The day after their brutal introduction to combat, the recruits are given a day for self study and personal training.
No formal classes are scheduled, a small mercy that allows their bruised bodies and even more bruised egos a chance to recover.
For most, it is a day of rest, quiet contemplation in the Great Archive, or simply sleeping in.
Yula & Gendric
But for Yulian, it is a day to work.
Long before the first rays of the Sky Dimension’s eternal sun pierce the morning mist, Yulian is on the training ground.
The vast, rectangular field is empty and silent, a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of the previous day.
He has claimed a corner for himself, his heavy mace, Tiberius, a familiar weight in his hands.
Moving through a series of drills, his breath pluming in the cool morning air. His movements are a blur of raw, explosive power.
He practices the footwork of his old life, the bobbing and weaving of a boxer, adapting it to the heavy, brutal rhythm of the mace.
Pivoting, ducking, he unleashes a powerful, overhead swing that whistles through the air with enough force to shatter stone.
A whirlwind of muscle and iron, his every movement a testament to a life spent honing his body into a weapon.
“Up early, boy,” a deep, rumbling voice says from behind him.
Yulian stops, chest heaving, and turns to see Gendric standing there, massive arms crossed over his chest.
The old warrior’s expression is unreadable, his bright blue eyes sharp and analytical.
“In Russia, I was boxer,” Yulian says, his voice a low, respectful rumble. “We train every day. Before sun comes up. It is… habit.”
“A good habit,” Gendric replies with a nod, walking closer. “I can see the boxer in you. The footwork, the power you put into your shoulders.”
“You’re strong. But you’re thinking like you’re still in the ring.”
He stops a few feet from Yulian, gaze thoughtful.
“You’re used to an opponent who stands in front of you, someone who trades blows. But the cowards we fight? They won’t give you that satisfaction.”
“They’re rats. They’ll be faster, they’ll use tricks. They won’t try to match your strength; they’ll just dance around it until you’re tired, then stick a blade in your back when you’re not looking.”
He tells Yulian a story, voice a low, gravelly murmur, more like two old soldiers sharing a drink than a teacher and a student.
He speaks of a battle from his youth, a fight against a nimble, shadow-weaving mage who he couldn’t touch. He describes the frustration, the sheer, teeth grinding rage of being.
A magical creature with monstrous strength.
And he speaks of the bloody, humbling lesson he learned that day: that being the strongest man on the field doesn’t mean a damn thing if you can’t hit your target.
“Your power is a gift, boy,” Gendric says, voice a low, serious rumble.
“But you’re letting it do all the thinking for you. You need to be more than just a hammer. You need to be the arm that wields it.”
He claps Yulian on the shoulder, a gesture of newfound, mutual respect.
“Alright, enough talk. Show me that footwork again.” He grins, a fierce, challenging light in his eyes.
“But this time, do it with your eyes closed. A real fighter doesn’t need to see his enemy to know where he is. Feel the air. Listen for my steps. Show me what you’ve got, boy.”
Paige & Agamor
Later that day, Paige finds her own version of a training ground.
She sits at a large, secluded table in a quiet corner of the Great Archive, completely and utterly in her element.
Towering stacks of ancient, leather-bound books surround her, their pages filled with the forbidden and forgotten knowledge of the old world.
The air is thick with the scent of old paper and dust, a perfume she finds more comforting than any other.
A scholar on the hunt, her Lexanomicon is open to the section on magical creatures, cross-referencing its redacted entries with information she is painstakingly gathering from the older, more complete tomes around her.
She is so engrossed in her work, brow furrowed in concentration as she deciphers a complex diagram of a basilisk’s venom glands, that she doesn’t notice the massive, leonine figure approaching her table until he speaks.
“A commendable effort, young one,” a deep, resonant voice says.
Paige jumps, a small, startled squeak escaping her lips. She looks up to see Sir Agamor standing there, a gentle, amused smile on his face.
He is not wearing his formal robes, but a simple, comfortable looking tunic that makes him seem less like a Branch Head and more like a kindly, if extraordinarily large and furry, university professor.
(she might be a furry)
“Sir Agamor!” she says, her face flushing with embarrassment and star-struck awe.
“I… uh… I was just… doing some research.”
“So I see,” he says, golden eyes twinkling as he looks at the mountain of books she has assembled.
“Magical botany, primordial alchemy, and… ah, a particular interest in magical creatures, I see. A fine choice of subjects.”
He pulls up a chair and sits down opposite her, his massive frame making the ornate, carved wood chair look like a child’s toy.
“You have a keen and curious mind. What did you do in the human world, before you came to us?”
“I was a researcher,” she says, confidence returning as she speaks about her passion.
“A mycologist. I’m originally from Ireland, but I was in the United States, in the Oregon forest region, studying the mycelial networks there.”
Agamor’s expression shifts, a look of profound, scholarly interest in his golden eyes.
“The Oregon forests,” he says, voice a low, thoughtful murmur.
“A region of immense primordial power. One of the few places on Earth where the veil between our world and the world of the ancient ones is thin.”
“The ancient ones?” Paige asks, curiosity piqued.
“The Primordial Entities,” Agamor explains. “The Old Gods, as some used to call them. They are not gods in the classical sense, but vast, natural intelligences that are the personification of powerful natural forces.”
He gestures to the air, as if painting a picture.
“Imagine the very Consciousness of Magic at the center of all things. From it, come the Primordial languages. The ancestors of all magical tongues.” He lowers his voice, a note of reverence in his tone.
“The Voice of the Forest. The Voice of the Seas. The Voice of the Fungi. They are the first and most powerful of magic’s creations. Their power is… immense.”
“I doubt our adversary, the king, would even lay foot in their territory. But they are largely indifferent to the affairs of mankind.”
Paige whispers the words, a shiver running down her spine.
“I was studying the electrical signals of the mushrooms in that region. The Armillaria. It was… it was like they were talking to each other. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but… I heard a voice.”
“In my head.”
Agamor leans forward, his expression one of pure, unadulterated shock. He takes a seat, his academic curiosity completely overriding his formal demeanor.
“A voice? You heard a voice?”
“What did it say?”
“I don’t know,” Paige admits, voice trembling slightly at the memory.
“It wasn’t a language. It was… a feeling. A sense of… connection. Of being a part of something vast, and ancient, and alive.”
“But after I heard it… something in my mind felt… free.”
She takes a deep, shuddering breath before continuing.
“By the time I reached the airport to fly back to my family in Boston, before returning to Ireland, I had started… remembering. Bits and pieces of Gaelic. Words my grandmother used to say. I didn’t think anything of it, until I tried to ask the ticket agent for my flight information.”
Her eyes glaze over, lost in the memory.
“The words just… came out. Not Thaylic. Gaelic. And then… everyone stopped. The whole crowded terminal. Hundreds of people.”
“They all just… froze. The woman behind the counter, the businessman on his phone, the family with the crying baby… they all turned to look at me. And their eyes…”
Her voice cracks. “Their eyes turned black. All of them. And they started walking towards me. Slowly. Silently. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced.”
“I was trapped,” she whispers, hands trembling. “Cornered. But then… a man, he was just a normal-looking guy in a business suit… he grabbed my arm and pulled me into a maintenance closet.”
“He told me to be quiet. He had a ring, just like the ones you told us about.”
“He went back out, and there was… a flash of light. When he came back, he told me everyone was fine, that they wouldn’t remember anything.”
“He told me he was from the Library, and that I had to come with him. Right now.”
Agamor is silent for a long moment, his expression one of deep, profound empathy.
“I am truly sorry you had to experience such a thing,” he says, voice a low, gentle rumble.
“The Safeguard is a monstrous and cruel weapon.” He looks at her, a new, intense light in his golden eyes.
“But you must understand, Paige. To awaken on your own, through a passive exposure to a Primordial domain… it is almost unheard of.”
“My assistant Damien has taken a liking to you as well, he says you are easily his best student.”
“With a mind like yours… you could be a great help to us. A very great help indeed.”
Keyona, Amy & Ruby
Meanwhile, in one of the smaller, private training rooms, the sharp crack of magic and the grunts of exertion echo off the stone walls.
The room is a stark, functional space, but there’s an elegance to its simplicity.
The floor is covered in soft but durable gray mats, cool to the touch.
The walls are smooth, white marble, lined with racks holding an array of wooden practice weapons: staves, swords, and spears.
The only light comes from glowing crystals embedded in the ceiling, casting a bright, even glow that leaves no shadows, a perfect environment for focusing on form and technique.
Keyona and Amy are sparring, their movements a familiar, frustrating dance.
Three months of Gendric’s brutal training has hammered the fundamentals into them. They have skill now, and they have power. But they are stuck.
Keyona is a whirlwind of pure, relentless offense.
She has honed her aggression into a sharp, dangerous weapon, her scythe, Akan, a blur of black steel, forcing Amy to backpedal constantly.
Every move is an attack, a furious, desperate attempt to overwhelm her opponent with raw aggression.
Amy, on the other hand, fights without a weapon, her silver bound grimoire, Lucy, floating in the air beside her, pages turning on their own.
Her hands are open, movements precise.
She manipulates gravity through Korean magic. Creating invisible walls of force to deflect Keyona’s attacks and pockets of increased weight to slow her opponent’s advance.
But she is still too reliant on landing a single, heavy, crushing blow, her confidence making her predictable.
Their sparring is a chaotic, exhausting stalemate that ends when both, out of breath and annoyed, simply stop and lean against opposite walls, panting.
“This is pointless,” Amy grunts, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. “I can’t get past your crazy offense.”
“And I can’t get an opening with your weird gravity thing,” Keyona adds, voice tight with frustration.
“You’re both trying to use a sledgehammer to open a lock,” a cheerful voice says from the doorway.
Keyona and Amy look up to see Ruby leaning against the doorframe, a playful, amused smile on her face. She must have been watching them for a while.
“It’s not funny,” Amy mutters. “We’re stuck.”
Ruby pushes herself off the doorframe and walks over, demeanor that of a helpful, longtime friend.
“I know. I’ve been there. You’ve both gotten super strong, but you’re still fighting against your own instincts.”
She turns to Keyona. “You’re an amazing attacker, but you’re treating defense like it’s a chore. Gendric taught you how to parry, right?”
“Try using the hook of your scythe for that, not just for slashing. Create some distance.
“It’ll give you a second to breathe and actually plan your next attack instead of just rushing in.”
She then turns to Amy. “And you. You’ve got amazing control now, but you’re still waiting for that one perfect shot.
“You’re letting her set the pace. Use your magic for more than just power. Cast a simple spell to increase your own personal gravity.”
I”t’ll anchor you to the floor, make your stance unshakable.”
“You’ll be able to block her attacks without getting thrown off balance, and it’ll give you the opening you’re looking for.”
The two girls listen intently, a look of dawning comprehension on their faces.
“Wow,” Amy says, her usual mask of cool detachment gone, replaced by a look of genuine admiration. “You make it sound so simple.”
“I’ve been doing this for a while,” Ruby replies with a shrug.
“You guys are picking it up way faster than I did, trust me. You just need to stop thinking so hard and start trusting your instincts a little more.”
She grins. “Besides, it’s way more fun to watch you guys than it is to listen to Akira lecture me about my ‘imperfect form’ for the thousandth time.”
The mention of her cousin seems to relax the atmosphere. Keyona smirks, curiosity piqued.
“So, what’s the deal with Akira, anyway?” she asks, voice dropping to a more conspiratorial tone as they take a break, sitting on a bench against the wall.
“Are you two, like, secretly dating or something? You’re always defending him.”
Ruby lets out a loud, genuine laugh.
“Eww, gross, no!”
“He’s just my cousin.”
“Seriously?” Amy asks, eyes wide.
“Yeah, my aunt is his mom.”
“You guys are nothing alike.”
“Tell me about it,” Ruby says with a sigh. “He’s always been like that. Serious, intense, always training.”
“It’s… the Kendo way, I guess.”
“And what about Carter?” Keyona asks, a sly, knowing grin spreading across her face. “You seem to talk to him quite a bit.”
A faint, almost imperceptible blush touches Ruby’s cheeks.
“I… I’m just invested in his journey,” she says, voice suddenly a little less confident.
“The entire Library, the whole Marble City, has been talking about him non stop. Thought-based casting… it’s so rare, most people thought only Gabriel and the founder could use it.”
“Wow, I didn’t know he could do that,” Keyona says, eyes wide with newfound respect.
“He’s in really good shape. I knew he seemed strong and all, but…”
“He’s also kinda good looking,” Ruby adds, almost to herself.
Keyona and Amy exchange a look, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“See! See! I told you!” Keyona says, giving Amy a playful nudge.
“You totally have a crush on him!”
“I do not!” Ruby insists, face now bright, furious pink.
“I’m his… I’m his training assistant! It’s my job to be invested! Now, get up! Break time’s over. Let’s work on those defensive stances.”
Nico & Akira
Later that afternoon, Nico makes his way towards the Scholarly Branch, steps hesitant.
This was probably a stupid idea.
Damien was a busy, important man, and the last thing he wanted was to bother the most intimidating instructor he had ever met.
Still, Gendric’s words from the day before echoed in his mind.
You are all shield and no sword.
He had to try. He turns a corner in a quiet, book-lined corridor and nearly collides with Akira, who is walking with a brisk, determined pace from the opposite direction.
They both stop, a look of mutual, surprised recognition on their faces.
“What are you doing here?” Akira asks, tone sharp, though it lacks its usual contempt.
“I… I was going to see Damien,” Nico stammers, gesturing vaguely towards the door at the end of the hall. “To ask for… extra training.”
A flicker of something unreadable… Surprise? Respect? It crosses Akira’s face abruptly.
“So was I.”
An awkward silence hangs between them for a moment.
They are here for the same reason, a shared, unspoken acknowledgment of their own shortcomings.
“You’re too defensive,” Akira states, breaking the silence. It’s not an insult, but a simple, analytical fact.
“You have power, but you don’t know how to use it.”
“And you’re too reckless,” Nico retorts, a spark of his own confidence returning.
Akira looks at the door at the end of the hall, a new determination in his red eyes.
“They call him ‘The Alchemist’ for a reason. He doesn’t just work with potions.”
“He understands the chemistry of magic, how to break it down and build it back up, stronger. If anyone can teach us how to work together, it’s him.”
Without another word, he turns and walks towards the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Nico follows.
Akira knocks. After a moment, Damien’s voice, crisp and annoyed, calls out from within. “Enter.”
They step inside. The room is not an office, but a laboratory. The air is thick with the scent of strange, exotic herbs and volatile chemicals.
Glass beakers filled with bubbling, multi colored liquids sit on heating elements, and complex distillation arrays cover every available surface.
Damien stands at a central workbench, a pair of protective goggles pushed up on his forehead, a look of intense, focused concentration on his face.
As he carefully adds a single, glowing drop of a viscous, silver liquid to a swirling, black potion.
He doesn’t look up. “What is it?”
“Sir,” Nico begins, voice trembling slightly.
“We… we were wondering if you could help us.”
Damien finally looks up, his peircing gray eyes narrowing in surprise. He was not expecting them. “Help you with what, Mr. Reyes? If you have a question about theory, the Lexanomicon is quite comprehensive.”
“No, sir,” Akira says, voice firm and clear. “We want you to teach us how to fight.”
“How to REALLY fight.”
Damien puts down the dropper and turns to face them, a look of genuine, analytical curiosity on his face.
He was surprised they had taken the initiative, that these two, the passive defender and the arrogant prodigy, had come to him on their day off, together.
“Follow me,” he says, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face.
He leads them down a dark, narrow staircase to a place Nico has never seen before. They emerge into a vast, circular chamber, a gladiatorial arena in miniature.
The room is a perfect circle, walls made of a dark, pitted metal that seems to absorb the light.
A high, domed ceiling with a single, large oculus at its center provides the only illumination, a single, brilliant shaft of light that falls on the stone-covered floor of the arena below.
The air is still and heavy, thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and old, spilled blood. There are no cheering crowds, no grandstands, only the oppressive, claustrophobic silence.
“Welcome to my personal training chamber,” Damien says, voice echoing in the vast, empty space. “I find it is… conducive to a more focused learning environment.”
He turns to face them, expression severe.
“Your individual training methods are failing. Nico, you are too passive. You have a powerful gift for kinetic manipulation, but you use it only as a shield.”
“Akira, you are too arrogant. You are a gifted swordsman, but you are so convinced of your own superiority that you fail to see the value in a coordinated defense.”
“You are two halves of a single, functional warrior. Today you will learn to work as one.”
He gestures to the center of the arena. “Your lesson for today is simple. You will work together. And you will land a single, clean blow on me.”
“That’s it?” Akira asks, a confident, almost mocking smirk on his face. “Just one hit?”
“Just one,” Damien replies, own smile widening. “If you can.”
The “spar” begins. Akira, seeing this as a simple test of his own skill, charges instantly, katana a blur of silver.
He unleashes a furious, lightning fast combination, movements a symphony of deadly grace.
Damien doesn’t even summon his grimoire. He moves, body a black clad shadow against the sand.
He parries Akira’s slashes not with a weapon, but with the reinforced vambraces of his suit, the sound of steel on enchanted metal a sharp, ringing CLANG in the silent arena.
He flows around Akira’s attacks, movements a masterclass in efficiency and control, expression one of bored, almost academic disinterest.
“Your form is predictable, Mr. Kendo,” Damien says, voice a calm, clinical critique as he effortlessly sidesteps a powerful thrust.
“You rely on patterns you have practiced a thousand times. You have forgotten how to improvise.”
He sees an opening and delivers a single, precise kick to the back of Akira’s knee, sending the prodigy stumbling.
As Akira tries to recover, Damien is already moving, attention now on Nico.
He launches a series of lightning-fast jabs, forcing Nico to hastily create shimmering shields of kinetic energy to absorb the blows.
“And you, Mr. Reyes,” Damien says, assault never slowing, “are a stationary target.”
You are so focused on protecting yourself that you have forgotten you have a partner.”
For the next ten minutes, Damien dismantles them. He flows between them, a ghost in the machine, every move a brutal, unforgiving lesson.
He forces Nico to use his kinetic energy offensively, to launch blasts of concussive force to protect Akira from a finishing blow.
He forces Akira to rely on Nico’s defensive shields to create the openings he needs to attack.
He verbally deconstructs their every mistake, guidance a form of relentless, psychological pressure that pushes them to their breaking point.
“You are not two warriors fighting a single opponent,” he barks, as he sends them both sprawling to the sand with a single, sweeping kick.
“You are a single unit, and you are failing. Work together, or you will be broken apart.”
Bruised, exhausted, and thoroughly humbled, Nico and Akira push themselves to their feet.
“On my mark,” Akira pants, voice a low, urgent whisper.
“He always counters my third strike with a step to the left. I need you to put a wall there. Not a shield. A solid wall of force.”
“I can’t…” Nico begins.
“YES, YOU CAN,” Akira insists, voice a sharp, commanding bark.
“You absorbed enough energy from that last hit to stop a truck. Use it. Now.”
Akira charges again. He unleashes his attack. A feint, a slash, and then the third, powerful strike.
As Damien moves to sidestep, just as Akira predicted, Nico slams his hands together.
“NOW!”
A massive, shimmering wall of pure, kinetic force erupts from the sand, blocking Damien’s path.
For a fraction of a second, the master alchemist is surprised, his perfect, flowing movements interrupted.
It is the only opening they will get.
Akira, using the brief, precious moment of hesitation, pivots. He doesn’t attack Damien. He sheathes his sword. In the same fluid motion, he drops low and sweeps Damien’s legs out from under him.
It is a simple, unexpected, and perfectly executed move.
Damien, his balance compromised, his focus for a split second on the wall of force, is caught completely off guard.
He stumbles, his perfect, untouchable composure breaking for the first time as he falls to the sand.
Akira stands over him, chest heaving, a single, clean blow landed not with his sword, but with his mind.
Damien looks up from the ground, a slow, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips.
“Well done,” he says, voice a low, satisfied murmur. “A promising start.”