The knock came just before dawn—measured, deliberate, sharp enough to vibrate through the frost that lingered on the doorframe.
"Rin," the voice carried like steel wrapped in silk. "Wake. Training starts now."
Rin sat up instantly, pulse steady. His body was sore, but not unprepared. After seventy years in Murim, his mornings began with battle, meditation, or both. This time was no different. He dressed quickly in the dark folds of his robe, bound the Sovereign Blade at his hip, and opened the door.
Rose Sylvanyr stood waiting.
Her crimson hair caught the hallway's pale light like burning thread, her eyes glacial blue, sharp and amused. Though younger than Seraphina, she bore herself with the same impossible confidence—a queen's blood evident in every step.
She glanced at him, then gave a curt nod. "Good. You look less like a vagabond today. Follow."
---
The academy's bridges hummed with mana beneath their feet, blossoms drifting down like snow. Students parted at their approach, bowing heads. Whispers followed him, most hushed, some sharp.
At the heart of the academy lay the sparring chamber: a vast hall of pale stone, runes etched deep into the floor, ceiling open to let morning light bleed in. At its center waited a single blade, plain and black, resting on a pedestal.
Rose gestured toward it. "The students call this the Sword of Gluttony. It consumes mana endlessly. It does not obey. It will eat you alive until you learn to stop feeding it."
Rin's gaze sharpened, but he said nothing. He stepped forward, lifted the blade, and immediately felt it: a relentless pull, like a bottomless pit had latched onto his veins. His frost surged instinctively—and was torn from him, leeched into the weapon until his aura guttered like a dying flame.
Rose's lips curved faintly. "Good. Now fight me."
---
The clash was immediate.
Rin blurred forward, Heavenly Severing Codex flowing through his steps. The world narrowed to motion: one step—air cracked; second step—stone splintered beneath his heel. In a blink, his blade met hers, steel ringing against silver.
Fast, he thought. But not untouchable.
Her sword met his with ease. Sparks scattered, frost trailing her parry like ribbons of light. And then—without lifting her blade—her free hand clenched. A pillar of ice erupted beneath his feet.
Rin pushed off, twisting midair, his body a blur as he cut downward. His strike shattered the spire in a storm of shards—but the Gluttony Sword devoured the frost he instinctively poured into the blow, leaving his muscles to absorb the full shock. His arms trembled as he landed.
Rose didn't relent. Her blade swept across his guard in a perfect arc, pressing his balance. At the same time, the ceiling groaned. Above, a meteor of ice condensed from raw moisture, glowing blue-white.
Rin's eyes widened. "She's casting while clashing—"
He snapped his blade upward, shattering the meteor into fragments before it crashed. Shards rained down around him, slicing his robe and biting his skin. His chest heaved—the effort had cost him, not her.
Rose's voice was cool, unimpressed. "Murim taught you discipline with a blade. But with ice? You still fight like a child drowning in his own river."
---
The fight escalated.
Rin advanced, steel whispering through precise arcs, each one measured, honed through decades of combat. His strikes were not wasted—every step cut the space between them, every pivot carved an opening. Heavenly Severing Codex doesn't fail. If I land one decisive cut, this match is mine.
But Rose was no Murim warlord.
She stamped her heel once. The entire floor bloomed into glaciers—an ice age unleashed in an instant. Frost raced outward, covering the chamber in jagged sheets. The Gluttony Sword howled, drinking Rin's frost faster in the hostile environment.
Rin's muscles locked, veins burning as mana drained faster than he could regulate. His body screamed for release.
Rose pressed forward, blade flashing, her strikes seamless with the terrain itself. A thrust became a spike from the floor. A parry became a gale of frost across his flank. Every swing carried a spell; every spell masked a strike.
Impossible… she's fighting two duels at once. Sword and spell. Body and frost.
Rin backstepped, breath ragged. He blurred sideways, cutting through the frost that sealed his path, his thoughts sharp as steel: She's faster when she doesn't need to think. Control gives her freedom—I've been chaining myself to bursts.
His guard slipped for half a heartbeat. Rose's blade kissed his shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood. Cold seeped into the cut, freezing it before it bled.
Her eyes glimmered. "Better. You're watching now. But until you can command your ice, every clash like this will kill you by inches."
---
Rin roared, surging forward, a desperate strike that split the floor. His blade blurred, speed dragging afterimages across the chamber. For a breath, even Rose yielded a step. He pressed, each cut sharper, each motion honed through the Codex's ruthless clarity.
But the Gluttony Sword betrayed him. The frost pouring through each strike was devoured, leaving only hollow steel. His lungs burned, his veins shrieked.
Rose twisted, spun, and slammed her palm into the ground. The arena exploded upward into a storm of jagged ice spears, swallowing his momentum whole.
He landed hard, gasping, sweat freezing across his brow. His hands trembled on the hilt. His heart thundered—not from fear, but fury.
She's right. I don't lack strength. I lack control.
---
Rose lowered her blade, breath steady, her aura untouched. She walked toward him, each step measured, elegant.
"You lasted longer than most," she admitted. "But strength without restraint is waste. You'll learn to starve this sword before it starves you. And you'll learn to shape ice without leaning on crutches."
Her gaze sharpened, a glint of challenge sparking there. "Tomorrow, we do this again. And the day after. Until you stop drowning yourself."
Rin's grip tightened on the Gluttony Sword. His chest still burned, his veins still raw—but his eyes glowed faintly, frostlight shimmering within.
He forced himself upright, sweat and frost mingling across his scarred skin. His voice was hoarse but firm.
"Then tomorrow," he said, "I'll bleed less."
Rose's lips curved, not in mockery this time—but in approval.
The training hall had finally emptied, the echo of clashing blades fading into quiet. Rin's body ached from Rose's relentless pace; frost still clung to his skin, burning faintly in places where the Sword of Gluttony had leeched too much mana. He rolled his shoulders once, exhaling slowly, before heading down the marble steps toward the bathhouse wing of the academy.
The corridor to the academy's bathhouse gleamed with quiet majesty. Pale stone polished to mirror-brightness stretched beneath Rin's feet, runes flowing faintly with silver-blue light as if marking each step of his path. Crystalline lanterns floated overhead, humming softly, their glow adjusting as he passed. Mana flowed through the walls like veins, alive, sustaining.
When the archway doors parted, steam rolled out—carrying scents of mint, frostblossoms, and warm stone.
Inside lay a world more like a sanctuary than a bath.
A vast pool stretched across the chamber, its waters glowing faintly from luminous mana-crystals embedded in the floor beneath. Gentle waterfalls spilled from carved walls, streams of liquid light trickling down runic grooves. Each droplet evaporated into a fine mist that hovered in the air, purified instantly by shimmering wards.
Shower rows lined the far side, their partitions formed not of wood or stone, but translucent crystal that shifted in color depending on the bather's aura—privacy woven from magic itself. The floor adjusted to footsteps, warming where needed, cooling where desired.
Elves moved in and out in silence, their robes dissolving into motes of light when hung on mana-hooks, returning once their owners were finished. The efficiency of Sylvanyr was absolute; nothing wasted, nothing crude.
Rin stepped in, his dark robe drawing glances. He untied it, folded it neatly, and placed it on a crystal hook. The garment shimmered into stasis, held in suspension by a rune.
The moment his torso was revealed, the atmosphere shifted.
His body carried Murim's brutal tutelage: shoulders honed, arms strong but lean, torso cut with scars that traced battles long past. His strength was not ornamental, not sculpted for admiration—it was carved by survival. Scars marked his ribs, his back, his side, each a chapter of hardship etched into flesh.
Conversations faltered. A pair of elven girls near the pool stilled mid-laughter, cheeks heating faintly as their gazes darted toward him, then away. Another adjusted her towel with sudden, needless fuss, whispering to her friend behind a curtain of hair. Their blushes bloomed not only from his physique, but from the sheer aura of someone other, someone forged beyond their sheltered brilliance.
Rin noticed, but he did not waver. He crossed the chamber with steady stride, the whisper of his bare feet sharp against smooth stone.
At a shower station, he pressed a rune. Water cascaded from a crystal spout—liquid clear as glass, temperature adjusting to his will. It fell hot, then cooled to perfect balance.
Rin stepped beneath it.
The spray struck his shoulders, rolled down his back, traced the scars like rivers across stone. His breath left him in a slow exhale, the tension of combat draining with the warmth. He tilted his head back, dark hair plastered to his brow, water streaming through the cords of muscle earned over decades.
Seventy years in murim and 2 years in my current lifetime . Every scar a lesson. Every fight a reminder. And still—I stand here, an amateur with my bloodline.
He clenched his fists beneath the stream, water scattering from the movement. Sword, mana, discipline—those I have. But control… that's the frontier I never touched.
The water shifted briefly to cold, shocking his skin, then returned to warmth—responsive, alive. He let it wash over him, leaning against the smooth crystal wall, feeling his pulse steady.
Behind him, the whispers had grown again. Soft. Embarrassed. Curious. He ignored them, as he always did.
Until—
A voice, amused and sharp as ice, cut through the steam.
"Well, well."
Rin turned.
Rose leaned against the doorway, arms folded. Her crimson hair was bound back, still gleaming even in the mist, her blue eyes bright with mischief. Unlike the others, she did not avert her gaze.
She smirked. "You've barely been here a day, and already half the academy girls are blushing themselves stupid."
Rin's jaw tightened. "I didn't notice."
Her laugh was soft, skeptical. "Of course you didn't. You're too busy brooding under waterfalls." She pushed off the wall, stepping closer, steam curling around her like a veil. "Careful, cousin. If you keep wandering around shirtless, they'll start writing poems about you."
Rin exhaled slowly, unbothered. "Let them."
Rose tilted her head, studying him—his scars, his stance, the water running down his frame. For the briefest moment, her smirk softened into something thoughtful. Then she turned sharply, tossing her hair back.
"Training hall. Five minutes. We wouldn't be sparing this time. It would simply be meditation for better control. Don't make the princess wait."
With that, she was gone, leaving the faintest scent of blossoms in the mist.
Rin stood for another breath beneath the shower, water dripping from his hair, steam curling from his shoulders. Then he shut the rune off, the spray halting instantly, and reached for his robe.
Time to fight again.
📜 Codex Record — The Sword of Gluttony
Classification: Training Artifact, Mana-Devouring Blade
Designation: Tool of Discipline
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Description
The Sword of Gluttony is a forged anomaly—plain to the eye, yet insatiable to the touch. Its surface bears no jewel, no rune, no ornamentation. Only its aura reveals its nature: hunger. When wielded, it latches onto the wielder's veins and begins to drain mana without pause, heedless of intent.
Where most training artifacts suppress output gently, the Sword of Gluttony devours with violence, tearing at every leak, every stray thread of energy. Left unchecked, it will hollow its user in moments.
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Purpose
It is not meant to kill—but to teach. By forcing its wielder to fight against their own leaking mana, it exposes weaknesses invisible to ordinary sparring. Only those who can dam the flood within themselves may survive its bite. For most students, even minutes with it leave them unconscious.
To endure it is to confront the truth of control: strength is nothing without restraint.
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Historical Use
Rose Sylvanyr, heir and prodigy, is one of the few to ever master it fully. Under her hand, the Sword of Gluttony became infamous at the Academy, whispered of by students as a curse disguised as a lesson.
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Annotation
> "A blade that does not obey. A lesson that does not comfort.
To wield it is to bleed discipline into the marrow.
To master it is to admit: the enemy is not your foe—it is yourself."