The next morning came too soon. Invia's body protested with the enthusiasm of a revolution as he dragged himself from bed. Every muscle fiber seemed to have formed a union overnight, and their demands were simple: no more movement, ever.
But Mono had said to return today, and the silver pendant's warmth against his chest seemed to pulse with subtle encouragement. Or mockery. With his luck, probably both.
The walk to the Sword Hall felt like a pilgrimage through purgatory. Other students passed him in the corridors, some nodding with the sympathy of shared suffering, others too focused on their own training to notice. The academy was already alive with the sounds of martial dedication—the ring of steel, the thud of arrows, the occasional crash of someone discovering that gravity remained undefeated.
Mono waited in the same private training room, looking like he'd been carved from morning light and disapproval. His perfect features betrayed nothing as Invia entered, though his eyes lingered on the way Invia moved—stiff, careful, but determined.
"You returned," Mono observed, as if this had been in question. "Despite your body's obvious objections. Good. Stubbornness can substitute for talent, sometimes."
"Show me the slash," he commanded.
Invia took the offered practice sword, settled into stance, and executed the horizontal cut. It was close—so much closer than his fumbling attempts two days ago—but still fell short of the basic perfection Mono had demonstrated. The blade sang through the air cleanly, but lacked that final element of unified purpose.
"Acceptable progress," Mono said, which from him might as well have been thunderous applause. "Now—thrust."
He settled into stance—feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced, sword held at middle guard. The thrust, when it came, was embarrassing. His exhausted muscles interpreted the command loosely, creating something that resembled a thrust, the way a child's drawing resembled a masterpiece.
"Again," Mono commanded, demonstrating with his blade. The movement was economical perfection—power generated from the legs, channeled through rotating hips, guided by the arm into a point that would have punctured steel. "Watch. Absorb. Replicate."
The second attempt was better. Not good, but better. By the fifth, Invia had found the beginning of the motion's truth. By the tenth, Mono's eyebrow had risen a millimeter—equivalent to astonishment from anyone else.
"Interesting," the instructor murmured. "Now, the downward chop."
Again, the pattern repeated. Initial failure, rapid improvement, eventual competence. Each fundamental technique—rising cut, diagonal slashes, basic parries, and blocks—showed the same progression. Where two days ago had been a manic focus on one movement, today revealed something more profound: the ability to learn, adapt, and improve across the entire spectrum of swordwork.
"Stop," Mono commanded after an hour. He studied Invia with the intensity of someone recalculating fundamental assumptions. "What's your name?"
That's right... he never asked. A subconscious smile bloomed on his face. **"Invia. My name's Invia."
"Invia..." He paused, "I'm Mono, though I'm sure you already know. You're not Slash-focused. That level of singular advancement yesterday, followed by this even progression today... You're Holistic. Purely so."
"Is that unusual?"
"Unusual?" Mono's laugh was winter wind given voice. "Most Holistic types still show preference. Slight bias toward certain angles, defensive or offensive tendencies. You're advancing evenly across everything. It's like watching someone built from a textbook."
He paused, seeming to weigh his words. "This changes your training. Focused variants reach devastating peaks in narrow areas quickly. Holistics are slower to master any single technique, but you..." He trailed off. "Report here every other day. Rest between sessions is mandatory—your body needs time to integrate. Push like that day again, and you'll cripple your progress."
The dismissal was clear, but Invia's legs had other opinions about movement. He made it as far as the door before Django materialized like an enthusiastic ambush.
"INVIA!" The archer's grin could have powered small cities. "You look terrible! But also amazing! But mostly terrible! It's very confusing!"
"Thanks, I think?"
"Come on!" Django grabbed his arm with surprising strength. "You need food! And probably water! And definitely stories about why you look like someone turned you inside out!"
The dining hall was mid-morning quiet, most students already deep in training. Django commandeered a corner table and proceeded to pile it with enough food for three people, chattering the entire time.
"So Mono's actually training you properly now? That's incredible! He usually just breaks people until they quit! Well, not literally breaks. Usually. There was that one incident with the Verdant family heir, but technically his arm healed stronger, so maybe it was intentional?"
Invia managed to insert food between Django's words, each bite reminding him that bodies needed fuel. "He seems... intense."
"Intense!" Django laughed, spraying crumbs. "That's like saying the Spiral Districts are 'sort of exclusive.' You know about the districts, right? No? Oh, you're missing the best gossip!"
Django leaned forward conspiratorially, though his version of whispering could be heard three tables away. "So the city's built in rings, right? Each ring is higher than the last, all spiraling up to the Dragonspire. The higher you go, the more powerful the families. Top three rings? That's where the real monsters live."
"Monsters?"
"Prodigies! Heirs! People our age who hit Manifestation Realm like it's nothing!" Django's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. "My family has a compound up there. Very fancy. Very boring. Everyone walks around like they're balancing invisible crowns."
He brightened again immediately. "But the stories! There's this guy, Garrett Steelborn—awful name, but his family makes weapons—he awakened his Resonance at twelve and hit Conceptual by fifteen. Now he's seventeen and already mid-Manifestation. Walks around challenging people to duels to 'test his limits.'" Django made air quotes. "Really he just likes making people cry."
"Sounds charming."
"Oh, he's the nice one! There's Elena Voss, Ice Resonance, literally freezes people's words in the air if they bore her. And Marcus Drayton—no relation to our Marcus—who has some sort of Gravity Resonance. Made a servant float for three days because they brought him the wrong tea."
Django continued painting pictures of the city's elite youth, each story more outrageous than the last. But through the comedy, Invia heard the warning: the upper echelons of Dragonspire City played by different rules, where power determined everything and cruelty was often mistaken for strength.
Over the following weeks, this became their pattern. Every other day, Mono would dissect Invia's technique with surgical precision, building his foundation one perfectly executed movement at a time. The days between were for practice, rest, and Django's increasingly elaborate tours of academy life.
"See that scorch mark?" Django pointed to a blackened section of the wall during one walk. "Fire Resonance girl got rejected for a date. Took it poorly. They say you can still hear her ex-boyfriend's screams on quiet nights. Well, they say that, but I think it's just the kitchen staff burning soup."
One afternoon in the dining hall, Django was juggling spoons while enthusiastically describing how he'd accidentally made his breakfast float when Marcus interrupted with a sigh.
"Django, your father's steward came by the archives again. They want you home for the Astoria family summit next month."
Django's face fell alongside his spoons. "But the summit's boring! Just old men arguing about which branch gets to polish the ancestral bows!"
Invia raised an eyebrow. "Astoria family?"
Marcus gave Django a pointed look before explaining. "The premier martial family in three provinces. The Astorias control three provinces near the western border. Five Transcendent Realm members in the current generation. Revolutionary archery techniques. More money than several small kingdoms combined." He nodded at Django. "This one's the youngest son of the main line."
Django wrinkled his nose. "They think something's wrong with my head because I'd rather shoot straw dummies than attend strategy meetings. Kept me locked up for years 'for my own good'." He brightened suddenly. "But now I'm here! Where people do interesting things like advance whole realms in weeks!"
The revelation should have changed how Invia saw his friend. Django Astoria, heir to martial supremacy and wealth beyond measure. Instead, watching him immediately return to juggling spoons, Invia realized it didn't matter at all. Django was Django, regardless of birthright.
A question had been burning in Invia since his arrival, and he finally saw his opening.
"Marcus," Invia began, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "What happened with the others, from Earth? When they first arrived?" He gestured vaguely at his temple, invoking the convenient amnesia. "It's like trying to grasp smoke. I know I should know, but... nothing solid."
Marcus set his spoon down with deliberate precision. His sharp eyes studied Invia, not unkindly, but with the focus of an archivist assessing a rare text. "The Shattering was chaos given form," he stated, his voice low and factual. "People appeared anywhere. Human settlements were the fortunate ones. Many materialized in Orc war-camps. Elven forests actively hostile to outsiders. The middle of the Shifting Sea. Active dungeons." He paused, letting the grim possibilities hang. "The transition itself... it ignited something. Every human from Earth carried a latent Resonance. Collendrum's ambient Entropy acted like a spark. Awakenings happened almost as soon as people came into contact with their Resonances."
That's why the sword only sang to me there, and I felt nothing on Earth? Invia theorized, the question mark near his Resonance becoming more and more puzzling.
Django dropped a spoon with a clatter. "Heard about a group that popped straight into a Frost Drake's nest! Just... poof! Instant dragon snacks."
Marcus continued, ignoring the interruption. "Those with immediately useful Resonances – combat, healing, stealth – had a chance. Those without... faced harsh realities. Exposure. Starvation. Predators. Hostile races seeing easy captives." His gaze held Invia's meaningfully. "Slavery exists beyond the borders of the human alliance, Invia. Orc labor pits. Dark Elf pleasure houses. Certain Dwarf clans value unique... artisans." He didn't elaborate further. He didn't need to.
"How many made it?" Invia pressed, the image of Rose flashing unbidden in his mind. Would Singing have saved her? Or condemned her?
"Impossible to say definitively. Thousands, certainly. Tens of thousands, perhaps? The initial wave was vast, but the attrition... extreme." Marcus took a slow sip of tea. "The survivors adapted. Learned our ways. Their System gave some an edge in understanding progression. After three years? They are merchants, soldiers, farmers, artisans. Scattered, integrated. Blended. Most simply strive to live." He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
"Though... Some came with a Resonance already. Not many, but still a sizeable amount, and some of them very powerful. Especially one. There are… whispers of a man, but weirdly enough, some say he's an unprecedented swordsman, some that he's a genius mage. Arrived amidst our borders with the Orcs, his face a mask of rage. They say his blade burned like captured sunlight. That he vanished an Orc settlement without even lifting his finger, as if it had never existed there. He went on a rampage when he arrived and carved whatever land the Orcs took from us with their blood and corpses, reclaiming most of it alone. A mystery."
Invia felt the silver pendant pulse warm against his chest, a silent counterpoint to the chill spreading through him. A swordsman. "Just one?" he asked, his voice tighter than he intended.
Marcus gave a small, grim nod. "That tale was confirmed by several people present at the order. Proof of terrifying potential, perhaps. Or a fluke born of unimaginable stress. For the rest..." He spread his hands slightly. "Survival was victory enough. As it is for you." He held Invia's gaze. "Focus on that. Survival. Understanding your power. The past, for you, is a luxury you cannot afford yet."
The weight of the unsaid settled over Invia. His people weren't a unified force waiting for him. They were shattered remnants, survivors clinging to life in a world that hadn't asked for them. And he was the loneliest fragment, arriving three years late to share even their desperate struggle.
Progress came in increments that felt both glacial and lightning-fast. Each session with Mono revealed new depths to movements Invia thought he'd understood. A thrust wasn't just extending the arm—it was a full-body commitment to putting steel through space. A parry wasn't just blocking—it was redirecting force while maintaining position for a counter.
[System: Base Sword Sub-Mastery Advanced - Thrust (Proficiency: D+)]
[System: Sword Mastery Advanced (Proficiency: D+)]
Invia blinked through the notifications, a constant presence through the past few weeks.
My Status
[Invia]
Title: The Fool
Resonance: ?, Sword
Realm: Physical
Rank: Upper
Attributes:
Strength: D+
Agility: D+
Willpower: C
Endurance: D+
Perception: B
Mastery:
Sword: D+
Slash: D+
Thrust: D+
Chop: D+
Parry: D+
Block: D+
Skills:
Clear progress all along the board. He smiled. And it looks terribly… even.
"Your advancement rate is troubling," Mono mentioned during one session, watching Invia flow through forms that would have been impossible a month prior. "Six weeks to the upper Physical Realm. Most that come here require around eight months. Prodigies manage four."
"Maybe I'm just motivated?"
"Motivation doesn't rewrite biology." Mono's gaze lingered on the pendant at Invia's throat, that same wary look he'd worn since the first day. "But discussing impossibilities won't change them. We adapt to what is, not what should be."
The morning everything changed came exactly six weeks after that first disastrous session. Invia moved through the complete fundamental sequence without pause, each technique flowing into the next with the grace of understanding rather than mere memorization. His body had internalized the lessons, made them part of himself rather than something he performed.
"Adequate," Mono pronounced, which from him was equivalent to a standing ovation. "Your basics have reached acceptable levels. Time to test if you can apply them."
He moved to the weapon rack, selecting two steel practice blades. Not sharp enough to kill, but real metal with real weight and real consequences. The difference was immediate—steel spoke a harsher language than wood.
"Defend yourself," Mono said simply, and the lesson in humility began.
The first exchange shattered any illusions about his progress. Mono moved at Physical Realm speeds—fast but trackable—yet his blade arrived from angles that violated geometry. Invia's textbook parry met air while the real strike rang against his ribs hard enough to bruise through padding.
"Perfect form assumes cooperative opponents," Mono observed, already flowing into the next sequence. "Reality disagrees."
Steel rang against steel as Invia desperately adjusted. Each exchange was taught through pain. A thrust that should have scored glanced off an impossible angle. A slash that seemed certain met a counter that left his arms numb from impact.
Django had somehow appeared during the sparring, providing commentary from his spot by the door. "Oh! Nice try! But he's doing that thing where—ouch! Okay, maybe don't listen to me!"
Twenty minutes of educational violence later, Invia finally landed a clean hit, recognizing Mono's intentional overextension and capitalizing with a thrust that touched the instructor's chest.
"Better," Mono acknowledged, stepping back. "You can execute techniques. Now you're beginning to understand when and why." He returned the practice blades to their rack with deliberate care. "You're ready for the next phase."
"Next phase?"
"Practical application. Real combat, real consequences, real growth." Mono's smile held no warmth. "Time to send you for field training. The adventurer's guild will provide what this academy cannot—the understanding that perfection in practice means nothing to something trying to eat you."
Invia's chest tightened. After six weeks of routine, of steady progress in controlled environments, the prospect of real danger felt both thrilling and terrifying.
"Report to me tomorrow morning," Mono continued. "I'll explain the details. For now, rest. You'll need it."
As Invia left, muscles aching from the sparring session, Django bounced alongside him with unusual seriousness. Well, serious for Django, which meant he was only grinning half as wide as usual.
"Field training's no joke," the archer said. "Lost my first party member on day three. Got overconfident, pushed too deep into beast territory. Simon was his name. Liked to juggle. Can't juggle without hands, turns out."
The gallows humor couldn't quite hide the shadow that passed over Django's features. For all his cheerful obliviousness, he understood what awaited beyond the academy walls.
"But you'll be fine!" Django's full grin returned like the sun after clouds. "You're smart! And careful! And you have that thing where you stare at problems until they stop being problems! Very useful trait!"
That evening, Invia lay in his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling and processing six weeks of transformation. From barely holding a sword to the upper Physical Realm. From lost and confused to... well, still confused, but competently so.
Tomorrow, Mono would explain what came next. Tomorrow, the controlled environment of the academy would give way to the chaos of real combat. Tomorrow, he'd discover if all this training meant anything when death stopped being theoretical.
The pendant pulsed warm against his chest, and somewhere in that warmth was a whisper of something vast and patient, waiting for him to understand.