NOBLES TRAINING ARC
"You learn nothing from winning," the man said. "Only the weak find comfort in victory."
Deus stared at the blood pooling on the arena floor — his own.
It was the first time he'd been hit since he was five.
Three days had passed since the Antrar blades first responded. Deus had been sent to The Noble Combat Pavilion, a private mountain fortress where elite heirs were trained to become either legends… or monsters.
The walls were lined with dragonbone shields. Students lived in silence. Every morning, they were awakened not by bells, but by the clash of steel.
Deus was not intimidated.
But he was intrigued.
Especially by the man who stood before him now.
Instructor Gairos was a former war general with burn scars down the right side of his face and an artificial arm crafted from enchanted iron. Rumors said he'd once killed a prince for lying. Others claimed he'd fought off five wyverns alone.
All of that mattered little to Deus — until the man hit him.
With his words.
"Zars. You are efficient. Cold. Predictable," Gairos said, circling him like a wolf circling prey. "You swing your blade like you swing your thoughts — with calculation."
Deus stood still, wooden practice blade gripped in reverse.
"And what's wrong with calculation?" he asked.
"Nothing—if your opponent is dumber than you. But what happens when he's not?"
Gairos stepped forward.
"Pain happens."
And then he struck.
A shoulder check to Deus's chest. Unannounced. Hard.
Deus stumbled backward — surprised more by the gesture than the impact.
"You didn't expect that," Gairos said. "Because it wasn't clean. It wasn't in the rules you rehearsed."
Deus steadied himself, breathing slow.
"Then you're not an instructor. You're a variable."
Gairos smiled.
"Exactly."
Later – Training Hall Dorms
Deus sat alone on a balcony overlooking the frost-covered cliffs. The other noble heirs were inside — bathing, bragging, licking their wounds. Most ignored him. Some envied him.
But tonight, none approached.
Not after what happened in the ring.
He'd lost the duel.
Intentionally.
Because he wanted to observe.
But still... the blood had been real.
He flipped open his notebook.
Subject: Instructor Gairos
Style: Wild offense, unstructured feints
Strategy: Force emotional error, provoke instinct
Weak point: None observed
Lesson: Controlled unpredictability is more dangerous than raw strength
He paused.
Then added:
Emotion: Frustration. Cause: Not the pain — the unpredictability. Reaction: Controlled silence.
He closed the book.
But the silence didn't feel like control.
Not tonight.
Elsewhere – Instructor Chambers
"He's different," Gairos said, sipping fireleaf tea from a chipped mug.
The assistant instructor — a sharp-eyed woman named Talen — nodded. "Too calm. He doesn't process pain like the others."
"No. But he catalogues it."
Gairos chuckled. "The Zars have bred something sharp. He's already studying me more than the blade."
Talen glanced toward the window. "Do you think he's a threat?"
"To whom?"
"Everyone."
Gairos took another sip.
"Eventually, yes."
Midnight – Deus's Tower (Dream)
He was Fred again.
Lying in the white bed.
Hooked to machines.
Alone.
Outside the door, a nurse laughed with a doctor.
He coughed, blood staining the pillow.
And then—he heard it.
The clink of a sword hitting stone.
He turned.
In the corner of the hospital room stood a boy.
His own face.
But older.
Eyes sharper. Shoulders straighter. Holding Antrar.
"I'm what you were supposed to be," the boy said.
Fred whispered: "Then why do you look so… empty?"
The boy smiled.
"Because freedom costs everything."
Deus woke up sweating.
He didn't dream often.
But when he did, it always felt like a warning.