Foundation Training sounded harmless.
It wasn't.
The training courtyard was larger than most market squares in the Outer Districts—rows of dummies, mana-reactive targets, weighted poles, balance lines, and an arena built from reinforced stone. Half the equipment looked like it belonged in a military facility, not a school.
Students filed in, talking too loudly for this early in the morning. I kept to the side, stretching quietly. Nothing fancy. Just enough to warm up and avoid pulling something stupid.
Our instructor arrived a moment later.
A massive man stepped onto the field—broad shoulders, thick arms, and the kind of expression that suggested he hadn't smiled in five years. His uniform looked too small for him, sleeves rolled to the elbows because they physically couldn't go any lower.
"Welcome to Foundation Training," he said, voice deep and flat. "I am Instructor Bran. Today, you will learn how weak you truly are."
A few students chuckled.
He didn't.
Bran clapped his hands once, and the air around him vibrated.
"Line up."
We did. Quickly.
"First lesson: stance."
He demonstrated—a simple, balanced position. Nothing mystical. Just efficient.
"Strength means nothing if you can't stay on your feet. Hold the stance."
We mirrored him.
At first, it felt easy.
Then thirty seconds passed.
Then a minute.
Legs started shaking.
One student already dropped out.
I kept my breathing slow, steady. Pain wasn't new. This was nothing compared to running through ruined streets avoiding wraiths.
Instructor Bran walked down the line, adjusting postures. When he reached me, he paused.
"Foot tighter. Shoulders relaxed."
I adjusted.
He nodded once—barely noticeable—and moved on. I didn't need praise. A correction was enough.
After stance training came footwork. Front step, back step, pivot, shift, repeat. Over and over until the movements became instinctive.
Some students tripped over their own feet.
Some tried to make it look cool.
I just focused on efficiency.
The body remembers what the mind repeats.
Next came striking drills.
Not combat.
Not sparring.
Just learning how to punch without breaking your own fingers.
The instructor slapped a palm-sized metal bar onto each student's fist.
"You hit the dummy wrong, this bruises you. You hit it right, it absorbs the impact. Learn the difference."
I hit the dummy five times.
The first two stung.
I adjusted my angle, wrist alignment, and shoulder rotation.
The last three strikes landed clean.
Instructor Bran passed by again, grunted something that might've been "Good," then walked off.
If nothing else, he appreciated efficiency.
By midday, half the class was exhausted. A few were gasping for air. I wasn't fine, but I wasn't dying either. Hunger was worse than this. Running from death was worse than this. So my mind stayed calm even as sweat dripped down my face.
During a short break, a student collapsed onto the bench near me with a dramatic groan.
"Man… this is brutal."
I nodded. "Yeah."
"You look fine, though," he said.
"I'm not."
I wasn't lying. I just didn't feel the need to broadcast my breathing.
Instructor Bran called us back.
"Last exercise. Mana application."
The class straightened immediately.
"Don't get excited," he added. "You're not using abilities yet. You're learning how to move while channeling mana without passing out."
He demonstrated: a low glow spreading through his arms as he repeated basic footwork. The mana didn't make him look stronger—it made the movement smoother, more controlled.
"Your turn."
I inhaled, gathered a thin thread of mana—just enough to feel it—and moved.
The air around me felt heavier. My limbs dragged slightly, as if resistance was pushing back against every step. I adjusted my breathing, slowed my output, and the motion stabilized.
Mana flow affects momentum. Noted.
Some students nearly toppled over.
One overpowered his output and faceplanted.
Bran didn't laugh. He just told him to try again.
By the end of training, my uniform clung to me with sweat, my arms were sore, and my legs felt like stone.
But I wasn't struggling.
Just tired.
Normal tired.
Instructor Bran dismissed us with a blunt wave. "Good progress. Come prepared tomorrow. It gets worse."
Perfect.
Routine was good. Predictable.
As everyone scattered—some limping, some complaining—I walked back to the dorms quietly. No one approached me. No small talk. No forced conversations.
Just the sound of footsteps and the quiet satisfaction of progress.
Slow. Steady. Earned.
Exactly how I preferred it.