The sun barely pierced through the thick, storm-stained clouds above Astria, casting a dim, sickly glow over the kingdom. The air was thick with the weight of impending war, the scent of steel and sweat filling the training grounds of Squad Five's headquarters.
The competition was only two months away, and weakness was not an option.
Bran stood across from Modred in the barren training yard, his twin swords resting against his shoulders. His sharp eyes locked onto Modred, their usual humor replaced by an eerie intensity.
"You're strong," Bran admitted, his voice steady. "But strength without control is just destruction. You fight like a beast, and that's going to get you killed."
Modred said nothing. He simply drew his sword, its edge gleaming under the dull light.
Bran grinned. "Good. Show me if you've got the instincts to match that power."
The air tensed. Then Bran moved.
He was fast—too fast. One moment he stood relaxed, the next, his blades came down like a storm of death. Modred barely raised his sword in time, the force behind Bran's attack sending shockwaves through his arms.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Blades clashed in rapid succession, each impact echoing across the training yard. Bran's strikes were unpredictable, his footwork fluid and ruthless. Modred countered with sheer power, his swings heavier, sharper—but Bran never stayed in one place long enough for brute force to reach him.
"Too stiff," Bran muttered mid-strike, dodging a downward slash and slamming his knee into Modred's ribs.
Modred staggered back, but barely had time to breathe before Bran's blade was at his throat.
"You're holding back," Bran said, his voice lowering. "Show me the real you."
Modred's grip tightened. The air around him darkened slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing. His mana flared, and his sword moved faster than before.
Bran's grin widened. "Now we're talking."
On the other side of the training grounds, Fenrick stood alone, his eyes closed as his breath came in slow, measured intervals. He held his fists out before him, his body coiled with tension.
Mana flickered around his knuckles, dark and unstable, the air around him warping slightly from the raw energy.
"Channel it," he muttered to himself. "Make it flow."
His fingers twitched. Then—boom. The mana snapped violently, shattering the ground beneath him, uncontrolled and chaotic.
Fenrick clicked his tongue. "Tch. Not enough control."
He inhaled again, deeper this time. The energy wasn't just about strength—it was about focus. About precision. He imagined the force flowing through his veins, not as an untamed beast, but as an extension of himself.
He exhaled. And then he moved.
Boom!
Fenrick vanished in an instant, reappearing across the field in a blur of motion. His fist shot forward—crack! The air itself trembled as his knuckles barely grazed a training dummy. The sheer force behind the strike sent shockwaves through the ground.
He stared at his fist, smirking. "That's more like it."
Xeraniel stood apart from the others, his hands tucked into his cloak, his silver hair swaying as he observed the world through half-lidded eyes. Unlike the raw power of Modred and Fenrick, his training was something entirely different.
Control. Perception.
Without warning, he flicked his wrist—and the air itself bent.
The pebbles around him floated, swirling in a slow, hypnotic dance. He tilted his head slightly, shifting his fingers—and reality warped.
If his training had a purpose, it was to control space itself.
Xeraniel lifted his hand, forming a shape in the air. His mana pulsed, and the pebbles snapped into a perfect, frozen circle. He blinked, and they all fell at once.
"Almost," he murmured.
He closed his eyes again, inhaling deeply.
See everything. Feel everything. Be untouchable.
When he opened his eyes again, a dangerous gleam flickered behind them."One more time."
The three warriors trained in silence, each in their own world, each sharpening their own path.
Bran finally stepped back from Modred, wiping sweat from his brow. "You're improving," he admitted. "But you're still not ready."
Modred sheathed his sword. "Then I'll keep going."
Bran smirked. "Damn right you will."
Across the field, Fenrick punched again, the ground beneath him fracturing as mana surged through his fists. He rolled his shoulders, laughing. "This is getting fun."
Xeraniel remained quiet, his silver eyes unreadable as he tested his abilities once more.
The competition was approaching.
And none of them planned to lose.