Sword training wasn't easy.
It never was.
But lately… it felt different.
My arms didn't burn like they used to. My footing didn't slip as much. My swings were cleaner—heavier. Almost like the blade itself was starting to listen to me.
Or maybe it wasn't the sword. Maybe it was the thing inside me. The hum beneath my skin that never fully went away. The way the world seemed to slow when I focused, like my body reacted before my mind caught up.
"Again," Calden snapped.
I nodded and reset my stance. Dragon Style—basic form three.
Swing. Step. Parry. Recover.
Swing. Step. Parry. Recover.
"Faster," he barked.
So I went faster.
The next strike came smoother, like my muscles had already learned it. My footwork adjusted mid-motion, anticipating the recoil. My blade came around faster than I meant it to.
Too fast.
Clang.
I clipped the edge of Calden's blade before he even raised it fully.
He didn't flinch.
But he noticed.
He always notices.
He lowered his sword slowly and looked me dead in the eyes.
"You've improved."
Not a compliment.
A warning.
A statement made by a man cataloguing danger.
I swallowed and forced a weak grin.
"Been practicing. A lot."
No nod. No response. Just that long, cold stare—like he was remembering something.
Then he turned away.
"Again."
I moved. But my mind stayed stuck on his gaze.
Because that look?
It reminded me of them.
The way Tobashi used to scan for weakness. The way teachers used to glance at me when I flinched.
Like they all knew something was wrong.
The next morning, Calden woke me up too early. I barely had time to rub the sleep from my eyes before he tossed me a wooden blade and told me to follow him.
No stances set up. No forms.
Just a wide circle of packed dirt.
"Time you learned what it's like when the blade fights back."
I forced a smirk. "You're finally gonna spar with me?"
He didn't smile back.
"No. I'm saying he is."
That's when I saw him.
Renar.
The estate guard's son.
Older. Stronger. Taller. Face already twisted in a smug little grin like he'd already won.
He was way too excited to hit me.
My heart stuttered.
Not because of the fight.
But because of how he looked at me.
That look.
That fucking look.
Wide smile, dead eyes.
Tobashi.
For a split second, I wasn't in a fancy noble training yard anymore.
I was back in the hallway of my old school. Back in the locker room. Back where fists met ribs and laughter followed bruises.
We stood in the center of the circle, swords in hand.
Calden's voice yanked me back:
"Standard spar. No killing blows. No magic—"
His eyes flicked to me.
"—obviously."
Yeah. Of course.
Just a friendly match, right?
I gripped the sword tighter. My palms were already sweating.
"Begin when ready."
I took a breath. Focused. Remembered the drills.
Renar didn't wait.
He lunged at me with a roar, blade swinging wide like a club.
I dodged. Barely.
He laughed.
"Come on, noble boy. Don't be shy!"
The second swing came harder. My arms trembled as I blocked it. He was stronger. Way stronger.
He shoved forward, shoulder-first.
I hit the dirt so fast my lungs forgot how to breathe.
"That all you got?" Renar jeered.
The echo of his voice warped—became Tobashi's in my ears.
I rolled and gasped and forced myself up.
No.
Not again.
Never again.
"Alright…" I muttered, teeth clenched. "Let's play for real."
I tightened my grip. My palms ached. My chest burned.
Renar was circling now, smug, like this was already over.
"Come on, Lordling," he taunted. "Don't want your daddy thinking he paid for nothing."
I stopped thinking.
Let instinct take the wheel.
When he came at me again, I moved low—too low for Dragon Style. My blade struck across his ribs before I even thought about it. Sharp. Quick. Clean.
He staggered.
I didn't stop.
My next swing came from below, then I feinted to the side and drove forward.
Predatory.
No form.
No structure.
A growl rose in my throat. Not a word. A warning.
My body twisted, lunged, tore through the air with a kind of hunger.
"Beast Style?"
I wasn't fighting anymore.
I was hunting.
Renar swung wide—sloppy, scared. I ducked, slammed my shoulder into him, and drove him into the ground.
Thud.
The yard went silent.
Calden didn't speak.
No one did.
I stood there, chest heaving, blade raised, heart hammering against the cage of my ribs like it wanted out.
And in my mind, for one terrible second—
I was back on the street.
Tobashi lay on the ground.
My hands were still shaking.
"Enough," Calden said, finally. Voice even. Controlled.
"That's enough."
I dropped the sword like it had burned me.
Renar groaned. But I didn't look at him.
I couldn't.
Because if I looked now?
I'd see his face again.
And I wasn't sure if I'd be able to stop the next hit.
Next thing, I got a scolding from Calden.
No surprise there.
"What the hell was that?" he snapped, once Renar had limped off and we were alone again in the training yard.
I wiped sweat off my brow, still catching my breath.
"I won?"
"You lost control."
His tone wasn't yelling—but somehow it hit harder. Like disappointment wrapped in steel.
"It wasn't Dragon Style. It wasn't even close."
I didn't say anything. Just stared at the scuffed dirt under my boots.
Because he was right.
I'd moved like something else took over. Not in a blackout, rage-mode kind of way… but like I'd stopped thinking. Like I just knew.
"You fought like an animal," Calden said.
I looked up, jaw tight.
"And it worked."
He stared at me for a moment—long and quiet.
"It did. This time. But instincts like that? They'll eat you alive if you don't tame them. And next time, your opponent won't be some cocky kid with a wooden stick."
I wanted to yell.
To scream that I had to fight like that.
Because if I didn't—
Tobashi would've kept winning.
Even now, after death.
Instead, I just nodded.
"Understood."
He studied me a little longer.
He turned away.
Muttering to himself:
"Not Dragon… Not Human either…"
But I already knew what he was thinking.
And deep down?
I agreed.
That night, sleep didn't come.
Not because of pain. I was used to pain.
But because every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face.
Tobashi.
Morphing into Renar.
The way they grinned. The way they looked at me like I was lesser. Like my pain was a game.
I clenched my fists under the blankets until they went numb.
That spar didn't feel like a match.
It felt like a relapse.
Like I'd dipped back into the worst part of myself just to survive.
And that scared me.
Because it worked.
I snuck out again.
Made my way to the east corridor.
Then into Father's old book room. Not the official library, the other one. The one nobody used anymore because the shelves were warped and smelled like damp parchment.
Perfect.
I dug through titles: The Art of the Sword, Styles of the Crown Guard, The Veins of Combat...
Most of it was Dragon, Human, and some Divine theory. Nothing useful.
Then I found a slim, dust-covered volume tucked behind a row of thicker tomes. No title on the spine. The cover was cracked leather, worn to almost nothing.
Inside?
Sketches. Descriptions. Snippets.
Not official writing. Personal notes, maybe. But the style it described?
Wild. Aggressive. Unpredictable.
"The Beast Style channels raw instinct. It rejects form in favor of motion. Survival over structure."
My breath caught.
"A practitioner sacrifices balance for momentum, defense for pressure. Their body remembers what the mind forgets."
This was it.
Or something like it.
I flipped through pages, eyes racing, trying to memorize everything I could. Diagrams showed lunges like mine, stances that were barely stances—more like moments between attacks.
"Do not teach to children. Do not teach to cowards."
Too late for both.
I copied what I could onto scrap paper. Folded it. Hid it inside the spellbook back in the greenhouse.
I'd test it there. Alone.
Not tomorrow.
Tonight.