Training Grounds — Tower of Trials
Inside the tower, on the floating platform stood three figures, motionless, their gazes fixed on the suspended arena ahead.
Adam, Sophia, and Hana watched in silence as their companion stepped forward to face the god of wisdom.
This was not meant to be a true battle, but a demonstration—an initiation into the martial laws of this world. Clayton understood that much. Still, he was not deceived by the apparent calm of the situation. Beneath it lay uncertainty.
He had volunteered.
Not out of bravado, but to measure the gap. To understand what a man from his world amounted to when placed before a divinity of Astra—and, perhaps, to offer his comrades a first point of reference.
Tamiel had never shown whether he possessed any skill in combat. Yet his title alone carried weight: god of wisdom and history.
Clayton intended to rely on something other than raw strength. Experience. Timing. The unexpected.
Not far from the platform, the goddess observed the scene, seated comfortably, her attention entirely focused on the two figures facing one another. The three spectators held their breath.
Clayton wore a light, breathable outfit, fitted without ostentation to a physique shaped by years of discipline. Nothing excessive. Nothing wasted. Every muscle seemed present for a precise purpose.
Opposite him, Tamiel was clad in attire that appeared strangely unsuited to the occasion—almost casual. And yet, on him, it felt perfectly natural. As though the very notion of martial propriety did not apply.
Two opposing presences faced one another—one shaped by war, the other by knowledge.
The first step was about to be taken.
_____
"Begin."
No sooner had the god declared the start than Clayton saw Tamiel surge toward him.
Swiish.
He rushed forward at a startling speed—fast, yet still readable. Enough to impress, not enough to vanish from sight.
The trajectory was obvious. Clayton had little choice; it was already too late to take the initiative.
He raised his guard.
Reflexes took over, shaped by long years of close-quarters combat—instincts designed to neutralize a target by turning the opponent's own force against them.
Let's hope he doesn't rely on excessive divine strength, he thought.
The notion crossed his mind and vanished just as quickly. There was no room for hesitation.
As Tamiel closed the distance, Clayton had already simulated his options—counter, evade, withdraw if necessary. Everything aligned within a fraction of a second.
He lowered his center of gravity, legs bent, footing solid. His face remained still, his gaze locked onto Tamiel's.
Too fast.
Eight—no, ten meters in barely two seconds. Surprise struck him briefly. His eyes narrowed, then control returned.
Tamiel was already upon him.
The god's right fist shot toward his face.
Clayton raised his forearms in time, shoulders engaged to absorb the impact.
Bam.
The blow cracked against bone and drove him backward in a single, brutal motion. He slid nearly two meters before regaining a semblance of balance.
Pain followed instantly.
Sharp and burning, it surged along his arms like an electric jolt, numbing his nerves. His limbs responded sluggishly, heavy, trembling. His head rang faintly, like the aftershock of a poorly absorbed hit.
Even without looking, he knew his forearms were already bruised.
Such power… It felt like the strength of a trained human, yet refined with such precision that it bordered on the superhuman. This God of Wisdom is amazing, Clayton thought, staring at him.
Tamiel came to a complete stop after the strike. He did not press the advantage. He was watching—no, assessing Clayton's reaction.
Clayton had no time to question the pause. The opening was too valuable to waste.
He trusted his instinct and lunged forward in a zigzag. Pain still gnawed at his arms; he had no choice but to rely on his legs, despite their limits.
As he closed in, Tamiel altered his stance.
The movement resembled the ginga of capoeira. His posture barely shifted — just enough for the momentum to coil before releasing
Unexpected. Until now, he had seemed to favor a more direct, almost boxing-like approach.
Despite the sudden shift, Clayton's plan did not change.
By the third zigzag, he was already within range.
He feinted a straight jab toward the plexus—testing, not striking.
But the true intent lay elsewhere.
His foot.
Tamiel parried the feint with his lead hand, the motion smooth and unhurried. The contact was enough for him to feel it—there was no real weight behind the strike, no true commitment.
A brief chuckle escaped him.
Clayton caught the sound.
So he had seen through it.
The realization stung. The feint had been exposed the instant it met Tamiel's guard. Too little force. Too little intent. From Clayton's perspective, the sound felt like mockery, calm and effortless.
Even so, Tamiel stepped in.
His fingers closed around Clayton's wrist, not crushing it, not fully restraining him, but fixing him in place. At the same time, the god lifted his rear leg, driving it upward with controlled precision.
The angle was clear.
Chin.
Ribs.
Too close to tell, so Clayton reacted on instinct.
He forced what strength remained into his arm and tore his wrist free. The motion was rough, inefficient—born more of urgency than technique—but it worked. In the same breath, he twisted his torso and slipped to Tamiel's left, narrowly avoiding the rising strike.
Air rushed from his lungs as he staggered aside.
That had been close.
Too close.
Before he could fully reset his stance, Tamiel shifted.
Not a full change. Not something easily identifiable.
Just a subtle adjustment of posture.
His weight rolled smoothly through his hips, and the attack followed at once—fast, low, and deceptively fluid. A capoeira strike, born from motion rather than tension, his leg snapping upward in a short arc aimed to cut into Clayton's balance before he could react.
Clayton felt it more than he saw it.
Instinct screamed.
He answered faster than his footing should have allowed.
Relying on reflex rather than stability, he pivoted and delivered a low kick inspired by Muay Thai, fully aware of the risk his exposed stance carried.
Thump.
The impact landed — clean, precise — catching Tamiel in the briefest instant between motion and recovery.
Tamiel halted for a brief moment.
Clayton stayed on guard, breath uneven, legs tense, ready for the counter that never came. He watched closely.
The god exhaled slowly.
He was impressed. A mere mortal—one who had not even stepped onto the warrior's path, only an experienced human—had managed to strike him.
Though he had deliberately restrained his power, the impact had surprised him.
Even if no real damage had been dealt, Clayton had still succeeded in landing a blow.
For a mortal, that was no small feat.
It was… admirable.
The atmosphere changed.
"Impressive, you've got me this round. Your reflexes, courage, and combat instincts only need refinement through high intensity practice.
All I can offer you are a few words of wisdom. Adapt and fight with all your strength, regardless of your enemy's level. But above all, never forget to rely on your mind and wisdom. They are your ultimate weapon — the true key to your strength as a mortal."
Tamiel complimented him before withdrawing from his stance.
"Finally… it's over."
After hearing the god's words, Clayton sighed in relief and collapsed onto the ground.
"My arms are very sore from the previous strike. Normally I would need bandages, ice, and two days of rest to recover."
Then he narrowed his eyes towards Astéria's direction. Unless they decide to heal me with their powers, he thought — but he did not ask. He wanted to see what decision they would make.
He looked back at his comrades who looked dazed. It seemed they had never been exposed to a fight like this.
Perhaps they had seen street fights before — but the level demonstrated here would have been enough to dismantle a dozen common thugs without effort.
On the floating platform, only Clayton breathed heavily.
Tamiel stood as he had begun — composed, unshaken.
The difference between mortal effort and divine control had never felt so visible.
____
Incredible.
The word surfaced in Adam's mind before he could restrain it.
What they had just witnessed was more than a mere display of skill. It had been a show of audacity.
Clayton had stood before a god and fought with intelligence and courage. Even if he had clearly been outmatched, he had demonstrated something essential to all of them.
Fighting was not only about strength.
It was not simply a matter of winning or losing.
Sometimes, it required accepting the risk of defeat. Sometimes, it meant surrendering to the flow of movement itself — allowing one's body to be carried by instinct, even at the risk of losing control.
In the end, Clayton had fallen.
Yet it was he who received praise from their instructor.
Adam remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the area long after the exchange had ended.
The others seemed shaken.
He too — but in a different way.
What lingered in his mind was not the impact that had sent Clayton sliding backward, nor the visible difference between mortal and divine.
The precision.
The rhythm.
The instant where motion became force.
Without realizing it, Adam replayed the sequence in his head — the shift of weight, the arc of the leg, the timing of the counter.
His fingers tightened slightly at his sides.
Only when he noticed it did he loosen them.
He exhaled.
Something about the exchange had unsettled him — though he could not have said why.
And yet, when he finally looked away from the arena, it was not relief that he felt.
It was anticipation.
____
The demonstration had been brief.
Only a few minutes had passed, yet the impression it left lingered heavily in the air. Clayton steadied his breathing and pushed himself back to his feet. The soreness in his arms had not vanished, but he forced it aside and joined the others, standing slightly apart yet attentive.
They waited.
Tamiel regarded them calmly before speaking.
"Well. Now you have seen what a fight truly looks like."
Silence followed. None of them replied. The gap they had just witnessed required no commentary.
Tamiel's gaze shifted toward Astéria, who remained seated nearby, observing with quiet amusement.
"However," he continued lightly, "training against an opponent far beyond your reach would serve little purpose."
The four listened closely.
"So my dear friend here will lend us her assistance. She will summon an adversary suited to you — one capable of defeating you… yet one whom you may also defeat."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"If you are brave enough."
His tone carried a trace of humor, but it did little to ease the tension gathering in their chests. The memory of Clayton sliding across the platform was still vivid.
Tamiel allowed the silence to stretch for a moment before straightening slightly.
"Enough jesting. This will not be mere sparring. You will be instructed in combat arts."
He paused, studying their expressions.
"But before we proceed… tell me."
His voice softened, though it did not lose its authority.
"What is a combat art?"
After a brief moment of reflection, Adam answered.
"In my opinion, a combat art is simply the way a person defeats another efficiently. Whether with weapons or with bare hands, it is the use of physical means to overcome an opponent."
His voice remained calm, yet firm.
Clayton, Hana, and Sophia remained silent, yet their expressions showed agreement.
Tamiel regarded them calmly.
"So you all share this understanding?"
"Yes."
The answer came without hesitation.
The god nodded slowly.
"Good. Your definition is not incorrect."
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
"However, what you describe is only the foundation."
He began to walk across the floating platform, hands clasped behind his back.
"A combat art is not merely a way to defeat another. It is the structured dialogue between body and will. Through confrontation, one does not only overcome an opponent — one confronts limitation itself."
He stopped.
"This distinction is essential."
Tamiel's gaze remained steady upon them.
"For mortals — especially among the weaker races — a combat art is more than a means of survival. It is a universal path toward strength."
Adam's brows drew together slightly at the words weaker races, but he held his silence.
Tamiel let the last word settle.
"But do not confuse strength with power."
A subtle tension passed through the group.
Clayton's eyes narrowed. In his former world, skill in combat had meant superiority over most. Yet here, strange weapons and unfathomable abilities existed. Could trained strength truly stand beside such forces?
"Power," Tamiel continued, "is a title given to forces that transcend common understanding. It is rare. Difficult to attain. Sometimes granted. Sometimes awakened."
Sophia's gaze lowered briefly. Granted. Awakened. Words that implied destiny rather than effort.
"Strength, however, is different. Strength can be cultivated. Forged. Earned through discipline, repetition, and confrontation. Even extraordinary abilities demand effort — yet their threshold is often unreachable to many."
Clayton's jaw tightened at that. He understood the weight of earned strength — the quiet security born from sweat and pain. But in this world… would effort alone be enough?
"Power belongs to the exceptional."
Adam felt something stir uneasily in his chest. He had never been exceptional. Not before. And perhaps not here.
Tamiel's voice did not waver.
"Strength belongs to those willing to endure."
This time, Adam's fingers curled slowly at his sides — not in frustration, but in resolve.
"Through combat art, mortals may not always reach power… but they may always pursue strength. And in doing so, they carve a path that none can deny."
Silence followed.
Astéria, still seated nearby, tilted her head slightly. A faint, unreadable smile curved her lips as she sensed the quiet resolve taking root among them.
Tamiel's expression softened.
"And that is why I admire mortals."
Clayton lifted his head at that.
"Ten thousand years ago, during the rise of the human empire, there was once a young man who failed every magical examination placed before him."
Sophia's attention sharpened instantly.
"He was neither gifted in spells nor chosen by divine favor. He was merely a peasant — yet he understood the body."
Clayton's breathing steadied.
Adam did not blink.
"Through repeated battle within the patrols of his homeland, he discovered that Eidos could change."
Tamiel paused, allowing the weight of that statement to sink in.
"It could be refined. Tempered. Made denser — more intense, or more aggressive — when shaped by will, emotion, and relentless confrontation."
Astéria's smile deepened ever so slightly.
"He named that altered state Eithymos."
The word carried an old resonance, almost forgotten by time.
"In later centuries, scholars simplified the term. Today, most refer to it merely as the Warrior's Eidos — or the Eidos of fighters."
His gaze swept across them.
"From that day onward, human supremacy did not rely solely on magic… but on discipline."
The atmosphere shifted.
Not oppressive.
Resolute.
Tamiel allowed them a moment to absorb his words.
After a long silence, he continued.
"Perhaps you have understood this much — the combat art I speak of is deeper than what you are accustomed to. It is not merely the ability to fight."
His eyes sharpened slightly.
"You will learn it."
A brief pause.
"But before we go further… you will each defeat your respective opponent."
The four frowned. Curiosity burned in their eyes, unanswered.
Tamiel offered no further explanation.
Hana and Sophia exchanged a glance. Something felt incomplete — as though a truth hovered just beyond articulation.
And they were not mistaken.
_____
As Tamiel walked toward Astéria to arrange their opponents, Hana and Sophia exchanged a brief glance.
No words were needed.
Something was off.
The answer hovered at the edge of Hana's thoughts — almost obvious, almost simple. Too simple.
That was what troubled her.
Had Tamiel truly spoken so plainly… or had they overlooked something beneath his words?
She did not voice her suspicion. It might be nothing. A misinterpretation. And she refused to appear careless before a god.
Still, the unease remained.
Perhaps the coming fight would clarify everything.
If she managed to win.
Tension coiled quietly among the group. Clayton masked his fatigue. Sophia's composure was thinner than it appeared.
And Adam—
Hana glanced at him discreetly.
He was different.
There was no anxiety in his posture. No visible strain.
Instead—
Anticipation.
A restrained, unmistakable excitement.
Her gaze lingered for a second longer.
Was that recklessness… or something else?
She exhaled softly and turned her eyes forward again.
There would be time to question him later.
For now, she needed to conquer her own uncertainty.
Better excitement than fear.
But both could be dangerous.
_____________
Hey everyone!
It's been a little while, but don't worry—I haven't abandoned you! Life got a bit hectic, but I'm back with a new chapter. I hope you enjoy diving into this next part of Life in Astra.