Tuesday was Physical Conditioning & Endurance.
Soren's body hated it.
Not in the way it used to, where his limbs felt like they were made of lead and his muscles ached for days afterward, where the soreness felt like punishment instead of progress.
Not anymore.
It still drained him, though, in that deep, honest way that made it impossible to pretend he was above it.
By the time class finished, his shirt clung to him, damp and uncomfortable, fabric sticking to his back and shoulders.
Sweat ran down his spine in slow trails, and his legs ached in a heavy way that made every step feel like work, not sharp pain, but a thick exhaustion that sat inside the muscles and refused to move.
He bent forward with his hands braced on his knees, panting hard enough that his breath scraped his throat, chest rising and falling fast.
Across the field, the instructor barked another command, voice sharp and relentless, but Soren barely heard it.
His focus narrowed to the burn in his lungs and the way his calves threatened to cramp if he stopped moving too suddenly, as if his body would spite him for trying to rest.
Straightening up took effort.
For a moment, his vision swam, a faint haze creeping at the edges, and he blinked it away with stubbornness more than anything else.
Other students looked wrecked too.
Some worse than him, faces pale, hands shaking, sitting on the grass like they had been dropped there and forgotten.
Someone threw up near the far end of the field, and the instructor didn't even react beyond a brief glance, as if that was just part of the process.
Soren didn't care.
Not out of cruelty, but because caring in that moment would cost energy he didn't have to spare.
He dragged in a slow breath and let it out, then did it again, forcing his breathing to settle into rhythm the way he had trained himself to, because panic made recovery slower, and he wasn't interested in being slower than he needed to be.
There was a quiet satisfaction hidden under the pain.
Not the kind that made him grin or celebrate, but the kind that sat in his bones like proof.
His body was adapting.
It still hurt.
He wasn't suddenly immune to training, and he wasn't some unstoppable machine who could run until his heart gave out and call it efficiency.
Fatigue still existed, and he respected it, but the difference was in what came after.
He recovered faster than he used to.
His legs still shook, yet they held him.
His lungs still burned, yet they obeyed him.
That was enough.
Soren wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, smearing sweat across his skin, and headed for the changing room before Alex tried to speak to him while he was still half-dead, because there were some conversations he didn't have the energy to survive.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
Basic Magic later in the week felt almost insulting.
Not because the professor didn't deserve respect, and not because the material itself was worthless, but because Soren could feel the gap between where the class was aimed and where he stood now, and sitting through it felt like watching someone explain how to hold a sword after you had already learned how to fight.
The professor spoke with passion, explaining fundamentals that first-years needed, repeating concepts that many students struggled with, and Soren understood why the class existed.
He also knew he was wasting time sitting there.
He had learned the basics back before the midterms of the first semester, pushing himself through repetition until the spells stopped feeling foreign and started feeling like extensions of his hands.
He had only signed up for this class because it was a requirement, one more hoop the academy demanded he jump through, regardless of whether he had already cleared it.
Still, he didn't disrupt.
He didn't disrespect the professor.
He didn't act like a smug bastard who thought being ahead gave him permission to be cruel.
Instead, he let the words wash over him while his thoughts wandered in small circles, and even in that boredom, he paid attention to the parts that mattered, the little corrections he could make, the tiny refinements that separated "competent" from "controlled."
He could feel it every time he cast now.
Mana control, tighter.
Output, cleaner.
Stability, stronger.
He wasn't perfect, and he wasn't pretending he was, but he wasn't stumbling either, and that was something he could measure without needing anyone else's approval.
When practice time came, Soren did what he always did.
Routine.
His hand lifted, palm open, and he cast [Ignition].
A small flame flickered to life above his skin.
It wasn't dramatic, it sat there like a controlled breath of fire, stable enough that it didn't sputter out immediately, heat contained, edges clean instead of ragged.
Soren watched it carefully and adjusted the mana flow, narrowing it, smoothing it, until the flame steadied and stopped wavering like it was trying to escape his control.
Holding it took focus, not strain, but attention, the kind that demanded he stay present.
He kept it there until he felt his mana begin to thin, until the edges of the flame started to tremble, the light turning just slightly uneven, warning him that the spell was losing grip.
Then he held it anyway.
A little longer.
Because that was where progress lived.
The flame finally winked out, and for a heartbeat the air felt colder against his palm.
A moment later, a familiar status screen appeared in front of him.
.
[Congratulations, [Ignition] has risen from (C+) to (B-).]
.
Soren blinked once, then let out a quiet breath that was half relief and half satisfaction.
Not joy.
Not surprise.
Just confirmation.
He dismissed the screen with a thought and flexed his fingers, rolling his wrist once as if that would shake out the lingering heat.
As always, when a skill rose, his mind drifted to the next rung without him needing to push it.
Intermediate magic…
When did people even start learning that?
The thought wasn't a plan, and it wasn't a burning desire, it was simply curiosity, paired with the faint irritation of someone who knew there was a bigger world beyond the basics and wanted to touch it already, even if only to prove he could.
His gaze flicked toward the front of the room, where the professor was still speaking with the same enthusiasm, and then dropped back to his hand as he clenched it slowly.
'One step at a time.'
That reminder didn't come with frustration.
It came with steadiness.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
By Friday, the week sat in Soren's body like a weight that was both tiring and familiar.
Not the crushing kind or the kind that made him feel like he was drowning, but the kind that settled into muscle and bone after days of repetition, the ache of training, classes, and constant motion, all stacked on top of each other until even standing still felt like something you had to do on purpose.
Duelling class was always different.
It changed the atmosphere the moment he stepped onto the training ground, because even when it wasn't a real duel, even when restrictions were in place and an instructor was watching, people took it seriously in a way they didn't take anything else.
The air felt sharper, the noise changed, and the tension didn't come from fear so much as focus.
At first, he had hated this class.
Back then, he had spent entire lessons glaring at Amelia, resentment simmering in his chest because she made fighting look effortless.
Now, it was different.
He wasn't a battle junkie like Alex or Amelia, far from it, but he had learned to respect how efficient real combat was for growth.
Training drills and repetition mattered, yet there was something about an actual exchange, even a controlled one, that forced the body and mind to adapt faster than anything else.
His appreciation for the class had only grown after he discovered his status improved faster during fights.
Today's restrictions were clear.
No mana enhancement or advanced spells.
Nothing beyond basic magic and fundamentals.
That didn't mean the class would be harmless.
It meant it would be honest.
Soren stood across from his assigned opponent, handaxe in his grip, posture loose but ready, weight balanced on the balls of his feet without him needing to think about it.
The student in front of him wasn't someone he knew well, and that made the whole thing slightly more irritating, because it meant he didn't have patterns to exploit.
All he knew was the rank and the course.
Higher rank.
Divine Studies.
That was it.
He had fought knights and mages, learned how their habits tended to form, how they leaned on what they trusted most.
Divine was… different.
His only real experience with Divine Studies was Olivia, a healer, and that barely counted as preparation for a duel.
Olivia's power was built for saving people, for recovery, for keeping allies alive, not for standing in front of someone with a weapon and refusing to move.
The student in front of him was different.
A paladin.
The instructor's voice cut through the air, giving the signal.
Soren moved first.
No hesitation or dramatic pause, just action, because letting someone in Divine Studies set their pace felt like a mistake waiting to happen.
His feet pushed off, and [Breeze] snapped at his heels, a clean burst of speed that carried him forward faster than a normal sprint.
The handaxe came in low, then high, testing reaction time, forcing the opponent to commit to defence rather than thought.
The paladin blocked, calm and efficient, moving with an economy that made Soren's jaw tighten, because every motion looked deliberate, no wasted swings, no panicked flinches.
Soren pivoted and swung again, turning the axe head into a hook at the last second, trying to catch the guard instead of smashing it, because brute force wasn't the point.
Control was.
The paladin adjusted.
Still calm.
Still stable.
A click of irritation slipped out of Soren's tongue, and his free hand flicked forward.
"「Shockwave」"
The pulse of force slapped outward, meant to disrupt stance, meant to make the guard loosen for even a fraction of a second, because fractions were where openings lived.
The paladin slid back half a step and absorbed it without losing posture, boots scraping against the ground, shoulders barely shifting.
Soren pressed harder.
[Breeze] carried him in again, closing distance, forcing the exchange into close quarters where his handaxe could bite and his opponent wouldn't have room to breathe.
His strikes came faster than they used to, not wild, not desperate, but controlled, and he could feel the improvement in the way his wrists moved, in the way the axe returned to guard without lagging behind his thoughts.
The paladin kept blocking.
Kept meeting him.
Kept refusing to crack.
A low cast of [Ignition] flared near the ground, not aimed to burn flesh, but to flood the space between them with heat and flicker, a smear of vision denial that forced the eyes to blink and the body to react.
The moment the paladin shifted, Soren followed with [Gaia], softening the ground under one foot just enough to steal traction.
It should've opened a window, and it almost did.
The paladin shifted his weight with a smoothness that made Soren's breath catch for half a heartbeat.
It wasn't mana enhancement, not in the way knights did it, not that obvious surge where muscles tightened and movement became unnaturally fast.
This was something else.
Subtle.
Steady.
An invisible layer of reinforcement that let him move without losing integrity, like the ground itself wasn't allowed to betray him.
Soren's strikes started to cost him more.
Not in strength, but in stamina.
Each push forward demanded a little extra effort.
Each burst of [Breeze] forced his lungs to work harder.
Heat built in his arms, not from weakness, but from time, from the duel stretching longer than he wanted, because short fights were easier to control, and long ones gave opponents room to adjust.
The paladin didn't rush.
He didn't try to overwhelm Soren.
He let the duel stretch.
Soren hated that.
His breathing grew louder, sweat at his temples starting to drip toward his eyes, and he wiped it away with the back of his wrist without breaking rhythm, because the moment he broke rhythm was the moment a paladin would take advantage.
A feint high, then the axe cut down at the last second.
The paladin blocked.
This time, he didn't just block.
He stepped inside the line of Soren's swing, close enough that Soren felt the shift in pressure like a wall moving, like space itself had been stolen.
Pulling back came too late.
Something struck him off guard, not a spell or flashy technique, just a clean, precise movement powered by a kind of force Soren wasn't used to reading, and the unfamiliarity was what made it dangerous.
His balance broke for a fraction of a second.
That was all it took.
His foot slid against the altered ground.
His lungs stuttered.
And then he was on the floor.
The world didn't spin.
It wasn't a brutal slam.
It was simply defeat, clean and uncomplicated, the kind that left no room for excuses.
Soren lay there for a moment, chest rising and falling hard, hand still wrapped around the axe handle like his fingers hadn't received the message that it was over.
The paladin stepped back and lowered his guard, shoulders easing without any hint of triumph.
"Good duel," the student said, tone even.
There was no arrogance in his voice, nor smugness.
Soren stared at him while he caught his breath, throat dry, sweat cooling against his skin.
Then the paladin extended his hand.
A normal gesture.
A normal end.
Soren's fingers twitched.
For a brief moment, his body froze.
It wasn't panic in the way that made his stomach drop, and it wasn't fear in the way that made him want to run.
It was something quieter and uglier, the old instinct that flared whenever someone reached toward him, that split-second expectation that the next step was pain, humiliation, something he wouldn't be able to escape.
That reflex had been carved in deep.
Even now, even after everything, it still existed.
Soren forced his hand to move anyway.
He took the offered grip.
The other student's hold was steady.
Not meant to dominate.
Just help.
The simple reality of that made something inside Soren unclench by a fraction, not enough to be emotional, not enough to be dramatic, but enough that he noticed it.
He let himself be pulled up.
When his feet were under him again, he exhaled through his nose and rolled one shoulder, testing the ache, checking the joints, cataloguing the impact out of habit, because his mind always wanted the data.
The paladin nodded respectfully.
"Thank you."
Soren blinked, then nodded back.
"Yeah," he replied, voice rough from exertion. "Same."
As the instructor called the next pair forward, Soren stepped aside and wiped sweat from his brow, then adjusted his grip on the axe even though he wasn't about to fight again immediately, because keeping his hands busy stopped his thoughts from spiralling into places he didn't need today.
His mind was already organising the duel into pieces.
Axe work had improved.
Spell usage had improved.
Aggression was cleaner.
The timing between casts and strikes had tightened, less hesitation, less wasted motion.
But endurance still sat there like a wall he hadn't climbed yet, and divine power was a new problem entirely, not because it was stronger, but because it moved differently, responded differently, refused to follow the patterns he had gotten comfortable reading.
Soren looked down at his handaxe, then tightened his grip once.
He wasn't discouraged.
If anything, the loss felt useful.
It gave him something concrete, something he could work against, something that didn't require self-hatred to motivate him.
He had a long way to go.
That was fine.
He had already proven he could walk that distance.
————「❤︎」————