"Again"
Elara's voice was flat. Unforgiving.
I gritted my teeth, sweat stinging my eyes, and hefted the massive two-handed sword I had begun to regret choosing. My shoulders were screaming. Gods, how many more swings is she gonna make me do?
"Your swings are still sloppy," she circled me like a predator. "You're still relying entirely on your arms. This isn't a toy sword, Luna. Use your core muscles, use your legs, and most importantly, use your mana. The power comes from the ground up.
Easy for you to say, I grumbled internally. I shifted my aching stance. The blade dragged at my body like a ship's anchor, always one mistake from pulling me face-first into the dirt. This shit is exhausting.
I flexed the blade up like proof. "My arms are strong."
"No one said they weren't. But strength without structure is wasted energy. You're fighting against the sword, instead of wielding it. Try it again."
So I did.
Swing. Stumble. Correction.
Swing. Overbalance. Critique.
It went on like that until my whole body ached and my lungs burned. Every strike felt like wrestling a boulder. Me, the lovely and talented Luna, reduced to a sweaty idiot fighting with a hunk of metal.
Finally, Elara let out a sigh. "This isn't working. I learned from real combat, not drills, maybe you're the same."
She raised her own practice short-sword. "Come. Let's have a little spar."
Ohhhh, finally.Something I'm actually good at. My excitement grew.
It lasted about 3 seconds.
I charged, dumping every ounce of force I had into a dramatic downwards slash that was strong enough to split a tree in two. Elara didn't even bother blocking. She just... disappeared. She flowed aside like water in a stream, and before I'd even registered that I'd missed, a sharp crack struck my knuckles.
My hands went instantly numb. My anchor-like sword slammed into the dirt with a humiliating thud. This must be how Tytus felt... Except without the sister casually dismantling him in front of an audience of trees.
Shit!" I yelped, shaking out the sting. "How'd you do that?"
Elara was already back in her stance, standing there nonchalantly. That somehow made it worse.
She flicked her blade against my shoulder. "See? If all you're gonna do is swing with raw power, you'll stay predictable. Now, pick it up. We'll go again."
And so we did.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Hours had passed, the sun high in the sky marking the time as almost noon.
By this point, my pride had long become more bruised than my knuckles.
Elara tapped her blade against her shoulder, looking bored. "You're getting better, but you always fall back to using your muscles. I told you, stay focused on controlling your mana, spread it throughout your body."
I stood there, panting, eyes caught on the pretty pebbles on the ground. Control it, sure. I'll just casually master it on command.
She flicked the blade and pointed toward my chest. "Luna, remember, your power comes from your Nebulas. You have so much to tap into. It should be aiding your body, not hindering it."
I closed my eyes. Drew a shaky breath. Reached inward. This time, not to chaotically rip out my mana, but to coax it. Guide it.
And something shifted. A warmth began to grow in my chest and flow downwards through my arms and legs. The sword no longer dragged me around like dead weight. For the first time today, it felt connected, not to my hands but to me.
I opened my eyes. Elara was watching, the faintest hint of approval in her gaze. Hopefully.
"Again," she ordered.
I swung. Heavy, yes. Awkward, still yes. But not hopeless. This time my strike had balance. The slightest hint of control. A start.
And for the first time all morning, I felt like I made some progress. Okay, I thought, setting my stance again. Now we're getting somewhere.
* * *
Three months passed in a blur of bruises and frustration.
Every morning was the same as the last. Dawn in the clearing. The unwieldy weight of my sword in my hands. Elara, always ready with sharp words and sharper eyes.
My days fell into a cycle that left no room for pride. Stance drills until my legs trembled, endless swings until my shoulders burned. Spars that ended, without fail, with me flat on my back. I'd stare at the empty sky and wonder why the stars hadn't rearranged themselves into the word failure just for me.
But, annoyingly, it was working.
The clumsy slab of metal that once dragged me around like a ball and chain had started, little by little, to feel less like a burden and more like an extension of myself. Not graceful, not yet, but at least something I could call mine.
The two chaotic centers of mana inside me hadn't stopped fighting; if anything, they seemed to enjoy mocking my efforts—but I was learning to feel them. To separate them, control them. To pull at one thread without the other unraveling. The torrent I'd once relied on was gone, replaced by something thinner, steadier. Less overwhelming. Less reckless. It wasn't power the way I wanted it, but it was control.
And control, I realized, was its own kind of power.
My body strengthened, and my mana bent grudgingly to my will.
And my arrogance, beaten into the dirt, stomped flat by failure after failure, wasn't vanishing. No, it was... changing.
What came out from under that weight wasn't empty pride. It wasn't the hollow satisfaction of someone who just believed she was better.
It was real confidence.
The type forged in bruises, sweat, and humiliation. The kind no one could take away.
I left my room in the late morning, feeling the familiar weight of my uniform settle on my shoulders.
All of the training with Elara had started to take its toll on me, so she allowed me to have this morning to myself. Finally,
I was heading toward the mess hall when I saw her.
She was walking down the opposite end of the long, marble corridor, flanked by two other Vanguard cadets from her year.
Even from a distance, she was unmistakable. Victoria Vaelstrad. Twenty-one years old, graduating senior, golden prodigy of a legendary martial family. She was everything the nobles at this academy wanted to be, and everything I couldn't stand about them.
So that's her.
As we drew closer, her entourage fell silent, their eyes darting between me and her like they were waiting for sparks to fly. Victoria, however, never broke stride. She walked with a kind of grace that made my own relaxed saunter feel sloppy. Every step of hers was perfect, like she'd rehearsed even walking down a hallway.
Her gaze stayed forward, straight through me, as if I were part of the background.
We were about to pass. The corridor was wide enough, sure, but suddenly the air between us felt tight, electric. And just as she was level with me, her head turned.
Her eyes, a measuring and intelligent grey, swept over me. It wasn't a glare. It was worse. It was the look you give something on your boot you'd rather scrape off. A professional evaluation mixed with the barest flicker of disdain, like she'd already decided I wasn't worth the effort of remembering.
She didn't stop. Didn't slow. Just spoke, voice clipped and icy.
"Cadet."
Oh. Not even worth a nickname? Just Cadet. Gods, that was worse. That was nothing.
And then she was past me, already moving on, as if the entire exchange had been beneath her.
My jaw was somewhere on the floor. I snapped it shut.
What was that? Why did she even bother speaking if that's all she was gonna say?
This isn't mockery. It was a dismissal. So casual, so absolute, it almost deserved a round of applause.
In her eyes, I wasn't even worth tripping over. Just dust in the hallway of her grand, important life.
The anger hit fast and clean, not the petty shit Cedric always pulled out of me. No, this was more like a blade being drawn.
Fine by me, Vaelstrad.
* * *
That kind of insult doesn't fade; it festers. Even a week later, it still throbbed in my mind, a constant weight on my mood. By the time I stepped into the main armory in the Bulwark, it felt like she'd just said it.
Elara had sent me here to have the sword's leather grip re-wrapped. The hall was noisy and cavernous, smelling of forge smoke and whetstone dust. I had just set my bag down when I saw her.
Victoria Vaelstrad.
She was perched over a maintenance bench, meticulously cleaning a long, elegant blade that looked more like a piece of art than a weapon. She didn't look up as I approached, but I knew she'd noticed me.
"Never seen you in here before, Cadet," she said, her voice as cool and clean as her blade. She still didn't look at me, her focus entirely on her work.
I tried to sound casual, resting my sword against my shoulder. "Need my weapon worked on."
Her hands stilled. She finally lifted her head, her focus swept over the hefty sword leaning against my shoulder. A flicker of something, disdain, maybe pity, crossed her face before she smoothed it away.
"That is a brutish weapon," she stated, not as an insult, but as a simple, dismissive fact. "All weight and no finesse. It relies on overwhelming force to compensate for a lack of skill."
Brutish, sure. At least it doesn't look like it belongs on a noble's dinner table.
"It gets the job done, I suppose,"
Victoria just gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head and went back to polishing her sword.
Victoria's cloth moved in a slow, perfect circle over her blade. "A true Vanguard does not simply get the job done. We achieve perfection. Something you should be striving to understand."
I wanted to laugh, or spit, or smash that gaudy blade of hers in half. Instead, I just stood there clutching the hilt of my ugly sword, trying not to look like I'd been gutted in the middle of the damn armory.
And that was it. She didn't speak to me again. The dismissal was so complete it was somehow worse than any insult. I just stood there, my hand tightening on the hilt of my sword.
That second encounter should've been enough. A blade polished, an insult veiled, and me swallowing the bitter taste of it. But Victoria Vaelstrad didn't stop at veiled. No, she had to escalate. And of course, she waited until the perfect stage.
* * *
The days that followed blurred into a brutal rhythm—Elara's training left no room for distractions. But even exhaustion couldn't dull the memory of my constant infuriating exchanges with Victoria. They stabbed in the back of my mind like splinters.
So when, during a rare breather beneath one of the courtyard trees, I saw that familiar shadow cross my path... it all came rushing back.
Victoria Vaelstrad.
She was walking with that same perfect stride, the usual posse of cadets trailing her. The courtyard went quiet almost automatically; everyone scattering to give her a wide berth as she passed.
Her eyes scanned me, assessing, like she was measuring exactly how far I'd fallen behind, or if I even belonged in the same space as her.
"Your choice of sword still resembles a log, I see." She said, loud enough for her lackeys to hear, a smirk curling her lips as if she had practiced that line in her head all week. "I'd expect a Cadet of your... reputation to have taken my advice and changed to something more refined."
I felt the old flush of irritation rise in my chest. Usually, I'd grit my teeth, grind my heels, and let her smug superiority linger. But this time... something snapped.
"Oh, it's refined," I said, voice low but steady. "Refined enough to survive every drill, spar, and idiot who thinks they can tell me how to swing it."
Victoria's eyebrows rose ever so slightly, a slight indication of surprise in her grey eyes.
"You... talk back," she said, still holding her calm, measured tone, but now there was an edge to it. "I was under the impression you were like a meek little puppy unable to bite back."
"If you want me to bite you, just say so," I flashed my teeth, riding the adrenaline. "Or are you still worried I'll tear your precious ego to pieces before you finish polishing that pretty little sword of yours?"
For a split-second Victoria froze.
Her grip tightened on the hilt of her ornament. "Bold. I did not expect words from you, Luna. Most of the academy either ignore or grovel. You, however... you speak as though you belong here."
"Maybe I do," I shot back, letting my stance relax slightly, letting the confidence I'd worked for over the last three months shine through.
Her grey eyes narrowed, and for a second, the calm, untouchable facade she always carried flickered like a candle in the wind. "Interesting," she said finally, inclining her head almost imperceptibly. "Perhaps there is more to you than the academy whispers suggest."
I felt the familiar thrill of victory surge through me. Not a sparring win. Not a medal. Not even a compliment. Just acknowledgement. Recognition. Reaction.
Victoria straightened, her posture impeccable once more, and with a final, measured glance, she turned, walking on. Her entourage followed, whispering in her wake, skittish and restless.
I stayed put for a long moment, letting the warmth of the sun soak into my back and chest, gripping the hilt of my sword. My chest swelled with that strange mix of pride and anticipation.
Good. She noticed. That was the first step. And next time... next time, I'd make her regret ever underestimating me.
* * *
It had been almost a week since my last encounter with Victoria.
The courtyard was packed. Students lined the balconies, instructors stood watchful at the edges, and the drillmaster barked orders that bounced off the stone walls. Today was one of those demonstration days—when the cadets got to show off their progress for the benefit of the academy brass.
Most cadets stuck to safe, polished forms. Blocks, thrusts, parries. All very proper.
Then it was my turn.
I had a practice sword made to the same specs as my real one. Just as heavy, it hit the ground with a thunk as I stepped forward, rolling my shoulders. Whispers rippled through the crowd like a wave. Some were probably waiting for me to trip over my own blade. Others... well, I had a reputation by now.
My opponent, a lanky second-year, smirked as if the outcome was already written. Poor bastard.
The horn blew. He lunged in with the kind of neat, textbook-perfect strike that would've made the instructors clap politely. I sidestepped, spinning the sword in a wide, gleaming arc. My mana flared through my body, making each slash devastating.
Gasps.
I didn't stop moving. One oversized slash became two, then three, chaining into a wild dance of steel. The crowd ate it up, cheers, murmurs, even a few awed curses. My opponent scrambled to keep up, his polished form cracking with each desperate block.
Finally, I feinted left, poured mana into my legs, and launched myself into a downward slam. The sheer force ripped the wooden sword from his hands and sent him sprawling.
Silence. Then—applause.
I rested the sword across my shoulders and gave a theatrical bow. Lovely Luna, destroyer of proper form, at your service.
But not everyone was clapping.
Victoria Vaelstrad stepped from the crowd, her posture radiating calm authority, her expression carved from stone. Her voice carried across the courtyard without effort.
"Impressive... If brute force and showmanship are the measures of a Vanguard."
The crowd quieted instantly. My grin faltered, just a hair.
Victoria's gaze swept over me, then the instructors, then the entire audience. She let the silence stretch, commanding it.
"But skill... refinement... perfection... Those are what truly define a warrior. And I will not have the name Vanguard cheapened by theatrics."
Her sword was already in her hand, gleaming like polished silver. She pointed it at me, as precise as a judge delivering a sentence.
"Luna. I challenge you. Here. Now. Before the academy."
Of course, she'd pick the dramatic option. Gods forbid a Vaelstrad do anything without half the academy watching.
The crowd exploded—cheers, gasps, frantic whispers. Even the instructors looked rattled.
I felt my heart hammer, a wild, eager grin spreading despite myself.
My eyes flicked to the back of the crowd. Elara stood there, arms crossed. No encouragement. No judgment. Just that piercing stare that said: Show me.Gods, it made my stomach twist.
Well. Shit. A challenge from a Gravity stage? This was either going to be the best day of my life... or the most humiliating.
Either way, no chance in hell I was backing down.