Hours passed as the other trainees continued their relentless efforts, honing their control with unwavering focus. As the session neared its end and the group prepared to disperse, Asher dropped down from the ceiling , his body descending in freefall before twisting midair and landing with flawless precision on his feet.
'Weren't those who awakened on the third try supposed to be hopeless?' the instructor mused, silently watching Asher blend in with the departing crowd.
"You can stop sneaking around now," the instructor said calmly, his gaze never shifting.
In response, two figures emerged beside him , Harold and the female instructor.
"What are you doing here?" asked Virek, the Astra control instructor, turning toward the pair with a raised brow.
"I came to see how the Tenth Sun would fare," Elowen replied, her tone light. "He breezed through my movement training like it was child's play."
"Yeah," Harold added, folding his arms. "And now he's waltzing through Astra training the same way."
"We're heading to the next training ground," Elowen said with a small, teasing smile. "You coming, or are you going to stay behind and keep reading your erotic novels?"
Virek sighed. "Fine. Let's go. I'm curious myself."
With that, the trio vanished from sight.
Asher walked calmly behind the rest of the trainees, his thoughts drifting. 'Two more sessions and I'll be done for the day. Technically, it's only one because I won't be allowed to join the second until next month.'
The two upcoming trainings were weapons practice and monster subjugation.
The Wargrave family traditionally introduced their Suns, Moons, and the other trainees to beast-killing a full month after their awakening. That initial month, however, was strictly reserved for weapons training and sparring. During this period, the Suns and Moons were expected to become familiar with their weapons and test their mettle against each other in preparation for their first real battle.
Asher, having only just awakened, was no exception. He would be given one month to master the fundamentals of his weapon before he was permitted to face a living threat.
As Asher stepped into the new training ground, he was greeted by a vast, open space, larger even than the area designated for physical fitness training.
At the center of the field sat a man in a lotus position, eyes closed, his presence radiating calm authority. He appeared to be meditating, undisturbed by the arrival of the trainees.
But the moment he sensed their presence, he rose smoothly to his feet and spoke in a clear voice, "Form up and begin your swings."
The trainees moved without hesitation. Each of them made their way to the weapon racks lining the sides of the field, selected a weapon, assumed a stance, and began their practice swings with focused determination.
The weapon instructor, Clinton, turned to Asher and addressed him in a firm tone, "Since you're new here, take position over there. Your task is one thousand slashes and thrusts, considering you wield a unique rapier."
Asher wasn't the least bit surprised that Clinton knew about his weapon. He assumed the Primarch had already informed Zarek, who had likely passed the information along to the instructors overseeing the First Training Ground.
With a silent nod, Asher walked toward the area Clinton had indicated. As he raised his hand, Virelass materialized in his palm, its blade humming softly with a faint resonance, eager, almost sentient, as if it shared Asher's anticipation for its first true use.
'Excited huh?' Asher mused.
Then, Asher closed his eyes.
He inhaled slowly, deeply, then exhaled, steadying his breath. Entering a modest stance, he raised Virelass above his head and brought it down in an awkward downward slash.
Almost instinctively, his body adjusted. His footing shifted. His breathing grew more measured. His grip repositioned ever so slightly, and he struck again.
Clinton began to approach, intending to correct the boy's form, newcomers often fumbled their first swings, especially with such a specialized weapon. But as he neared, he paused.
With each swing, Asher improved. Subtly at first, but unmistakably. His form refined itself with every motion, his body learning on its own, fluid, disciplined, focused.
Asher didn't seem to notice the instructor at all. He was locked in a rhythm, lost in repetition. His arms moved like clockwork, his body a finely tuned instrument executing the same movement again and again.
Sweat rolled down his skin, soaking through his clothes. His violet hair clung damply to his forehead as the sun bore down, merciless and bright, but Asher never stopped.
Clinton observed in silence for a moment longer before simply turning away. There was no need for interference.
Returning to the center of the field, he called over the three trainees from earlier. Without delay, he began sparring with them, correcting their stances, testing their reactions, and refining their instincts. It was hands-on instruction, aimed at sharpening both their form and battle sense.
Meanwhile, time slipped by.
An hour passed, and Asher completed his one thousand slashes with unbroken focus. Without pause, he transitioned seamlessly into thrusts. His right leg slid forward in perfect harmony with his leading hand, the point of Virelass darting out with precision, then retracting smoothly.
Again and again.
Each motion flowed into the next, as fluid as breath. His body, though drenched in sweat and trembling with fatigue, pulsed with exhilaration. Muscles ached, lungs burned, but Asher wasn't stopping.
He moved as if possessed, immersed in a rhythm all his own. No thoughts. No distractions. Only the blade. Only the motion.
His world had narrowed to the edge of Virelass, and in that narrow space, he found clarity.
Another hour passed, and still Asher did not pause, not for rest, not even for breath. His movements remained steady and composed. Then, at last, he halted, mid-thrust, the final motion of his one thousandth thrust complete.
He stood there in silence, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, sweat dripping from his chin to join the pool forming at his feet. The air around him shimmered faintly with heat and effort.
But instead of resting, he moved.
Dropping once more into a stance, Asher surged forward, his mind and body synchronizing perfectly. Slash flowed into thrust. Thrust gave way to slash. The two motions, once distinct, now blended seamlessly into one fluid dance.
His waist twisted, adjusting his center of gravity. Shoulders rolled, arms and legs moved in perfect harmony. Muscle memory from the movement training sparked to life in his mind, guiding his limbs with refined instinct. He wasn't just swinging, he was weaving.
Slash. Thrust. Step. Flow. Each element became part of a greater whole.
Minutes passed before he finally stopped. His entire form was drenched, steam rising faintly from his body. He stood still, blade lowered, breath deep and even.
Then, slowly, a smile crept onto his lips.
'So this is why everyone wants to reincarnate,' he thought, amusement and exhilaration mixing in his gaze.
Then he turned, and met Clinton's gaze.
The instructor stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief. Around the field, the other trainees had stopped their swings, their attention locked on Asher. Some wore expressions of awe, others confusion, and a few… fear. To them, he no longer looked like a peer, but something else entirely. A monster in human form.
But Asher didn't care.
He had no intention of hiding his ability simply to match the expectations set for those who awakened on their third try. Let them stare. Let them talk. It didn't matter.
No one could question him.
He was the last heir of a Duke. The Tenth Sun of the Wargrave family.
With quiet calmness, Asher sat down on the ground, crossing his legs as his breathing slowed. He closed his eyes, shutting out the noise around him, and allowed his mind to replay everything he had experienced throughout the trainings, each movement, each sensation, each moment of growth.