Chapter five: The Path of Disaster
Drake the following day after all the shit he went through, he rested like a real child.
But it was not over as he still hasn't known the way of the sword, the sword art of the Primordia family.
The sword art of the Primordia family which was called the disaster sword art were a series of techniques a child from the main line of the Primordia family at the age of six until the family takes them to the world Academy filled with kids from all over the world with their family's power at the same level of the 4 peak families. That is for the future.
'Open status window'
[Status window.]
Stats
Strength: 15
Dexterity: 17
Endurance: 20
Perception: 13
Intelligence: 24
Mana(unlocked): 90
Skills Locked
More infolocked
'The mana stat is really high for a six year old'
Drake thought to himself standing infront of his bedroom window at night, looking at the moon, which was dazzling with light.
The following day.
The dawn came pale and sharp, spilling light through the thin curtains of Drake's chamber.
He sat on the edge of his bed, crimson eyes staring at his reflection in the polished bronze mirror mounted on the wall. His hand hovered over his chest, feeling the slow thrum of energy beneath his skin.
Three attributes. Black and white lightning, gravity, void.
He had awakened what no one thought possible. The image of the wall cracking beneath his hand lingered in his mind, the gasps of the crowd still echoing. But louder than all of that was the grin of Cassian Primordia. The Sword Emperor's face had burned itself into his thoughts, and it was a smile Drake could not shake.
Was it pride? Or was it the silent acknowledgement of a monster recognizing another monster?
Drake didn't know.
What he did know was this: his path forward had changed forever.
Today, his training would begin.
The Primordia family's training hall was not a hall at all, but a fortress. A sprawling compound of stone and steel, filled with yards for sparring, dungeons for endurance, and chambers carved for meditation.
Drake walked beside his twin, Drakelle, as they followed the elder leading them deeper into the fortress. She kept glancing at him, as if still uncertain he was truly there. He didn't speak, but he could feel her tension—half excitement, half disbelief.
When they reached the heart of the training grounds, the elder stopped and turned. His hair was grey, his face carved with scars, his eyes sharp as a blade.
"You will begin the path all true swordsmen of Primordia walk," the elder intoned. His voice was gravel, but steady, practiced. "The Disaster Sword Art is not a gift. It is not taught in scrolls, nor handed to you in techniques to mimic. It is carved into your body, broken into your bones, until the sword is not a weapon in your hand but a truth of your existence. This is the foundation of the Primordia."
Drake's fists clenched. He remembered reading those words once—in another life, in another world. The Last Descent of a God. The book had described this training, brutal and absolute. He had thought it fiction then. Now, he stood ready to live it.
The elder's voice grew harsher.
"The first stage is endurance. For one year, you will not touch a sword. You will run until your lungs bleed, climb until your muscles tear, and be struck until your bones harden. Only when your body survives the weight of despair can you carry a blade worthy of the Primordia name."
A flicker of unease spread through the gathered children—noble sons and daughters, all brought to begin their journeys. Some bit their lips nervously, others clenched their fists in silent resolve.
Drake only smiled faintly. Endurance? He had endured death itself. A year without a sword was nothing compared to the years of betrayal he had suffered in his previous life.
The elder's gaze swept over them, as if measuring their resolve. Finally, he nodded once.
"You begin today."
The first day of endurance training was designed to break spirits.
At dawn, they were dragged to the mountainside behind the fortress. There, sheer cliffs and jagged terrain awaited them.
"Climb," the instructors commanded. "No tools. No magic. No complaints."
Children scrambled upward, fingers bleeding, knees scraping against rock. Many cried out, slipping and falling into the dirt, only to be forced up again by whips of mana that lashed at their backs.
Drake scaled the cliff in silence, his body moving with steady precision. Each jagged stone bit into his palms, but his grip never faltered. The crimson light in his eyes burned with quiet determination. When he reached the peak, he didn't even pause to rest. He only looked down at the others struggling below.
Drakelle, naturally gifted, climbed with fluid grace, her gravity attribute subtly pulling her upward. Yet even she glanced once at her brother, her brows furrowing when she saw his steady progress.
From climbing, they were forced into running. Endless laps across uneven ground, up and down slopes, through forests and rivers. They ran until their legs cramped, until their lungs screamed, until vomit stained the dirt.
Still, Drake did not stop.
Every step was a memory—of betrayal, of death, of the god who had granted him a second chance. Every drop of sweat was fuel for the vengeance that burned in his veins.
When others fell, he pressed on.
By dusk, his body was bruised and bloodied, but his eyes gleamed brighter than ever.
The weeks blurred into a rhythm of pain.
Morning climbs. Afternoon runs. Evenings spent chained with weights, standing in silence until every muscle screamed. When the instructors ordered them struck with wooden poles to "toughen their flesh," Drake did not flinch. He welcomed the blows, each one a reminder that weakness would never again define him.
Other children wept. Some begged for mercy. One by one, the weaker nobles dropped from training, sent back in disgrace to their families.
But Drake remained.
So did Drakelle. Her talent carried her through, though she glanced often at her brother. At night, she would whisper, "How do you keep going?"
And Drake would answer, "Because I have to."
That was all.
Months passed.
The first season of training ended, and still Drake endured. His body grew leaner, stronger, his muscles hardening into cords of steel. His endurance grew to monstrous levels; he could run for hours without slowing, climb without slipping, endure strikes without faltering.
The instructors took notice.
"This boy… he is not normal," one murmured.
"He endures too easily," another whispered.
Drake ignored them. He didn't need their approval.
A year later, the endurance stage ended.
Drake stood with the remaining few—less than half of those who had begun. His clothes were tattered, his body marked with scars, but his eyes burned brighter than ever.
The elder returned, his gaze sweeping over them.
"Good. You have survived the first step. Now, you will learn to temper your minds as well as your bodies. For two years, you will not touch a sword. Instead, you will study. History, tactics, formations, the flow of mana. For a swordsman of Primordia is not a brute. He is a weapon of precision, guided by knowledge."
The children groaned. Some had expected swords by now, techniques and glory. But Drake only smiled faintly.
Study? He had knowledge beyond any of them. He had lived a life already, had read books and scrolls that others could not imagine.
He would endure. He would learn.
And when the time came, he would take the sword in hand and carve his own disaster into the world.
On the night before studies began, Drake sat alone beneath the stars. His hand closed around the hilt of a practice sword hidden beneath his bed, though he was forbidden to wield it.
He didn't draw it.
He didn't need to.
He whispered into the night, crimson eyes reflecting the moonlight.
"Endurance, knowledge, steps, mana, and finally—the Disaster Sword."
He could feel it already, a storm at the edge of his soul.
"Ten techniques of destruction. I will master them all. And when I do…"
His smile turned sharp, cold, merciless.
"…not even the Sword Emperor will be able to stand above me."