Chapter 2 – The Broken Blade
Night had swallowed the academy.
The moon hung low, half-shrouded behind drifting clouds, casting pale silver across the silent training courtyard. Everyone else had gone to sleep hours ago — everyone except one.
Tommy Oliver stood alone at the far end of the yard, shirt clinging to his sweat-drenched back. His right hand gripped an old wooden sword — its handle wrapped with worn leather, its edge dulled from years of neglect.
He raised it high, his breath clouding in the cold night air.
"Again," he whispered.
The blade came down.
*Crack!*
The echo bounced off the stone walls, the sound sharp and hollow. Dust fell from the impact point, barely leaving a scratch. Tommy stared at the wall, chest heaving. His arms trembled from exhaustion.
Again.
And again.
Each strike was a conversation with failure. Each swing was a desperate question — *Why am I so weak? Why did fate mock me?*
He could still hear their laughter from earlier that day. Johansson's smug tone. Emily's scornful smirk. Zack's careless chuckle. They rang louder than the wind.
His jaw tightened. "Mockery of the weak…" he muttered, echoing the title he'd unwillingly earned. "If weakness is all I have, then I'll crush it with my own hands."
He swung the sword again. The motion was rough, unbalanced, his breathing broken. The orb's black glow still haunted him, burning behind his eyelids whenever he blinked.
Each strike tore at his hands. Calluses split. Blood mingled with sweat, dripping onto the cracked stone floor.
"Again."
The wooden sword quivered under the force of another desperate blow.
"Again!"
Crack!
He struck until the world blurred — until his arms felt like lead. The energy within him, faint and sluggish, stirred in response to his will. He could feel it now — a fragile current crawling through his veins, slow but alive.
The Weak Pulse. Stage 1.
The lowest of all beginnings.
But at least it pulsed. At least it *existed.*
Tommy stumbled back, chest burning, vision swimming. He fell to one knee, breath rasping. The moonlight caught on his face, revealing the exhaustion, the frustration, the quiet rage that burned deeper than wounds.
He closed his eyes, and his father's voice came to him — deep, calm, steady as the sea.
> "A sword has no shame, Tommy. Only the wielder's will. A broken blade is not a failure. It's a reminder that the battle is not over yet."
He remembered that night — his father sitting by the fire, sharpening his old steel blade. The light had danced in his eyes, fierce and unyielding. Back then, Tommy thought his father was invincible. Now, that memory was the only strength he had left.
He rose again. The sword felt heavier than before. His arms trembled uncontrollably.
He adjusted his stance. His breathing slowed.
"Form One — Basic Cut."
He swung.
"Form Two — Side Draw."
The wood whistled through the air, colliding with the wall in a dull thud.
He didn't care about technique anymore. Every swing was emotion, not form — pain, not pride.
He hit the wall again.
And again.
Until—
SNAP!
The sword broke.
Half of the wooden blade splintered and flew into the darkness, leaving only the hilt in his trembling hands. For a moment, silence filled the courtyard. Then, slowly, a drop of blood slid from his palm where a splinter had pierced through the skin.
He stared at it. The blood glimmered faintly in the moonlight.
Something inside him cracked.
All at once, the weight of the world collapsed on his shoulders.
The laughter. The humiliation. The black orb.
The disappointment in the elders' eyes.
His own weakness reflected in every shadow.
Tommy sank to his knees. His breath broke into uneven gasps. He pressed his bleeding hand against the ground, staring at the broken blade beside him.
He wanted to scream, but the sound caught in his throat.
Then it burst out — a raw, animalistic roar that tore through the night.
"WHY?!"
His voice echoed through the empty courtyard, bouncing against the stone walls, fading into the distance.
He slammed the broken hilt against the ground again and again, until it cracked further. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, mixing with sweat and blood.
"I trained… I worked harder than any of them!" he shouted hoarsely. "So why? Why does fate mock me?!"
No answer came. Only the whisper of wind. Only silence.
He lowered his head, shoulders trembling.
In that silence, something changed.
The faint pulse of Aether within him — that fragile, barely alive thread — began to stir. Slowly. Hesitantly.
He didn't notice it at first. But the air around him grew still. The usual whisper of night wind stopped. Even the insects fell silent.
The weak pulse in his chest synced with his heartbeat — thump… thump… thump…
And then, faintly, something responded.
A glimmer.
From the broken hilt of his sword.
A single strand of white light coiled out from the splintered edge — faint as mist, pure as moonlight.
Tommy's head jerked up. His breath caught.
The light pulsed again, faint but rhythmic — in perfect harmony with his heartbeat.
"What… what is this?" he whispered, voice shaking.
The air thickened around him. He could feel energy — real energy — brushing against his skin. It wasn't the sluggish Aether he'd struggled with before. This was something else. Something alive.
His father's words echoed again in his mind.
> "A sword has no shame — only the wielder's will."
His bleeding hand trembled as he reached toward the light. It flickered, almost as if it recognized him.
Then the light surged.
A soft hum filled the air, followed by a rush of wind that scattered dust and leaves in a swirling circle around him.
Tommy flinched but didn't move back. His heart pounded harder, faster. The broken hilt in his hand grew warm — almost hot — the faint glow intensifying until it lit up the courtyard.
He could feel it now. Power. Pure and unrefined, like the essence of life itself.
The Weak Pulse inside him resonated with it — trembling, struggling, then… synchronizing.
A spark of white light flashed through his body, racing through his veins like lightning.
He gasped — half in shock, half in awe. For a moment, pain seared through his limbs, but underneath it was clarity.
The broken hilt lifted slightly from his hand, levitating a few inches above his palm. The light around it twisted, forming faint patterns — runic, ancient, impossible to decipher.
Tommy stared, eyes wide.
The markings pulsed once, twice… and then vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.
The light dimmed, leaving only faint white embers floating in the air.
Tommy collapsed backward, panting heavily. The broken hilt clattered beside him, now cold and lifeless once more.
He lay there, staring up at the sky, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
"What… just happened?" he whispered.
No answer came. But somewhere deep inside him, he could still feel it — a residue, a faint warmth lingering in his core.
Not the sluggish Weak Pulse. Something new.
Something awake.
He lifted the broken hilt, inspecting it under the moonlight. Its surface had changed — faint etchings of light shimmered along the grip, barely visible but undeniably there.
It was no longer an ordinary wooden sword.
And neither, he realized, was he.
The clouds drifted aside, allowing the moonlight to spill across the yard once more. The world seemed quieter, sharper, as if it held its breath.
Tommy looked down at his bleeding palm, then at the faintly glowing hilt.
His lips curved into a faint, exhausted smile.
"I guess… this sword wasn't ready to die yet," he murmured.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of dust and earth. In the distance, the academy's tower bell tolled once, marking midnight.
Tommy remained there, sitting amidst the broken splinters, the faint light still pulsing between his fingers — a heartbeat of destiny waiting to unfold.
---
The white glow around the sword hilt flickered once more.
Tommy leaned closer — and this time, he heard it.
A whisper.
Soft. Distant.
> "You called… and I answered."
The light burst outward — and everything went white.