The sky over Aeloria was clear that morning. A few lazy clouds drifted along the horizon, as if hesitant to disturb the golden light bathing the training grounds of the Academy.
Master Calem was not the type to shout or humiliate. He observed silently, corrected with a sharp word or a mere glance, and demanded much without ever raising his voice. But beneath this calm lay an unwavering rigor. And Menma, though struggling at first, held firm.
“Position. Breathing. Intention. Again.” Calem’s voice echoed across the field.
Menma, legs slightly bent, gripped a long training staff with both hands. Today’s exercise: a martial kata taught to all Orion class students to learn self-control, precision of movement, and concentration.
Around him, his classmates applied themselves, but few with such seriousness. Some yawned, others clumsily copied their neighbors’ moves. But Menma repeated each gesture with an almost feverish intensity. As if through this ordinary motion, he sought to master something greater than himself.
In his left hand, discreetly, he clenched a small rune-engraved stone — a worthless artifact he was trying to amplify during the exercise.
A double focus. A double load. And double fatigue.
But this was how he progressed.
Menma stood up, one hand on his thigh, panting. Calem said nothing. He waited. And Menma resumed.
Late morning, Calem announced a change in exercise.
“Today, you’ll face off in pairs. Not to win. To learn. We don’t want a show of strength, but observation, strategy. Understood?”
Murmurs ran through the ranks. Some students exchanged knowing smiles, others worried glances. Menma felt a knot form in his stomach. He wasn’t good at dueling. No flashy attacks, no impressive technique. Just… willpower.
He was paired with a boy named William. Tall, lean, fast. An archetype of enhanced agility. Menma faced him, staff in hand.
“You can give up if you want,” William said with a polite smile. “It’s not personal, but… this’ll be quick.”
Menma nodded. Not in acceptance, but because he heard him. He gripped his staff tighter. And in his other hand, still the runic stone.
The fight began.
William attacked swiftly, spun, dodged, feinted. Menma, too slow, too predictable, took the first hit full in the side. Then a second. He stepped back, slipped, growled. But he held on. His staff vibrated under his fingers. He slowly injected a flow of magic into it. Not enough to be dangerous. Just… a little stronger.
He parried. Then countered. Clumsily, admittedly. But William had to step back.
A murmur spread among the spectators.
Calem watched, arms crossed. Not a word. But his gaze grew sharper.
Menma held. He wasn’t good. But he analyzed. He adapted. And most of all, he didn’t break.
At the end of the exchange, he fell to his knees. Defeated, obviously. But not humiliated.
William, sweating, approached him.
“Good job. You had me worried for a moment.”
Menma nodded, a faint smile on his lips. He hadn’t won. But he’d lasted. And to him, that was a victory.
In the afternoon, theory classes followed one after another.
Éthera spoke almost not at all. She just stared at the students with an inscrutable gaze while they tore their hair out over esoteric texts.
Maestra Velya gave a spectacular demonstration of vegetation control. Menma took notes out of politeness, but he felt this kind of magic wasn’t for him.
Sérën gave a vague lecture on magical consciousness and perceptive illusions. Menma didn’t understand much. But he listened. Out of respect.
The day ended in tired silence. Menma, arms sore, walked slowly toward the dormitory. In his hand, the stone he had amplified all day still vibrated faintly.
He looked at it long.
— It needs to become instinctive. Natural. As if it were… me.
He closed it in his fist.
One day, he would be one with his power.
The next day, the sun pierced through the tall glass windows of the southern building, casting golden glints on the tiled floor of the amphitheater. Menma sat in the back row, his notebook open on his lap. Before him, Professor Sylvain’s calm, measured voice resonated.
“Each rune has its own frequency. A magical vibration. When you bind them, you don’t just connect symbols: you create harmony, an echo, a synchronization.”
On the translucent board, glyphs slowly rotated, linked by lines of light. Menma stared at the symbols, fascinated despite himself. He didn’t grasp everything — some concepts still eluded him — but something about the way the vibrations intertwined, responded like a rhythm, sparked an idea.
He scribbled beside his notes a confused yet inspired thought:
“Amplification by resonance... synchronized amplification... organic amplification?”
He circled the words, sensing deep inside that his power could evolve toward a smoother mastery, where magic would no longer be forced but in perfect symbiosis with his body and environment.
When class ended, students dispersed, chatting among themselves. Menma stayed a moment, lost in thought. Then he packed his things and headed outside, toward the training grounds.
Like every afternoon.
The sky was overcast, and a cool breeze blew down from the mountains, shaking the Academy’s banners. On the beaten lawn, Orion class students warmed up under Calem’s orders.
— “Today, continuous sets. Speed, endurance, then pair drills. No magic. Only your bodies.”
Protests were rare. Calem didn’t negotiate.
Menma ran, muscles tense, breath short. Every stride reminded him of his limits. Every impact with the ground, his weaknesses. But he didn’t slow. He endured.
After laps came technical training.
— “Change partners. Base stance. Parry. Riposte.”
Facing a taller girl, Menma tried to keep pace. He blocked the first strike, missed the second, lost balance. Fell. He growled and got up.
— “Try again,” said Calem, without mockery, but without leniency.
The cycle repeated. Fall. Retry. Fall. Retry.
For a week now, Ayame, a prestigious Nova class student, had gotten into the habit of sitting on a low wall near the Orion field. Book open on her lap, she pretended to read, but her eyes regularly drifted toward Menma.
But at every outburst from Calem or Menma’s fall, her gaze shifted, without her really noticing.
The truth was, she wasn’t quite sure why she kept coming back.
Maybe because Nova training, prestigious as it was, left her drained. There, she always had to shine, meet expectations, surpass. Here, no rivalry, no competition. Just students struggling with their limits. And a teacher who looked at them for who they really were.
She didn’t envy their place. But something held her.
Her gaze slid back to Menma.
That boy was nothing impressive. Neither noble, talented, nor popular. Yet, he came back every day, face closed, fists clenched, back soaked in sweat. And he started over. Again and again.
There was something true in that. Raw.
She had never spoken to him. Didn’t intend to. But she wanted to see how far he would go.
Maybe… to remember what sincere effort looked like. Not a show. Not an obligation. Just… will.
And silently, she stayed there.
A little lower, Calem approached Menma, who was rubbing his sore shoulder.
— “You can’t just endure. You need to learn to read your opponent. Anticipate. React. Your Arche won’t save you if your body doesn’t keep up.”
Menma nodded, panting.
— “Yes, Master Calem… I understand.”
A silence. Then, for the first time, Calem added in a softer voice:
— “You’re progressing. Slowly. But surely.”
Menma lifted his eyes, surprised. It wasn’t a compliment. Not really. But it was an admission. A sign.
He smiled despite his fatigue.
— “I’ll keep going.”
Later, as the light faded, students returned one by one to the dorms. Menma stayed a while longer. An old gauntlet on his palm, he repeated his movements. Channel. Amplify. Release. Again.
From afar, Calem watched silently, arms crossed.
Ayame had already left. But she would come back. She knew it. A part of her wanted to understand this boy who kept getting up, without glory, without light. Just with that raw determination, that silent fire.
When Menma finally returned, he walked down the empty hallway with heavy steps. But in his eyes, something shone. Not pride. Nor satisfaction. Just a certainty:
He might not have been born to be a prodigy.
But he was born to move forward.
And he didn’t intend to stop.