The sun crept over the bloodstained horizon like a guilty witness, casting golden light over the broken battlefield that stretched beyond the eastern ramparts. The smoke had mostly cleared from the day before, but the scent of scorched wood, charred flesh, and acrid mana still lingered in the air. The border fortress, once a proud bastion of Aurellia, now looked like a wounded beast—its walls cracked, its towers scorched, its courtyards stained red.
Achilles stood silently at the highest watchpoint, overlooking the still-smoldering remains of the Ascendrian siege engines. He had not slept. His eyes were sunken but sharp, scanning the horizon with a cold, calculating intensity. His sword rested in its sheath at his side, but even now, faint sparks of unstable aura danced along his fingertips.
The wind tugged at his cloak, pulling it toward the dying embers of the battlefield. Achilles' posture was straight, almost regal, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the toll that yesterday's battle had taken. His aura was depleted, and what little he could gather now throbbed painfully through his mana circuits, still raw from the meteor spell he had unleashed.
Kael found him there, just as the sun cleared the hills. He climbed the stone steps slowly, his armor only half-buckled, a bandage freshly wrapped around his arm. His face bore the same exhaustion as Achilles, but unlike the commander, Kael looked pissed.
"You're still up here," Kael muttered, rubbing at his temple. "You didn't sleep. Again."
Achilles didn't turn. "Too much to think about."
Kael snorted and leaned against the parapet beside him, arms crossed. "Thinking won't do you any good if you drop dead from aura exhaustion."
A beat passed.
"You nearly killed yourself yesterday, you know that?" Kael continued, more sternly. "You summoned a meteor, Achilles. You barely survived."
"The Titan needed to die."
"And what if it hadn't worked? What if your body gave out before the spell finished casting? You think anyone else could've stopped that thing?"
Achilles was silent. The wind carried their breath away in ghostly wisps.
Kael shook his head. "You're not just a soldier anymore. You're a symbol. A noble, a magic swordsman, and the one person at this damn border everyone looks to when things go to hell. You can't afford to fall."
"I don't plan to."
Kael turned to him fully now, voice growing sharper. "You're treating this like a race. Like if you don't master aura tomorrow, the kingdom will collapse."
"It might."
"It won't."
Achilles finally looked at him.
Kael continued, his voice quieter but more serious. "You know how rare magic swordsmen are, Achilles? Real ones? Not the charlatans who cast spark spells with a dagger and call it fusion. Real magic swordsmen, who can seamlessly channel both aura and mana into their blade? Maybe one in ten thousand. Maybe."
Achilles frowned, but Kael pressed on.
"And of those, most take a decade to get where you're trying to go in weeks. You've only had a couple of months of training. You're progressing faster than anyone I've ever seen—but you still need time."
The commander turned back toward the horizon. "Ascendria isn't going to give us time."
"Then we steal it."
Achilles raised a brow.
Kael shrugged. "We bleed them. We outsmart them. We reinforce our position and let your body catch up to your ambition. Because if you keep burning out your circuits every battle, one day your aura will backlash and fry your brain. And then what?"
Achilles looked down at his gloved hand. Even now, faint tremors rippled through it when he tried to summon aura. The system he'd built within his mind—his tool to interpret the magic of this world as code—had grown more stable, but it still strained against the primitive limitations of his new body.
He exhaled slowly.
"You might be right."
Kael blinked. "Wait… did you just agree with me?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
They stood in silence for a moment longer, watching the morning fog dissipate over the battlefield.
Kael, after a few moments, handed Achilles a small leather-bound notebook.
"What's this?"
"Notes," Kael said simply. "From the knights who fought beside you yesterday. Observations on your aura usage. Times you faltered, times you overextended. Thought you might want data."
Achilles flipped it open. His eyes scanned quickly, absorbing the details: point of overload, when his aura flared during close contact, the moment before his blade ruptured the Voidmarked's heart, the pulse of resistance his body gave just before collapse.
A faint smile ghosted over his lips.
"You really do pay attention."
Kael grinned. "Someone has to. You're too busy rewriting the world to notice your body falling apart."
---
Later that afternoon, Achilles found a quiet stretch of forest beyond the eastern cliffs, where the trees still stood untouched by fire or spell. Here, with only the chirping of distant birds and the rustle of leaves, he trained.
He stripped down to his tunic, the cold wind nipping at his skin, and took a long breath. His blade was strapped to his back, but he left it sheathed for now. First, he practiced breathing—the fundamental rhythm of aura flow.
Inhale. Channel mana.
Exhale. Focus aura.
His veins burned as the two forces clashed within him. Mana, so fluid, tried to flow like water. Aura, rigid and explosive, resisted control. The two could not mix easily, and yet his system helped him bridge the gap. He visualized them as circuits. He debugged the flow.
Every minute correction etched itself into his body.
He unsheathed his sword next, the blade humming faintly in resonance with his unstable aura. He swung slowly, deliberately, each strike a calibration.
One.
Two.
Three.
His aura flared, licked the air, then vanished. He tried again. This time it held for three swings.
"Closer," he muttered.
The system pinged softly:
>>> Aura Integration: 67% Stability
>>> Blade Synchronization: Moderate
>>> Neural Overload: Manageable
He adjusted his grip. Tried again.
Kael watched him from the treeline, arms crossed. He said nothing. He knew Achilles needed this.
As the sun began to dip behind the hills, Achilles collapsed onto the grass, panting.
Kael approached with two flasks of water and a half-smile.
"Better."
"Not good enough," Achilles rasped.
"You integrated aura into five strikes before collapse. Last week, you couldn't manage two. That's progress."
Achilles drank deeply.
"Still can't activate defensive aura reliably. In real battle, that makes me a liability."
"You're a miracle, not a god," Kael replied. "Stop trying to leap mountains. Climb them."
Achilles wiped sweat from his brow.
"No one's climbed this one before."
"Then take your time," Kael said. "We're buying it for you. Every day this border holds, every battle we win, that's more time. So use it."
Achilles looked at him for a long moment.
Then, finally, he nodded.
---
That night, the 3rd Legion held a subdued gathering near the mess tents. No celebration, just quiet camaraderie. Soldiers shared drinks. Some sang. Others just sat close, clinging to the warmth.
Achilles watched from the shadows, still clad in his training gear. He didn't speak. But when a young soldier approached him—a boy barely seventeen, clutching a spear still stained with blood—Achilles paused.
"You saved us yesterday," the boy said quietly.
"You held the line," Achilles replied.
The boy nodded. "Still… thank you."
Achilles watched him rejoin the others. The boy laughed, for the first time in days.
Kael came to stand beside him, sipping a flask of dark ale.
"They believe in you," Kael said simply.
Achilles nodded.
"Then I can't afford to fail."
"No," Kael agreed. "But you can take a breath. Just one."
Achilles watched the stars above, the faint shimmer of constellations familiar and strange.
One breath.
Then another.
His journey as a magic swordsman was far from over.
But tonight, he let himself believe it was possible.