The next day, Elijah woke up around 7 AM. His body felt well-rested despite the late night. He stretched lazily before heading straight to the shower.
By the time he finished, droplets of water still clinging to his hair, a buzz came from his pocket device.
[This message is for all cadets. There will be no classes today. You can try your weapon. You can head into the training room.]
Elijah quickly changed into the white camp uniform. The uniform was designed for comfort, perfect for training and sparring, fitting snugly yet allowing ease of movement.
When he stepped out of his room, he found Kieran and Visconti already up. Kieran, as usual, was bursting with energy.
"Hey, wanna spar with me?" Kieran asked eagerly, skipping any form of greeting.
Elijah blinked at him, utterly speechless. What happened to "Good morning" or "Hello"??
Visconti was speechless. "He picked a gun for his main weapon, remember? He doesn't have a sword."
Kieran's face fell slightly. "Ah, right," he muttered, his enthusiasm dimming.
If Kieran had dog ears, they would've drooped right about now.
For some reason, Elijah felt a pang of guilt. It was almost like disappointing a sad puppy. "Actually, I do have a sword," he said.
Kieran's face instantly lit up. "Really?" he asked, his excitement returning tenfold.
If he had a tail, it would've been wagging furiously.
Without another word, Elijah went back to his room. When he returned, he was carrying a black case in one hand and had a sword strapped to his hip.
The sword was an unusual sight. Its blade was wrapped in a purple cloth instead of housed in a scabbard. The hilt was simple but elegant, matching the deep purple of the cloth.
It was the Silken Seal sword Augustus gave him.
Kieran crouched down to admire it. He couldn't help comparing it to his own sword. While Kieran's blade was broader, heavier, and clearly made for brute force, Elijah's sword was slim, light, and refined.
"This looks… fast," Kieran remarked, his eyes glinting with admiration.
"It's made for precision," Elijah replied casually, unwrapping the cloth to reveal the blade.
The blade itself gleamed faintly, its surface polished to perfection, with faint etchings of intricate runes running down its length. It was slim and elegant, its surface polished to a mirror sheen. Intricate runes ran along its length, glowing faintly in the morning light.
Visconti, who had been observing silently, suddenly straightened, his eyes narrowing. "Isn't that... a shard?"
Elijah froze. His fingers tightened around the hilt as he processed the question. A shard? Was it that obvious?
"What's a shard?" Kieran asked, looking between them in confusion.
Visconti didn't answer immediately. Instead, he fixed Elijah with a sharp gaze. "Shards are naturally imbued items, containing their own gifts. For example, a shard imbued with fire magic can grant its wielder fire-based abilities, even if their original gift is something else entirely."
Kieran's eyes widened. "Wait, are you saying Elijah's sword—"
"Yeah," Visconti interrupted, his tone carrying a mix of awe and suspicion. "That's no ordinary blade."
Elijah shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "It's nothing special."
"'Nothing special'?"Visconti repeated, clearly unconvinced.
'How does someone from an ordinary family get their hands on a shard weapon?' Visconti thought.
Kieran frowned. "Wait, so is it rare or not?"
"It's rare," Visconti said firmly, his eyes not leaving Elijah. "Ridiculously rare."
Elijah sighed inwardly. There was no way he could tell them the truth—that this was The Silken Seal, a shard sword gifted to him by Augustus himself. Instead, he kept his response vague.
"It was... a hand-me-down," Elijah said, strapping the sword back to his hip.
Visconti's suspicion deepened, but he didn't press further. Kieran, on the other hand, looked like a child who had just discovered treasure.
"Woah," Kieran breathed. "Now I really want to spar with you."
"Can we spar now? Please?" Kieran begged, bouncing on his heels.
Elijah chuckled despite himself. "Sure"
Visconti rolled his eyes. "You're way too excited for someone who might get beaten."
"Ha! We'll see about that," Kieran shot back with a grin.
Elijah chuckled softly, fastening the sword back onto his hip. "Alright, let's head to the training room."
After a quick breakfast, the trio made their way to the sparring building. The structure was massive, its sturdy walls designed to withstand even the most intense battles. Inside, several rooms lined the corridors, some already occupied by cadets testing their new weapons.
"This place is huge," Kieran said, his voice echoing slightly.
As Kieran and Elijah began stretching, Visconti leaned against the wall, deciding to observe rather than participate.
"The rules are simple. The person who cut the opponents handkerchief that's tied to their arm is the winner."
"Ready?" Visconti asked, a small smirk playing on his lips.
"Ready," both Kieran and Elijah replied, stepping into the center of the room.
"Three... two... one..." Visconti counted, raising a hand.
With a flick of his wrist, he cast an ice spell. The ice crystals shot into the air and exploded like fireworks, signaling the start of the match. Unlike real fireworks, the sound was soft, almost like a gentle crackle, but the effect was mesmerizing.
The tension in the sparring room was palpable. The air was still, save for the faint crackle of mana in the air from the lingering effects of Visconti's ice fireworks.
Elijah was the first to move. As soon as Visconti gave the signal, his feet pushed off the ground with a burst of speed, his sword thrusting straight toward Kieran's chest.
Kieran barely had time to react. The unexpected assault forced him to parry hastily, his crimson sword catching Elijah's slim blade just in time.
The clash of metal echoed in the spacious room.
"You didn't even wait a second," Kieran grunted, pushing Elijah back.
Elijah smirked but didn't respond. Instead, he followed up with another thrust, this time aiming for Kieran's right shoulder. His movements were precise, almost surgical, as if he'd been trained for years.
From the sidelines, Visconti observed the fight with a sharp eye. "Elijah's got the upper hand," he muttered to himself. "But it's not like Kieran's completely cornered. Not yet."
Elijah's skill was evident. His stance was solid, his attacks relentless. It was clear to anyone watching that he was no amateur. He must've practiced swordsmanship for years, Visconti thought, noting the fluidity in Elijah's movements. But he also noticed something else—Elijah wasn't overextending himself. He was testing Kieran, probing his defenses with calculated strikes.