Arthur gritted his teeth as he scaled the jagged face of the mountain, each handhold a fresh challenge against his numbing fingers. His muscles burned with exertion, every fiber of his being screaming at him to stop, but he ignored the pain. The icy wind cut into his exposed skin, and his lungs felt like they were breathing shards of glass. Yet none of those pains stopped him.
Failure was not an option.
Hours passed, the sun's light dipping into hues of crimson and gold. His hands, raw and bleeding, clawed at the final ridge. With one last surge of strength, he pulled himself over the edge and collapsed onto the snow-dusted plateau. His chest heaved as he sucked in the frigid air, each breath a small victory.
"Haaahhhh, fuuuuck man, that was hard," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
He forced himself to sit up and gazed at the breathtaking expanse of jagged peaks below. The world stretched out in all directions, a sea of mountains painted in the soft glow of twilight. A wave of pride surged through him, warming his battered body.
He had done it. After two weeks of relentless failure, of punishment laps and grueling climbs, he had finally reached the summit. He hadn't failed.
"Not this time," he whispered to himself, a small smile tugging at his lips. The peace of the cold, gentle air was a welcome reprieve from the chaos of battlefields drenched in blood and fire. Up here, amidst the stillness, it felt as though his soul was finally catching its breath.
"You did well," came a voice, soft yet sharp, from behind him.
Arthur didn't flinch. He'd grown used to his master's uncanny ability to appear without a sound. "Thank you, Master," he replied, turning to face Syar.
Syar's sharp features twisted into a smirk, the kind that always spelled trouble. "But not well enough. 100 laps."
Arthur's face fell. "Bu—wha—" he stammered. "But I did it!"
"Yes," Syar said, feigning contemplation, "but you were meant to be here five minutes ago."
Arthur's jaw dropped. "You never told me that!"
Syar's expression turned to mock confusion. "Didn't I? Ah, my mistake. Fine, let's make it 50 laps then. I'm feeling generous."
Arthur rose to his feet, muttering darkly under his breath as he stumbled toward the descending path. Syar's ears caught fragments of his grumbling: "One day… when I'm older…"
Syar pretended not to hear, though a faint smile touched his lips.
(Syar's POV)
Leaning against a jagged boulder, Syar watched as Arthur's figure disappeared down the winding path. The boy's stubborn determination never failed to impress him. Arthur's protests were almost ritualistic by now, more habit than genuine defiance. But beneath the complaints lay an unyielding spirit—a spirit Syar knew he didn't have much time to shape.
"He's a strong kid," Syar thought, pride mingling with a twinge of regret. "But there's still so much left to do."
With a sigh, Syar vanished from the mountaintop, leaving only the faintest ripple in the air.
By the time Arthur staggered into the cavernous hall that served as their training ground, his legs felt like lead. Each step was a battle against the searing pain in his muscles. He groaned as he collapsed onto the stone floor, the cold surface doing little to soothe his exhaustion.
Syar stood at the center of the hall, holding two weapons. One was his own infamous half-spear, half-sword hybrid that seemed to hum with latent energy. The other… Arthur's breath hitched as he recognized it. Why wouldn't he? He had used that weapon himself, found amidst a battlefield of blood and fire.
'Ascension'.
The weapon was a masterpiece: a black blade etched with intricate white runes that pulsed faintly, as though alive. It radiated an aura of raw power, demanding reverence. Arthur's eyes widened as Syar approached, the weapon extended toward him.
"Do you like this weapon?" Syar asked, his tone casual, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.
Arthur hesitated. "I… I can hold it?"
"You should hope so. It's yours."
Arthur's jaw dropped. "Mine? What do you mean?"
"Consider it a reward," Syar said with a shrug. "Thanason's orders. You're a criminal, so you can't get promoted, but for your role in the last battle, you've earned this."
Arthur stared at the weapon in disbelief. When he finally took it into his hands, a surge of protectiveness and pride washed over him. Yet, beneath the elation, a pang of sadness lingered.
"I can't," he said quietly, his voice heavy.
"And why not?" Syar's brow arched.
"It's a spear," Arthur replied, his tone almost apologetic. "My weapon is more like yours."
For a moment, Syar stared at him before bursting into laughter. "That's your concern? Oh, you poor, simple fool. This isn't just any spear. It's a rare relic. It can soulbind."
Arthur's eyes widened as recognition dawned. Soulbinding—the process where a rare weapon reshaped itself to suit its wielder's style. It could be summoned and dismissed at will, bonded for life. All it needed was a name.
A glowing notification appeared before him:
[WEAPON 'ASCENSION' RECOGNIZED. WEAPON IS A RARE GRADE RELIC. DOES USER WISH TO SOULBIND TO THIS WEAPON?]
"Yes," Arthur said without hesitation.
[PLEASE NAME YOUR WEAPON _________]
Arthur froze. Naming things had never been his strong suit. "Uh… Darkstick?"
[NAME 'DARKSTICK' REJECTED. PLEASE NAME YOUR WEAPON _________]
Arthur groaned. Of course, it wasn't that simple. He thought back to the story his father used to tell, about the boy who flew too close to the sun, a falling sun. It seemed to match his own spear style's name, 'the falling sun.'
"Ikarus," he declared.
[NAME 'IKARUS' REGISTERED. ATTEMPTING TO SOULBIND…]
The weapon pulsed in his hands, glowing brighter until the light consumed it entirely. When the radiance faded, the weapon had transformed. The black blade was now a deep crimson, the white runes along its surface glowing with new intensity. The spear's design mirrored Syar's hybrid weapon, blending elegance with lethal efficiency.
Arthur stared at Ikarus, his scarlet eyes reflecting the weapon's glow. It felt alive in his grip, as though it recognized him.
"Dismiss it," Syar ordered, snapping Arthur out of his reverie.
Reluctantly, Arthur focused on the weapon. It dissolved into a flurry of light, disappearing into him. For a moment, he could feel its presence within him, a connection unlike anything he'd experienced before.
"Let's see if you're worthy of it," Syar said, tossing him a crudely made training spear. He took one for himself, dismissing his own weapon. "Come."
Arthur's grin widened. The pain in his body forgotten, he lunged forward, ready to prove himself once more.
Arthur lunged forward, wielding his spear with the Imperial style Syar had been drilling into him. On the battlefield, he had instinctively adapted the Imperial sword style into one for the spear, but under Syar's strict tutelage, his progress had accelerated dramatically.
He would've preferred to perfect his Fallen Sun style, but Reshi had only taught him the first move within the soul space. Syar had forbidden him from returning there until he grew stronger.
For now, Arthur's goal was clear: to break through from F rank to E rank. At the start of the novel the MC was already at D rank, so he needed to be at least closer to there to be considered one of the stronger students in the school.
In this world, simply improving one's attributes to E- wasn't enough. Without undergoing the rank test, the difference was negligible. The test—a process as random as it was grueling—determined everything.
'Knowing my damn luck, I'll probably end up fighting a deity or something,' Arthur sighed inwardly. If only luck were a measurable attribute.
Syar parried Arthur's attacks effortlessly, moving with the smallest dodges and redirections. He never exerted himself, but Arthur was in full stride, his spear spinning between slashes and thrusts, the butt of the weapon whirling in intricate patterns. Yet no matter how fast or clever Arthur's strikes, Syar met them with almost contemptuous ease.
Then, Syar struck back. A single thrust, executed with the same Imperial spear style, exposed the gulf between them. The precision and power in Syar's move made Arthur's efforts seem like the fumbling of a clumsy child, despite the fact they both were using the same style.
Arthur barely evaded the blow, darting backward. He muttered under his breath, "Alright, then."
Shifting his stance, Arthur channeled mana into his weapon, invoking the Fallen Sun's first movement—Shooting Star.
The air seemed to ripple as his mana drained, focusing into the spear. With blinding speed, his weapon surged forward. The sheer force and precision of the attack startled Syar, whose eyes widened slightly.
But in the next instant, Syar parried, moving faster than before.
Before Arthur could recover, Syar stepped forward in a blur and punched him with his free hand.
The impact hurled Arthur across the room, crashing him into the far wall. The resounding crack was followed by a faint curse from Syar: "Shit." Darkness claimed Arthur.
Syar stood over Arthur's crumpled form, guilt flickering across his face. He hadn't meant to hit the boy so hard. The power behind the Fallen Sun's first move had caught him off guard, forcing him to react with more force than intended.
Arthur's spear style was dangerous—unnervingly so. Syar couldn't place it among any known techniques. Most unique styles were adaptations of established forms, tailored for their wielders. But Arthur's was different. The way mana coiled and spun around his strikes, enhancing their lethality, was brutal and unfamiliar. A style made purely for killing.
Lifting Arthur's unconscious body, Syar muttered, "Really, boy, you faint far too often. At this rate, you'll spend most of your life asleep."
Despite himself, a small smile tugged at his lips. He was beginning to understand, just a little, why James had done what he had.
This boy... he was truly something special. It wasn't in his skills, nor styles. It was his mentality that was unique. No doubt Arthur would wake up the next day, disregarding the fact he'd been knocked out, and continue with equal, if not more vigour in his training.
'Maybe...I was wrong James Skelter. Maybe you had the right of it all along.' He wasn't ready to accept that yet, but maybe. It was a possibility.
….......
Noah faced off against Commander Scarlet. Her strikes came fast and unrelenting. He ducked under one blow, parried another, and sent an upwards wind blast, hoping to unbalance her. But Scarlet anticipated it, pivoting to the side and countering with a sharp kick to his chin.
Noah's equilibrium wavered, and he stumbled. Desperate to recover, he closed his eyes and focused.
'Calm.'
Feeling the winds around him, he summoned a blast beneath him, halting his fall. Leaping back, he narrowly avoided the blade that came down on where he had stood moments before.
"Sense," he whispered, activating his awareness. The winds became his eyes, revealing the disturbances caused by her movements.
Noah's parries became precise, his dodges seamless. He felt every shift in the air, predicting Scarlet's strikes. But there was a flaw in relying on Sense: it overwhelmed him if he used it alongside his vision. Forced to close his eyes, he relied entirely on the wind.
Then, a sudden stillness.
'What's she planning?' Noah wondered. The winds grew chaotic, disturbances coming from every direction.
"Shit!" he yelled, his eyes snapping open instinctively. Yet he saw nothing—no attacks, no threats.
'It's a feint!' he realized, but it was too late. Scarlet swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground once again.
Commander Scarlet grinned, clearly reveling in her victory. "You rely on that skill too much, Noah," she said, offering a hand.
Groaning, he took it and hauled himself to his feet. "Noted."
She clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll call it a day. Rest up."
As she walked away, Noah asked, "When's Arthur coming back?"
"Two weeks, give or take. Better keep training unless you want him to kick your ass. Again~." Her teasing tone lit a spark of determination in him.
Gritting his teeth, Noah muttered, "We'll see about that."
Despite the rivalry, he couldn't wait to see Arthur again. These past two weeks had been grueling, with General Thanason focused on integrating the rebellion rather than mobilizing forces. Noah had noticed rebel officials coming and going, but the specifics didn't concern him.
All he cared about was getting stronger.
'One year, eleven months, and two weeks,' he reminded himself. That was the time until he could fulfill his promise and spread his father's ashes.
'One year, eleven months, and two weeks.'