Forged By Falcrest

Aaron lunged first, his fist swinging toward Atlas's face. Atlas ducked just in time, the blow whistling past his ear. His core flared as he countered, driving his shoulder into Aaron's chest and forcing the boy back a step.

The crowd roared louder, their cheers and jeers fueling the chaos.

Aaron recovered quickly, throwing a jab that clipped Atlas's chin. Pain shot through his jaw, but it only spurred him on. He grabbed the front of Aaron's uniform and yanked him forward, aiming a punch at his stomach. Aaron grunted as the blow connected, but he retaliated with a swift knee to Atlas's side.

Atlas staggered, his ribs screaming in protest, but he refused to back down. He threw a wild punch, catching Aaron across the cheek, but it lacked power. Aaron snarled, grabbing Atlas by the collar and shoving him back into the table. Plates and trays clattered to the ground, spilling food everywhere.

Before Atlas could stand back up, the crowd went quiet.

"Enough!" A booming voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Both boys froze as a towering figure entered the fray, their presence instantly silencing the crowd. The man—a teacher by the look of his stern uniform—grabbed them both by the scruffs of their collars, lifting them slightly off the ground like they weighed nothing.

Atlas's breath came in short bursts, his heart pounding in his chest. Aaron's glare didn't waver, but the fear flickering in his eyes betrayed him.

The man's voice was low and dangerous. "You want to fight? You do it in training, not my dining hall."

He let them go with a shove, both boys stumbling but managing to stay on their feet.

"Clean this mess up," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And report to your instructor after breakfast. I'll make sure they know exactly what happened here."

The crowd dispersed quickly, the excitement replaced with murmurs and whispers. Atlas wiped his bleeding lip with the back of his hand, his anger simmering but no longer boiling over. Aaron shot him one last glare before turning away, muttering under his breath.

Rea appeared by Atlas's side, her expression a mix of concern and exasperation. "That was… something," she said, crossing her arms. "You couldn't have just ignored him?"

Atlas let out a frustrated sigh, grabbing a rag from a nearby table and crouching to clean up the spilled food.

She rolled her eyes but didn't press further. Instead, she grabbed a tray and helped him clean, the awkward silence between them only broken by the occasional glance from passing students.

Atlas threw the rag onto the now-clean table with a frustrated sigh, glaring at the mess that had been his breakfast. He turned to Rea, his chest still heaving from the fight. "What the hell was that?"

Rea blinked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," he snapped, his voice low to avoid drawing more attention. "You provoked him. You knew how he'd react, and you dragged me into it."

She crossed her arms, her smug expression from earlier replaced with something more subdued. "He was being a jerk. He deserved it."

Atlas clenched his fists, feeling his core hum faintly with residual mana. He forced himself to take a deep breath before continuing. "Maybe he did. But I didn't need to be part of that. I've been here for less than a day, and now I'm already on someone's radar because you decided to make a point."

Rea opened her mouth to respond but stopped herself. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away, her cheeks flushing faintly. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble," she mumbled.

"Yeah, well, you did." Atlas straightened, brushing crumbs from his new uniform.

She flinched at his words, and for a moment, Atlas thought he saw genuine regret flash across her face. She nodded stiffly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry."

The awkward silence between them lingered as they finished cleaning up. Seth and Aaron had already left, though Atlas caught a few lingering glances from other students who were clearly enjoying the aftermath of the drama.

Once the dining hall was back in order, Rea led him down the corridors toward their first class. The towering stone walls loomed around them, the noise from earlier replaced with a heavy, uncomfortable quiet. Atlas kept his distance, his arms crossed as he followed her.

She stopped outside a large wooden door, hesitating before pushing it open. "This is our first class," she said, her voice devoid of the enthusiasm it had carried earlier. "Introduction to Combat Theory."

Atlas stepped inside, immediately noticing the rows of desks. Students were already seated, their chatter filling the room as they waited for the instructor. The space was larger than he'd expected, with high ceilings and rune-covered walls that pulsed faintly with energy.

Rea glanced at him, her expression cautious. "You should probably sit in the back for now. Less chance of… distractions."

He nodded curtly, walking past her without a word and taking a seat near the back corner. He dropped into the chair, leaning back as he observed the room. The students varied in age, some younger than him, others clearly older and more experienced. The air buzzed with anticipation as they waited for the lesson to begin.

Rea hesitated by the door for a moment before finally taking a seat near the middle of the room. She didn't look back at him.

Atlas let out a slow breath, the events of the morning still weighing on him. He'd dreamed of this moment for so long—his first class, his first steps toward becoming a Blade—but the excitement felt muted now, overshadowed by frustration and regret.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, centering himself. This was what he'd worked for, what he'd dreamed of. No petty squabble was going to ruin it.

The door at the front of the room creaked open, and the hum of voices instantly quieted. A figure stepped inside, their presence commanding immediate attention. Atlas straightened in his seat, his eyes locking onto the instructor as they strode toward the front of the room.

The instructor strode into the room with a presence that immediately silenced the scattered whispers. Atlas couldn't help but sit up straighter, his eyes fixed on the figure now standing at the front of the room.

The man looked to be in his late thirties, though his sharp, weathered features hinted at a life far more experienced than his age might suggest. His dark hair was cut short, and his piercing gray eyes seemed to take in everything at once. His posture was rigid, and the scar that ran from his left cheekbone to the corner of his jaw only added to the intimidating aura he carried.

He wasn't particularly tall, but the way he moved gave the impression of someone who was always in control. His uniform was simple yet pristine, the dark fabric tailored to fit him perfectly, with subtle embroidery along the cuffs and collar that marked him as an instructor.

Atlas noticed how the man's eyes scanned the room, not just glancing at the students but truly looking at them, like he was evaluating each one individually. When his gaze briefly flicked over Atlas, it felt like the air shifted—a faint hum of mana brushed against his skin, like the instructor was measuring him in some way.

There was no need for him to raise his voice. When he spoke, his tone was calm, almost quiet, but it carried a weight that made every word sink in. "My name is Instructor Torrin Emberforge," he began, his voice steady and unyielding. "You may call me Instructor or Sir. Nothing else."

Atlas couldn't help but swallow as Torrin's gaze swept over the room again. There was a sharpness in his expression, like a blade honed to perfection. This was a man who didn't tolerate nonsense, and from the way the other students sat up straight and kept their mouths shut, it was clear they knew it too.

Torrin stepped forward, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. "Let me make one thing clear," he continued, his voice cutting through the silence. "This is not a place for complacency. You are here to learn, to train, and to grow. If you are not prepared to give everything you have, you are wasting your time—and mine."

Atlas found himself nodding along, his earlier frustrations momentarily forgotten. There was something about the man's presence, the way he carried himself, that commanded respect. Torrin Emberforge wasn't just an instructor—he was a warrior, someone who had lived the life they were all aspiring to.

For a brief moment, Atlas wondered just how strong the man's core must be, how many battles he had fought and won. The scar on his face wasn't just for show—it was a reminder of the dangers that awaited them all.

Torrin's gaze landed on Atlas again, lingering just a second longer this time. It wasn't hostile, but it wasn't warm either. It was the look of someone who had seen countless students come and go, someone who didn't care about potential but about results.

"Welcome to Combat Theory," Torrin said, his tone final. "Let's see if any of you are worth the effort."

Atlas's chest tightened slightly, but he felt a flicker of determination spark in his core. Whatever this man expected of them, he was ready to prove himself.

The room was completely silent as Instructor Torrin Emberforge surveyed the rows of students before him. Thirty first-years sat at attention, their eyes glued to the man who had commanded their focus the moment he entered the room. Atlas sat in the back row, hands folded on the desk in front of him, his gaze fixed on the instructor.

Torrin paced slowly at the front of the room, his boots making soft, deliberate sounds on the stone floor. "You've all taken your first steps," he began, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of authority. "Your cores have awakened, and now you're here, thinking that means something. It doesn't."

A few murmurs rippled through the room, but Torrin raised a hand, silencing them immediately. "Let me explain. A mana core is nothing more than potential. What matters is what you do with it—how you refine it, how you grow it. And to grow it, you need to understand it."

He turned to the chalkboard behind him, picking up a piece of chalk and writing out the stages of core progression in neat, bold letters:

• Awakened

• Ascendant

• Transcendent

• Exalted

• Paragon

• Sovereign

"These are the six stages of core development," Torrin explained, tapping the board with the chalk. "Every one of you is at the first stage—Awakened. This is where your journey begins. Your cores are fragile, unrefined. At this stage, your mana reserves are limited, and your control is laughable."

A boy sitting near the front raised his hand. Torrin nodded toward him. "Speak."

"What happens when we get to the next stage?" the boy asked, his voice eager.

Torrin smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "If you reach the next stage," he corrected, "you will become an Ascendant. At that point, your mana reserves will expand, your control will improve, and your affinity with the elements will deepen. Ascendants can wield more complex techniques and sustain their mana for longer periods."

He let the words sink in before continuing. "But let me make this clear. Reaching Ascendant is not guaranteed. For every hundred people who awaken their cores, only ten make it to Ascendant. Fewer still progress beyond that."

The air in the room grew heavy as the weight of his words settled over the students. Torrin tapped the board again. "Above Ascendant is Transcendent. This is where your core begins to affect the world around you. Transcendents can bend mana with such precision that they blur the line between reality and magic. But the gap between Ascendant and Transcendent is vast. Many never make it."

Another hand shot up, this time from a girl sitting near the back. Torrin nodded. "Question?"

"What about the higher stages?" she asked hesitantly. "Exalted, Paragon, and Sovereign?"

Torrin's expression darkened slightly, his gaze sweeping over the class. "The Exalted stage is where you develop your Trait—a manifestation of your soul's essence. It is rare, even among the most dedicated. Paragons are legends, wielding power that shapes kingdoms, no one really knows the power they hold. As for Sovereigns…" He paused, his tone growing colder. "They are myths. No one alive has seen a Sovereign, and no one in this room ever will."

The class fell silent again, a few students shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Atlas remained still, absorbing every word. He felt the weight of Torrin's gaze pass over him briefly before the instructor turned back to the board, erasing the stages and writing two new words:

• Nightblade

• Lightblade

"These are the two primary paths available to you," Torrin said, turning to face the class again. "Nightblades and Lightblades. Both serve the kingdom, but their roles are vastly different."

He pointed to the first word. "Nightblades are warriors. They are the sword and shield of the kingdom, trained in combat and battlefield tactics. Their focus is on physical prowess and direct engagement. If you aim to be a Nightblade, prepare to endure grueling physical training and countless battles."

He shifted his focus to the second word. "Lightblades, on the other hand, are the kingdom's support. They are healers, strategists, and everyday workers. Their training emphasizes mana control and understanding the subtleties of battle. Lightblades are the reason Nightblades survive."

A hand went up from a boy sitting near Atlas. Torrin acknowledged him with a nod. "Yes?"

"Can we choose which one we want to be?" the boy asked.

Torrin's smirk returned. "You don't choose," he said simply. "Your affinities and strengths will dictate your path. Someone with high physical ability and a talent for combat will naturally lean toward being a Nightblade. Someone with strong mana control and supportive talents will find their place as a Lightblade. The academy will assess you, guide you, and push you toward the role where you will be most effective."

Atlas glanced around the room, noticing a mix of reactions. Some students looked eager, others uncertain. He kept his face neutral, his mind racing as he processed everything. He didn't care which path he ended up on. All he knew was that he would give everything he had.

Torrin's voice broke through his thoughts. "Understand this. Both roles are crucial. A kingdom without Lightblades will crumble from within. A kingdom without Nightblades will fall to its enemies. You are not here to compete with each other. You are here to become the best version of yourselves—for the sake of the kingdom."

He paused, letting his words sink in before folding his arms across his chest. "This year, I will be your primary instructor. You will train under me, learn from me, and, if necessary, be broken by me. I do not tolerate laziness or excuses. If you think you can coast through this, leave now."

No one moved. The room was deathly silent.

Torrin's eyes narrowed slightly, as if daring someone to speak. "Good. Now let's begin."