Chapter six: Essence of the sword
The two years of intense study was actually tough for the ones born without intellectual talent.
They were taught the art of seeing mana paths, they read diaries and Journals of long dead Legends, this was done in two years.
The reason was unknown actually, every f**cking idiot, since the beginning of the Primordia family.
Now 9 years old, all that was left was to practice the destruction sword art.
Drake had devoured every scrap of knowledge—military history, battle formations, mana theories, sword philosophies—but the day he was finally allowed to hold a real blade burned brighter than all those lessons.
The sword was heavier than he imagined, humming faintly with mana the moment it touched his hand. This was no practice tool; this was the instrument that would carve his future.
But wielding it was nothing like the books described.
The Disaster Sword Art was infamous for its complexity. It was not just swinging steel—it demanded precise mana usage, endless reserves of energy, and an eye sharp enough to see the world's flow. Every motion required perfection, or the technique collapsed into failure.
And power? That depended on the attributes one infused into the art.
Light, gravity, darkness, lightning—those were the four most feared. Attributes that turned the already devastating techniques into calamities that shook battlefields. Other attributes could work, yes, but they lacked the same destructive potential.
Drake had three. Gravity. Void. And that strange, terrible lightning split between black and white.
It should have been a gift, but instead it felt like a curse.
The instructors looked at him and muttered, "Four years. Maybe longer." They saw his attributes as double-edged blades, powerful but volatile, requiring more time than others to control.
They were right.
The first two years were hell.
Drake and Drakelle trained side by side, both attempting to master the art while infusing gravity into the first form. "Collapsing Blue Moon," it was called—a technique that condensed destructive power into a single stroke that pulled and crushed everything around it.
Their bodies trembled under the strain, bones cracking, muscles tearing as mana tore through their veins like molten fire.
At night, Drake's sheets were soaked in blood from where he had bitten his tongue, holding back screams. The instructors offered no comfort.
"This art will kill you if you are not worthy," they said coldly.
For two years, Drake pushed himself to the edge of death, only to see his sister begin to pull ahead.
Drakelle's progress was staggering. Her natural talent bloomed like wildfire, her gravity attribute bending to her will with terrifying grace. Where Drake stumbled, she glided. Where he bled, she rose.
And then, in her third year, she completed her training.
Her blade sang with the power of collapsing stars, her control absolute. The elders praised her, declaring her a genius of the Primordia line, destined for greatness.
Drake stood in her shadow, blade trembling, mastery incomplete.
He mastered gravity, yes. He could channel it into the Collapsing Blue Moon, crushing the ground beneath his feet, warping air with his swings. But the other two attributes?
They defied him.
Void was a mystery. No matter how he pushed, how he poured mana into it, it gave him nothing. No hints, no whispers. Even the Dragon System—the god Loki's gift—was silent.
[ Attribute: Void – Info Locked ]
[ Attribute: Special Lightning – Info Locked ]
Every time he saw those words, rage boiled inside him.
Still, he persevered. Six years dragged on, his youth spent bleeding on training grounds, trying and failing to unlock what the world itself seemed to keep hidden.
He was fifteen now, his body tall and hardened, his face sharper than when he began. His endurance and intellect were unmatched, his sword strokes heavy with lethal intent. But he was incomplete.
Gravity obeyed him. Void mocked him.
And the lightning—
It came to him not in training, but in memory.
One night, sitting beneath a pale moon, he remembered something he had once read in his old world. In The Last Descent of a God, buried in a single chapter, a figure had appeared before the protagonist: the Dragon King, Kalyan.
A monster among monsters. An existence feared even by gods.
And his attribute—
Black and white lightning.
Drake's hand had trembled as he remembered that passage. It had seemed irrelevant then, a minor detail in a book. But now, it was everything. The lightning that split reality in two was not some common attribute. It was the legacy of a dragon king.
And he carried it.
From that moment, progress finally stirred.
Slowly, painfully, he began to weave threads of the black and white lightning into his sword. It burned differently than any mana he had known, lashing like a storm caged inside his veins, threatening to tear him apart with every mistake.
But with time, he learned.
He fused it into the Collapsing Blue Moon, his blade shrouded in lightning that crackled with both creation and destruction, black and white arcs twisting together in unnatural harmony.
And then, he reached the second form: Dying Sun.
Where the first form crushed and condensed, the second exploded outward, a burning slash that radiated annihilation. Infusing lightning into it was madness, but Drake was no stranger to madness.
The result was terrifying. Every swing left the air trembling, the ground scorched black, the air reeking of ozone.
But even then, the void remained locked.
By the time six years had passed, Drake stood a young man of fifteen. His crimson eyes, once uncertain, now gleamed with malice and certainty. His blade sang with two attributes—gravity and lightning—yet the third refused him.
He had failed to unlock void, but he had not failed to grow.
He was no longer the boy cast aside by his family, beaten by cousins, spat on by wives of the main line. He was a swordsman drenched in blood and sweat, wielding power that would terrify even nobles of peak families.
And now his path pointed forward, toward two things: revenge and growth.
The world awaited him.
The Divine World Academy awaited him—a place where the heirs of noble houses, prodigies, and monsters gathered. The very characters he once read about would be there, the gears of the novel grinding forward.
But this time, Drake would not be a forgotten side character.
He would carve his own legend.
He would become the calamity the world feared.
He looked at his reflection once more, sword in hand, black and white lightning faintly crawling across the blade's surface.
"The essence of the sword," he whispered, voice sharp, low, and filled with promise.
"It isn't talent. It isn't bloodline. It's will. And mine will crush them all."
The room hummed with quiet thunder, shadows flickering in the lightning's glow.
The boy named Marcus Eliza was long dead.
What remained was Drake Primordia—child of the Primordia family, vessel of the Dragon God's essence, bearer of calamity.
And his story had only just begun.