Three months had passed since the school started. The hallway hummed like an organism, teeming with the drone of students doing their unyielding training routines. In the sword mastery class, the clanging of metal rang rhythmically as the soaked trainees moved their blades.
Drake among them, moved gracefully and his sword glided through the air as gently as a whisper of wind. "996, 997, 998, 999." he counted, his voice a steady drumbeat. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow, rolling down like droplets tracing a mountain's slope.
Instructor William strode into the room, his presence commanding immediate attention. In his grasp was a formidable slab of wood, a challenge etched in its very grain. It was 50 cm long and 120 cm thick, almost tauntingly, as if it dared the students to prove their mettle. Watching the performances, he skipped testing their stamina and moved on to the next stage. His voice cut through the air like a blade. "All students, come closer and form a row." Authority dripped from every word, not leaving any space for hesitation.
He knelt down, setting the wood next to him, his arms folding behind his back as if he was some experienced general supervising his troops. "Today," he started off, voice serious, "we will be learning about the very last step in mastering a sword: aura infusion. "There are three stages that can be considered before you can call your aura infusion perfect. First, as I once explained, you need to learn how to release the right amount of aura from your core without wasting even a single drop.
His eyes, twin lanterns of intensity, scanned the room. "Secondly, you must unify your sword and aura into one entity, in harmony and not rejection. And lastly, you have to sustain the aura during the process of materialization and release it without losing any output."
He walked towards the sword stand deliberately, chose a steel sword as if it was his weapon of war. He returned to his posture and let a ripple of aura flow from his core, covering the blade. The motion continued in a fluid arc, and he cut into the wood slab, creating a groove 75 cm deep as if through butter. The wood creaked in defeat to the sheer force. "You can only achieve true mastery by adhering to these rules. Now each of you, go to the stand, pick up a sword, and come back and show me what I have explained."
Victoria stepped forward, all beaming with confidence. Her strike clove into the wood 60 cm, which earned her a nod of approval from the instructor. "Okay, very good. Next," he commended. The students one by one took their turns. The results varied, their cuts gashing from modest depths of 35 cm into more respectable 50 cm grooves. Then came Ronan, whose strike plunged an incredible 73.2 cm deep to elicit murmurs of admiration from his peers.
"Wow, that's Ronan for you," one student whispered, awe lacing their tone. "He's just too heroic to compete against," another chimed in. Even Instructor William, though practiced in restraint, betrayed a flicker of surprise before composing himself with a curt "Humm." He cleared his voice and called out, "Next, please."
Drake stepped forward, his sword glinting under the overhead light as he raised it high. "Mana released," he murmured; the words sounded almost weighted with incantatory power.
Under the tutelage of Xena, Drake had learned a quirk about his mana system: it resonated through voice recognition, as individualistic as a dragon's roar. Unlike other people, who worked the most laborious way to channel mana by learned techniques, Drake's mana responded instinctively to obey the ancient dragon languages spoken by him. The reverse crystal in his heart worked like a sentinel, its glow firing up whenever he cast a spell.
As he tried to imbue the sword with mana, the blade whipped violently before shattering in a shower of metal shards. The room fell silent in stunned shock. Drake's second and third attempts fared no better, each failure rumbling through the air like thunder. The class was in a state of shock, but then the silence broke into a storm of mocking laughs.
"Haha, did you see that?" one jeered, his voice sharp and piercing with mockery. "How can a mage even dream of wielding a sword?" another snickered loudly, the words spilling from his mouth with contempt. Then, sensing an opportunity, Ronan stepped forward, his sneer carving deep into the atmosphere. "What a disgrace. Some people should stick to washing dishes at home," he jeered, drawing a chorus of laughter from the rest.
But Victoria didn't budge. Her eyes shone bright with understanding as she took a step forward, arms crossing over her chest in defiance. Her voice rang clear and strong, piercing through the ridicule like a trumpet call. "You're all ridiculing him, but you ought to be ashamed of your ignorance."
Ronan's smirk faltered, and he turned to her with a frown. "And what's that supposed to mean?" he asked gruffly. Victoria didn't bat an eyelid. "Lend your ears and listen," she said, sharp as a whip. "Have you forgotten about 'Mana Resonance Grades'? Dull, low, moderate, high, and perfect? These grades determine the mana purity a weapon can withstand."
She stopped, allowing her words to marinate, and then added, "Do you remember what the principal said about Drake's water affinity being at a level comparable to dragons? Their low resonance grade couldn't bear the purity of his mana, that's why those swords shattered." Turning to Ronan, she said, "Don't use your ignorance as an excuse for being a fool. Use your brain."
Her words stung, leaving Ronan momentarily speechless. Instructor William, intrigued, broke the silence. "So, you're saying Drake's mana purity rivals that of dragons?" Victoria nodded, her conviction unwavering.
"Ah, that explains it," William mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Setting a hand on Drake's shoulder, he gave him a reassuring pat. "Well done, Drake. You don't need to bother with that step now." He finally faced the rest of the class, "That's all for today."
As the students all went their separate ways, William turned to Drake. "Drake," he said, his tone dripping with intention. Drake turned, his eyes curious. "In two weeks, there is a market day outside the academy. You might get lucky and find a higher grade weapon there," he suggested before he was off.
Drake scanned the courtyard, his eyes scanning and finally locating Victoria as she rounded a corner. He quickened his pace as he called, "Hi!" She turned, her expression softening as she recognized him. "Oh, Drake. What's the matter?"
Scratching the back of his head, Drake hesitated. "Hmmm, thanks for your help and clarification earlier," he managed, his voice tinged with gratitude. Victoria placed her hands on her hips, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "You don't need to thank me. I just stated the obvious."
Drake's expression brightened. "Still, I owe you one," he insisted. Victoria turned away with a faint shudder. "Suit yourself," she replied, walking off.
As she disappeared from view, Drake's gaze lingered, a soft smile curving his lips. Mark's voice broke his reverie. "Ta-ta-ta," he teased, nodding knowingly. Startled, Drake spun around. "When did you get here?" he asked.
Mark was smirking, his tone teasing. "What's going on with you and Victoria? Should I tell my sister-in-law?" Before he could get the question out, Drake lunged, curling an arm around Mark's neck. "Stop spreading rumors!" he growled out, his grip tightening.
"Cough, cough! Okay, okay, I get it!" Mark wheezed, slapping at Drake's arm for mercy. Cackling, the two went off toward their dorms, the air around them much lighter from their camaraderie.