"This goes on for a whole month?" Tarrin muttered as they walked down the corridor, boots echoing against polished stone.
"Bloody hell… It's been like five years since I last sat in a classroom."
Jayden chuckled beside him.
Tarrin side-eyed him. "And what the hell was that in class, huh? Since when do you know—or care—that much about the Scarred?"
Jayden shrugged, too quickly. "I already went through the introduction once, remember?"
Tarrin gave him a long, deadpan stare. "Right. And I'm just supposed to ignore the fact you were basically vibrating out of your chair?"
Jayden scratched his cheek, eyes darting away. "I mean… the Scarred always fascinated me," he said, quieter now. "Even before all this. Especially after my parents died."
He froze the moment the words left his mouth. Like he hadn't meant to say it out loud. He turned to Tarrin, uncertain, waiting for something—maybe a gasp, maybe sympathy.
Tarrin just met his gaze, calm and steady. "Sorry to hear that."
That was it. No dramatics. No soft voice. Just the truth, plain and simple.
Jayden blinked. "That's all? No pity? No deep monologue?"
Tarrin gave him a strange look, like the question itself was weirder than the confession. "You want me to cry for you?"
Jayden raised both hands in defense. "No, no. Just… most people start going all soft when I bring it up."
"Well," Tarrin said, voice casual, "I'm not most people. You talk when you're ready. No rush."
Jayden let out a breath, not quite a sigh, but close. For a moment, the hallway felt a little less cold.
They weaved through the maze of the lecture hall's exit, stepping into the open air. Jayden led the way, angling toward a building across the yard—this one older, blockier, the kind that smelled like sweat and old steel just by looking at it.
"This is weapons training, right?" Tarrin asked, unsure.
Jayden nodded. "Yeah. You already know what you're picking?"
Tarrin shrugged. "Not a clue. Figured I'd grab a gun or something. Y'know—stay at the back, shoot things, not die."
Jayden winced. "Yeah, about that… Guns aren't really the standard here. Most legacies are built around melee weapons—swords, spears, that kind of thing."
Tarrin groaned. "Fantastic. So much for hiding behind a cannon with the aux troops."
"You could go for a bow," Jayden offered.
Tarrin shot him a look. "Oh sure, that'll go great. I'll just stroll onto the battlefield, firing arrows at Scarbanes like some reject from a fantasy flick. No thanks."
He shook his head. "If I have to pick a medieval weapon, I might as well look good doing it."
"Suit yourself," Jayden said with a shrug.
They stepped inside the building, the scent of sweat, steel, and worn leather hitting them instantly.
After a short walk down a hallway lined with faded posters and weapon racks, they entered a massive training hall—wide enough to house a small arena.
Dummies, targets, and designated sparring zones filled the space. The clang of steel and the hum of essence-powered equipment echoed through the room.
Tarrin scanned the area and spotted Riko—and, surprisingly, Lucas—already there.
He strolled over, grin forming the second he saw them talking. "Already miss me, my fake gangster?"
Riko raised a brow, threw up some random hand sign, and said, "No lame shit, brother."
"Sure, sure." Tarrin waved it off, eyeing Lucas. "Since when are you two close?"
Riko grinned. "Man, we've been tight forever. Roomed together before you even popped your Awakening cherry, rookie."
Lucas just sighed and shook his head, but there was no denying the familiarity between them.
Before Tarrin could press further, a voice rang out—clear, commanding, and very much female. "Everyone, pick your weapon and head to your station."
He turned to look and almost did a double take. The instructor was stunning—raven-black hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that could kill. Not literally. Probably.
'Where do they even find these people? One's a bald war criminal, the other's a runway model. What's next—a sword-fighting midget with a voice like thunder?'
He made his way to the weapon racks, passing rows of glinting steel and polished wood.
Riko reached for a sword without hesitation. Jayden, a spear. Lucas, oddly enough, grabbed a bow.
Tarrin paused for a beat, then let out a quiet laugh.
"Every man needs a sword," he muttered, gripping one with a thirty-inch blade and a six-inch hilt. The balance felt perfect. Heavy enough to matter, light enough to move fast.
'Bloody dream come true.'
He followed Riko to the sword training section, already clocking a few familiar faces nearby. Felix was there, adjusting his grip on a blade. And then—Celith.
'So she's a sword user too?'
His gaze lingered a bit too long.
"Dude," Riko hissed under his breath. "Seriously, stop eyeing her like that. She could cut your head off before you blink. You want to die pretty?"
Tarrin blinked and looked away.
"We'll see about that, dude," Tarrin shot back.
Riko frowned, confused, but before he could ask what Tarrin meant, the same woman from earlier appeared beside them like a phantom.
"I see some new faces," she said, voice crisp, cutting through the chatter like a blade. "The rest of you know what to do. New cadets—gather up."
Tarrin didn't hesitate. He stepped forward first, the rest falling in line behind him like dominoes. Within seconds, she was standing in front of them again, sword already in hand.
"I'm Sergeant Taylor," she said flatly. "I'll be your sword instructor from now on."
No salute. No dramatic introduction. Just steel in her voice and sharper steel in her hand.
"Pay attention. This matters." She raised the blade, shifting into stance.
"The first move of the Lunarian Standard Blade Form is the Dawn Slash. Shoulder to hip. You match the cut with precise footwork."
Then she moved.
The blade sliced through the air with the grace of a falling leaf and the precision of a machine. No wasted motion. No unnecessary flair. Just clean, ruthless efficiency.
Tarrin narrowed his eyes, burning the motion into memory. The form was perfect, but he couldn't help feeling a little let down.
No sparks. No thunderclap. Just a well-executed slash.
"Now, I'll show you what it can do with essence."
Taylor reset her stance—and vanished.
Or at least, it felt like she did.
The sword blurred, a silver flash exploding across the hall. A gust of wind slammed into Tarrin's chest as the shockwave cleaved through the dummy like it was made of smoke.
The right upper half tumbled off in perfect silence before hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Tarrin stared, jaw tightening.
'Bloody Bane... They call that standard?'
Around him, cadets froze. Eyes wide. Mouths open. Some looked like they'd just seen a divine revelation. Tarrin, at least, managed a slow nod.
He'd seen enough to give it a try.
"Your task is simple," Sergeant Taylor said, lowering her sword. "Pick a dummy. Start swinging. I'll correct you if you're worth correcting."
Then she walked off like nothing had happened.
Tarrin picked a station, eyeing the dummy, coated in some special material,
He stepped to a dummy, blade ready, but his eyes wandered.
Riko was locked in a desperate spar against one of the intelligent dummies, getting tossed around like a ragdoll.
Celith was further down, graceful and poised. She danced around her dummy like it owed her money, footwork fluid, strikes clean.
The AI dummy was faster than Riko's, but she made it look like a training toy.
Then Tarrin's gaze met a glare.
Felix.
The guy looked at him like Tarrin had burned his house down—not just roughed him up in a bar. The same venomous glare, burning through distance.
'What's this guy's problem? Did I sleepwalk into killing his pet or something?'
With a sigh, Tarrin turned back to his dummy. He took the stance Sergeant Taylor had shown and, without ceremony, brought the blade down.
The first of many.
Taylor circled the hall, her gaze sweeping over the cadets.
Tarrin Vex.Sergeant Taylor's gaze lingered on him.
The others followed him without thinking. No commands. No posturing. Just quiet, natural gravity. A born leader—even if none of them realized it yet. 'What an interesting Gift.'
His form was awful—sloppy footwork, uneven swings—but there was something in the way he moved.
After seeing the technique once, he'd already begun adapting. No hesitation. No mimicry. Just raw instinct clawing toward understanding.
'Crude... but promising.'
He might be worth watching.
Her attention shifted to the blur of motion nearby—blonde hair trailing through the air as a figure flipped cleanly over her training dummy, blade sweeping downward in a perfect arc.
Celith.
Taylor's expression didn't change, but her thoughts sharpened.
Far above the standard. Elegant, efficient. The kind of talent that comes once in a generation.
If there was any justice left in Luna, the girl would carry the Sahrin name back to glory.
If they don't get to her first.
Taylor's jaw tightened ever so slightly. Then she stepped forward, eyes locked on another cadet already fumbling with his grip.
Time to start cutting the weak from the strong.