Chapter 301 — The Weight of Names
The second day of training began before the sun even cleared the horizon. The council yard smelled of sweat and iron from the day before, but instead of weariness, a restless tension hung in the air.
"Again?" Thalos muttered, adjusting his robes like he was heading into a funeral instead of drills. "I fail to see how breaking my back for the entertainment of miners contributes to strategy."
"Maybe you'll think faster on your feet after I knock you down again," Rogan boomed, cracking his knuckles.
Varik smirked, already twirling a pair of short blades. "I'd pay to see that."
"Good," Selina cut in sharply, striding into the ring with a bundle of black parchment tucked under one arm. Her crimson hair was tied back, eyes glowing faintly with mana as if she hadn't slept. "Mockery is fuel. Rivalry sharpens the blade. But all of you are still swinging wild. Raw power is wasted power."
She unfurled the parchment, revealing diagrams of runes and flowing calligraphy. "Names have weight. Names give shape. When Kael strikes, it is not just fire or shadow—it is Dragoniod's Breath, and the world bends to his will. Each of you must forge your own."
The councilors exchanged skeptical looks, but Kael stepped forward before anyone could protest.
"Watch."
He drew his magisteel blade, shadows coiling around the steel, black flames licking the edge. His voice rumbled low, like stone cracking beneath the earth.
"Dragoniod's Breath."
The world seemed to hold its breath. Kael swung, and a torrent of black fire erupted from the blade, sweeping across the yard in a controlled arc. The heat singed hair, the ground scorched black, but not a single watching recruit was harmed. The flame curved, narrowed, obeyed.
The crowd broke into gasps, then silence.
Selina's lips curved into a sharp smile. "That. That is what separates instinct from mastery. Without a name, it's a wildfire. With one, it's a blade."
The council split into pairs. Rivalries sparked instantly.
Rogan and Varik squared off again, their training weapons clashing so fiercely the recruits watching cheered like it was a tournament. Rogan roared the name of his swing—"Stonebreaker!"—and while the attack cracked the practice shield Varik carried, it also jarred his own wrists.
"Too much brute force," Varik sneered, ducking low to slash across Rogan's legs. "Serpent's Fang!" His strike was faster, sharper—but Selina's voice cut across the yard.
"Good names wasted on sloppy control. Again!"
Thalos struggled. His first attempt at a "named attack" was so convoluted it made Rogan double over laughing. "The…uh…Ray of Sunlight Piercing the Obscurity of Ignorance."
Kael pinched the bridge of his nose. "Thalos. That's not a name. That's a speech."
Even Lyria chuckled, though she masked it quickly. She had taken to the training with her usual grace, whispering her chosen name—"Silver Gale." Her blade cut in a flowing arc, sharp enough to make Selina nod once in approval.
Azhara, hesitant as always, surprised them all. Instead of force, she whispered, "Sanctuary." The spell that bloomed wasn't a shield but a shimmering dome of soft light, wide enough to cover half the yard. The recruits gasped, and Kael gave her a rare, proud smile.
Zerathis, on the other hand, refused to play along. "Names are chains," he snarled, unleashing a violet slash that obliterated three dummies without a word.
Selina stepped in front of him, unflinching despite the smoking wreckage. "Then bind yourself willingly, or you'll never control that rage. Even Kael wears chains of his own making."
Zerathis' eyes flicked toward Kael, and for once, he said nothing.
By the time the sun set, the council was drenched in sweat and exhaustion, but their strikes were sharper, their spells steadier, their rivalry tempered with respect.
Kael watched them with quiet pride. They were still raw, still clumsy in places, but something had shifted. They weren't just individuals anymore—they were a storm gathering its name.
And when that storm finally broke, the world would hear it.