was crisp, military-grade, and her gaze was piercing as she surveyed the young recruits. When she began to speak, her voice echoed through the hall, carrying a weight that made even the more confident students sit up straighter.
"The academy is not a place for mediocrity," she declared, each word cutting through the room. Her eyes scanned the students, as though already judging who among them would fail. "You are here to fight for survival. Excellence in academics alone will not suffice. It is in battle that true heroes are forged."
Tristar sat among the sea of faces, feeling the intensity of her words settle like a heavy weight in his chest. He had come here knowing the path would be grueling, that he'd have to fight for every step forward. But hearing it spelled out like this was something else entirely. The academy was no school—it was a proving ground.
"For those of you who think you're already strong enough," the instructor continued, her gaze briefly landing on a boy with a cocky expression, "you'll soon learn that raw talent means nothing without discipline. We expect you to master combat—both physical and magical. If you fail to meet the academy's standards, you will be dismissed. Only the strong survive here."
A ripple of murmurs broke out among the students, some looking to one another for reassurance, others with thinly veiled fear in their eyes. The weight of expectation settled heavily over the room, and Tristar could feel his own doubts stirring. He glanced down at the hilt of his sword, a reminder of his determination. Magic or no magic, he'd push himself further than any of them if he had to.
After the orientation, students naturally grouped together—some already forging bonds, others standing off to the side. Tristar remained on the outskirts, observing. As he scanned the room, a voice broke through his thoughts.
"You don't seem too worried," said a tall boy with short, wild hair and an easy grin. His confidence seemed almost out of place, given the ominous speech they'd just heard. He introduced himself as Axel, one of the more extroverted students who had already made himself known with his over-the-top personality.
"Should I be?" Tristar replied, keeping his tone neutral. Part of him felt the tension Axel was downplaying, but he wasn't about to show it.
Axel chuckled, shrugging as he flashed his grin again. "Guess we'll find out in combat practice. They're throwing us into groups soon. You any good with that sword of yours?"
Tristar's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his blade. It wasn't as flashy as some of the other weapons he'd seen, but it was his, and he'd spent countless hours honing his skills with it. "Good enough," he said, leaving it at that.
"Good enough, huh?" Axel said with a laugh, unfazed. "Well, we'll see."
The students were soon escorted to the academy's vast training grounds—a sprawling open field divided into sections for different exercises. When their names were called, Tristar and Axel found themselves assigned to the same group.
"Klarent, you and Axel are up first," barked the instructor, a veteran with a scar running down his cheek, giving him an air of authority that demanded obedience.
Tristar and Axel stepped into the training circle, surrounded by eager eyes. Tristar gripped his sword, its familiar weight steadying him. Axel, meanwhile, stretched his arms, faint sparks of magical energy beginning to dance around his hands. His element was fire—a volatile force that immediately put Tristar on edge.
Axel glanced at him, grinning with a confidence that bordered on cockiness. "You better not hold back," he called, the fire at his fingertips flaring up.
Tristar's stance shifted as he raised his sword. "I wasn't planning to."
The instructor's whistle blew, signaling the start of the match.
Axel wasted no time, launching a burst of flame in Tristar's direction. Tristar dodged to the side, feeling the intense heat singe the air beside him. Staying calm, he closed the distance between them with a quick dash, his sword flashing forward in a well-practiced strike aimed to disarm Axel before he could cast again.
But Axel was faster than he looked. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a wall of fire between them, forcing Tristar to halt his advance.
"Not bad, Klarent," Axel called through the flames. "But I've got more tricks up my sleeve."
Tristar's eyes narrowed as he circled around, seeking an opening. He knew his swordsmanship alone wouldn't be enough to bridge the gap between them. If he got too close, Axel would simply engulf him in fire.
Axel launched another wave of flame, and Tristar narrowly ducked out of the way. The heat bore down on him, and for a moment, he felt the weight of his own limitations pressing in. I need to end this quickly, he thought, gritting his teeth. His mind raced, searching for an opening, a way to close the gap without getting scorched.
Taking a gamble, Tristar charged forward, swinging his sword with all his strength. His blade sliced through the flames, but Axel anticipated his move, sidestepping and sending a searing blast of fire toward Tristar's exposed side.
The impact knocked Tristar to the ground, his sword slipping from his grasp. He lay there, catching his breath as the instructor's whistle blew, calling the match.
"Klarent, you're down," the instructor announced, his voice as unyielding as steel.
Tristar pushed himself up, breathing hard. His heart pounded, not just from the exertion but from the bitter taste of defeat. He had known others would be stronger—better. But facing it firsthand left him with a sense of frustration that burned hotter than Axel's flames.
Axel approached him, offering a hand. "You put up a good fight. You just need to work on your magic resistance."
Tristar took his hand, though his grip was tense. "I'll get there."
Axel gave him a pat on the back, seemingly oblivious to the storm brewing inside Tristar. "You will, Klarent. You've got potential."
But Tristar wasn't interested in hearing that right now. He walked away from the training circle, retrieving his sword and heading to the far side of the grounds, watching as the other students continued their matches. The weight of his own frustration settled in, each defeat replaying in his mind.
That night, long after the others had returned to their dorms, Tristar remained on the training grounds. His body ached, and his skin was raw from the burns, but he kept swinging his sword, each strike more focused than the last.
With each swing, his mind cleared, the doubts fading. He could still feel the searing heat of Axel's flames, and he knew he needed more than skill with a sword to rise above his peers. Standing alone in the darkness, he vowed that he would overcome every obstacle in his way.
"Good enough won't be enough," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible. "I'll become stronger."
His blade cut through the silence again. And again.