"Put the weights down, time's up. From today on, we move into real combat."
The teacher's voice echoed in the wide training hall, bouncing off the metal ceiling. A few dumbbells thudded to the ground, ringing sharp. The whole class panted hard, the sharp tang of sweat clinging to every corner.
John wiped his face with his shirt, the rough fabric scraping over callused skin. Three months of "hell" hadn't turned him into a wall of muscle like some of the others, but now every breath came steady. No more gasping when he sprinted.
The teacher slammed his hand on the testing machine and barked, "Everyone retest your strength. Results decide the weapon in your hands. Lightweights with weak arms get daggers. Strong ones get sabers. No exceptions."
Excitement mixed with exhaustion buzzed through the group.
A tall, skinny boy went first, sucked in a breath, and punched the rubber pad. The machine rattled, numbers flashing. The teacher glanced, nodded, and handed him a military dagger.
Next, a small girl tried and also got a dagger. Then a broad-shouldered guy stepped up, his raw power earning him a gleaming saber. One after another, classmates tested and walked off, eyes sneaking toward the next in line.
John's pulse quickened as he watched. He mouthed the number he knew by heart: total force, 39. Of that, only 7 was his own. The rest came from Little Fire. Without it, he was no different from the dagger-holding kids.
When his name was called, John swallowed and stepped forward. The machine rose to chest height, its black pad waiting.
"Inhale. Strike clean," the teacher ordered.
John clenched his fist, shoulders tight, hips awkwardly turning, then drove his punch straight into the pad.
A boom rang out. The machine shook. Red digits flashed: 203 kg.
The room froze, then erupted.
"Holy crap!"
"That strong?"
Whistles pierced the air.
John pulled his hand back, knuckles tingling, palm buzzing. He forced a faint smile, trying to stay calm.
That strength, in his past life, could rival an amateur boxer. But even as the cheers rose, the teacher frowned. The punch was strong, yes, but clumsy. Shoulders and hips out of sync, all power shoved down the arm with no technique. It screamed untrained.
The teacher strode closer, eyes drilling into him. "John, I remember you awakened a chicken-herding ability. How do you have strength like this?"
John stiffened, but quickly bowed his head, voice even. "Uh I've always been stronger than my friends since I was a kid. Must be natural talent."
A vague answer, nothing solid. The teacher stayed silent for a few seconds. Then a glint flashed in his eyes. He gave a slow nod and handed John a broad saber. The blade stretched longer than his forearm, thick steel spine catching the fluorescent light.
Around them, envy flared.
"A broad saber."
"Special treatment, huh."
"Physical genius, no doubt."
John gripped the hilt, forced a smile. He heard the whispers, saw the admiring stares, yet his chest sank heavy. He knew too well 203 kilos wasn't his power alone.
Little Fire flashed in his mind: a fiery fledgling, wings layered with burning scales, a whirl of energy circling its body. Ever since evolving into its Phoenix form, its growth had slowed. Its strength felt like it needed decades, even centuries, to build.
"If it stops, I stop too." The thought chilled his spine.
Metal clashed as the rest of the class received weapons. The teacher raised his voice: "Having a weapon means nothing. Strength without skill makes you just a blacksmith. Now I'll teach you the basics of saber technique."
He drew his own sample blade, spun it in one smooth arc, steel slicing the air in a flash. The move was clean, sharp, lethal.
"Three basics: horizontal slash, vertical chop, straight thrust. Master these, and you've entered the path."
John inhaled deep, both hands gripping the hilt. The heavy steel dragged at his arms, but he grit his teeth, raising it to chest height. Sweat rolled down, trailing along his neck.
"Head up, don't hunch," the teacher corrected another student, then glanced at John and frowned. "Grip the hilt tight. Don't slack."
John flinched, tightened his hold, the cold steel biting into his palm. He nodded quickly.
The class lifted their weapons in unison, copying the teacher's three moves. The air filled with the hiss of metal cutting space.
John slashed sideways, pain stabbing his shoulder as the tip wavered off track. He corrected, chopped down, then drove the blade forward. His arms shook, but the sequence finished.
Nearby whispers reached him.
"Hey, look at Markus swing that thing. Heavy as hell and he still moves it."
"Yeah, his arm strength's insane. If he learns technique, he's a monster."
John caught the words, tension coiling in his chest pride mixed with dread. Every eye felt like it was burning into him. Yet the foundation of that strength wasn't his own.
The teacher lowered his saber, surveying the room. "Good. Keep repeating. Saber work doesn't need to look fancy, only precise. Remember, raw power without accuracy is worthless."
John swallowed dry, guiding the blade through each motion with care. Every slash, every thrust cut the air with a sharp hiss, leaving cold echoes in his ears. His arms trembled under the weight, shoulders burning, but he kept moving. The saber dragged his muscles past their limit, each swing like pulling against an invisible tide. The vibrations from every impact ran down to his bones, sharp enough to make his grip slip, yet he forced his fingers to lock tighter around the hilt.
The rhythm around him grew louder the whole class striking together, metal and breath blending into a single roar. Blades cleaved through the air, and for a heartbeat John felt as though he was standing in a storm of steel, everyone's effort slamming into the space between them. His lungs heaved, chest aching, but he didn't slow down. He matched the tempo, one cut, one chop, one thrust. Again. Again.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, but his focus narrowed on the thin arc of light trailing the saber's edge. He could almost believe the glow was alive, testing him, daring him to slip. The teacher's voice echoed at the back of his skull precision over power, form over flash and John forced himself to shave away every mistake. Correct the angle, fix the stance, steady the breath.
By the fifth repetition his arms screamed, tendons tight as wire. By the tenth, his back bowed, teeth grinding against the weight. Yet every time he thought about letting the saber drop, he remembered the stares from earlier, the whispers of "physical genius." If he faltered now, those words would turn to mockery.
So he cut again. And again. The air whistled sharp, slicing past his ears until he no longer heard the others, only the steady clash of steel against emptiness, the rhythm of a blade demanding to be mastered.
For a brief moment, he forgot his worries and focused only on the steel glint dancing before him.
The saber lesson had officially begun.