Chapter 26: Training Grounds (2)
Lucian stepped out into the sunlight from the classroom door, the cool hall air swapping quick for the warm press of midday heat that hit like a blanket thrown over your shoulders. The buzz of kids behind him faded fast—the scrape of chairs and low talk turning to echoes as he moved down the steps to the lower courtyard. The air down there felt thicker, full of that sunny smell of dry grass and stone baked hot, with the faint hum of mana lines running under the ground like hidden wires keeping everything lit up. Kids from other classes were already spilling out, some dragging their feet like they knew what was coming, others jogging ahead with bags bouncing, talking loud about who they'd team with or how bad the sun would suck for running.
Just ahead, by the wide stairwell that dropped to the open field, he spotted the guy he'd been looking for—tall and built solid, standing out even in the growing crowd.
Christopher Davenson.
Chris looked the part without trying: shoulders broad from what had to be hours of lifting and running, dark blond hair cut short and neat like army rules, his uniform sleeves pushed up to his elbows showing arms roped with muscle that said he didn't skip days. He stood there wiping sweat from his forehead already, like he'd been warming up before the bell even rang, chatting with a couple other guys about form on squats or something—voice low and sure, the kind that made people listen.
Lucian picked up his pace a little, boots hitting the stone even but not loud, threading through a couple kids laughing about how the professor always yelled the same thing. The courtyard opened up wider as he got closer, the big field of the Training Arena peeking over the edge—green grass stretching far, edged with dirt paths for laps, wooden dummies scarred from old hits, raised spots for sparring where kids practiced swings.
"Christopher," he called, voice carrying just enough over the noise without shouting.
Chris turned quick, eyes going a bit wide when he saw who it was—blinking like he'd heard wrong, his two buddies glancing over curious. "...Lucian Blackstar?"
His face pulled into a frown, half confused, half like he was waiting for the joke to land. "You actually came up to me on your own? I thought you hated anything with sweat or real work."
Lucian gave a small smile, the kind that didn't show teeth or light up his face, more like a polite "hey" with lips. "People change."
Chris crossed his arms over his chest, still looking skeptical but with a spark of interest now, like he'd just been handed a puzzle he didn't hate. "What's up, then? You need something?"
"I need a training partner," Lucian said straight, no beating around, eyes meeting Chris's even. "You're the best one I could think of."
Chris stared for a beat, like the words didn't fit right in his head—then he let out a low whistle, shaking his head with a grin starting to break through. "Well, I'll be damned. The infamous lazy noble actually wants to train."
"I was never lazy," Lucian shot back even, no heat or snap in it—just fact. "Just unmotivated."
That calm way he said it made Chris laugh for real—a short, rough sound that cut the awkward and brought his buddies chuckling too. "Fair enough." He stuck out his hand, grip strong and quick when Lucian took it, like sealing a deal on a handshake. "Alright then, Blackstar. Let's do it. Been a while since I've had a real challenge."
Lucian shook once, firm but short. "I'll try not to disappoint."
They started walking side by side toward the Training Grounds, pushing through the wider corridors where the walls got fewer and the air opened up, until the sounds changed from closed-in talk to open noise—shouts and laughs mixing with the thump of feet on dirt, the sharp crack of wooden swords clacking together. Chris's two friends hung back a step, one asking "You teaming with him?" like it was big news, but Chris just waved them off with a grin, saying "Watch and learn, guys."
The big field of the Training Arena spread out wide when they got there—a huge stretch of green grass edged with sandy spots for practice, ringed by wooden dummies beat-up from old hits, raised platforms for sparring that looked like they could hold ten kids at once, and track paths marked with glowing mana lines that lit up faint blue when you stepped on them. The sun beat down hard, turning the ground hot underfoot and making the air wavy in spots, and kids were already there in clumps—some stretching slow with arms over heads and legs bent deep, others pairing off and jogging light to get the blood moving, the air full of that sweaty, excited smell you get when it's time to run or fight. A few groups were already at it: one kid swinging at a dummy with grunts, another pair circling each other with fake swords, laughing when one missed.
Before the main push started, Lucian asked low, like it was just talk between them, "Tell me something, Chris. How do you keep your form up? You're built like a knight, but your mana flow's steady—no ups and downs, no pushing too hard. How?"
Chris blinked, then grinned wide, like he'd been waiting for someone to ask for real. "You really want to know?"
Lucian nodded once, eyes steady, no joke in it.
"Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you. It's not some magic trick or secret spell from a book. Just blood, sweat, and sticking to a plan every day."
Chris cracked his neck side to side, like getting ready to show it off even without moving, and started laying it out simple, like explaining to a buddy over coffee.
"I get up every morning at four. No mana tricks, no boosts to make it easy—just me and my body against the day. Warm-up first. Ten minutes of easy breathing to open up the channels in my middle and core. It's not like what the magic kids do with their fancy flows. For guys like us who hit things and run, it's all about keeping your air and mana even from the jump. Too much mana right off, and you'll burn out before your muscles even wake up proper."
He rolled his shoulders loose, like he was feeling it all over again, his voice picking up that easy rhythm of someone who loved the grind. "Then, I hit the basics to build the base. Two sets of push-ups—two hundred each, one normal slow to feel every rep, one fast and hard to push the limit. Then planks, at least five minutes straight each time, holding till your arms shake and you learn what 'steady' really means. Pull-ups—add weight if I can swing it, like a pack or bar, to make it count. Squats, full hundred with back straight and knees out wide, no cheating the depth. After that, it's balance work—standing on one leg on those mana-proof boards that fight back a bit, or holding poses long as you can to get your body steady no matter what."
Lucian listened close, eyes narrowing a touch as he pictured it all in his head—seeing the moves play out, how they'd fit with what he knew from before.
"After the basics," Chris kept going, his tone picking up like he was sharing a good story, "comes the real push to build endurance—sprint loops around the track. Five full-out runs, legs burning, lungs screaming, then walk the sixth slow to catch your breath and let your heart settle. Keep going till your legs feel like bricks and you can't lift them right—that's when you know your body's getting tougher, learning to go longer. Then fight practice to make it stick—punching air fast to build speed, gripping weights heavy as you can hold to toughen hands, pulling bands that snap back hard to feel like you're in a real scrap with someone who hits back. That's how you train your body to remember the moves and your breathing to stay even when it hurts bad."
He grinned then, that proud look guys get when they talk about what they're best at, wiping his hand on his pants like the memory made him sweat. "Then after it's all done and you're shaking—only then do I turn on my mana core. Just enough to fix the little rips in your muscles from the work, not to make you stronger or faster. If you use mana to skip the hard part or cover for lazy effort, you never really grow real strength. You have to make mana help what your body's already doing, like a buddy spotting you on a lift."
Lucian took it all in, every word landing like a tool in a kit—useful, plain. 'He's disciplined… more than I remembered. No wonder he became one of Johnathan's right-hand men in the original game.'
Out loud, he said, "That's… actually impressive. You've got the setup of a martial cultivator's routine, even without knowing it."
Chris tipped his head, looking curious but not lost. "Cultivator?"
Lucian shrugged loose, like it was no big thing. "Old world term. Just means you're training your body and energy together right."
"Huh. Sounds cool." Chris smirked, slapping Lucian's shoulder light. "You should try it sometime, Blackstar. Might fix that lazy rep."
Lucian smirked back a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Maybe I already have."
They hit the middle of the field just as the ground shook light—a quick rush of mana from the far end, like the air got thicker all at once, pressing down warm and heavy.
Professor Randy, the guy in charge of practical fights, stomped into view then, big as a bear and twice as grumpy, his face already red from the heat. His voice boomed out over everything, veins popping on his neck like ropes pulled tight. "ALRIGHT, YOU LAZY BRATS!" he yelled, eyes sweeping the crowd like he was picking targets. "TIME TO STOP TALKING AND START MOVING! I WANT THIRTY LAPS! YOU HEAR ME? THIRTY DAMN LAPS! MOVE OR I'LL MAKE IT FIFTY!"
A big groan went up from the kids, like one long sigh you could feel in your chest—waves of "aw man" and "why us?" rolling through the group.
"It's so damn hot out here!" one girl whined, fanning her face with her hand. "Thirty? Is he nuts? We'll melt!" a boy next to her shot back, already pulling at his collar. "Professor, please—twenty? Fifteen?" another tried, half-joking, half-hoping.
Randy's glare shut them all up fast, his eyes narrowing like he was daring someone to say it again. The field went quiet for a beat, then exploded into movement—kids taking off in a mess of starts and stumbles, dust kicking up from the track as feet hit the dirt.
Chris laughed low next to Lucian, shaking his head like it was an old joke. "He's in a mood today. Bet he had a bad breakfast."
Lucian stretched his arms over his head light, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tightness from sitting too long. "Seems like it."
Chris grinned all of a sudden, that competitive fire jumping in his eyes like someone lit a match. "Alright then. Let's make it fun."
Lucian raised an eyebrow, curious but not surprised. "Fun?"
"Yeah." Chris flashed a cocky smile, punching Lucian's arm light. "If the professor wants thirty, I'll do forty. Show these soft kids how it's done. What about you, Blackstar? Think you can beat that?"
Lucian's eyes narrowed a bit—not mad or annoyed, but with that quiet thrill you get when something real kicks in, the kind of spark you haven't felt in too long, like your body's remembering why it likes to move.
His mouth curved into the smallest smile—just a hint at the edges. "Sure."
His voice stayed even. Calm. But his eyes—those deep, black eyes—lit up faint, like something almost alive flickered there for the first time in days.
"I'll make it forty-five."
Chris's grin got bigger, eyes lighting up like he'd found a good rival. "Heh. You're on."
Randy blew the whistle hard then—sharp and loud, slicing the air like a warning shot. "MOVE IT, YOU MAGGOTS! LAST ONE ROUND GETS EXTRA PUSH-UPS!"
The field turned to chaos quick—dozens of kids taking off running, groaning and stumbling as the sun beat down hot and mean. Dust flew up from the track in little clouds, mixing with sweat already shining on faces, the air full of heavy breaths, feet pounding dirt, and that one guy in the back yelling "Wait up!" like he was late for his own race. Some ran steady, arms pumping even; others started strong but slowed fast, huffing and wiping brows, turning it into a walk-jog mess. Laughter mixed in too—kids teasing each other, turning the suck into something shared.
But in the middle of the pack, two guys pulled ahead smooth and sure—one laughing out loud with that pumped-up energy that made you want to keep up, the other running quiet and focused, each breath deep and even, each step landing clean without waste.
Inside Lucian's head, the thought came soft over the thud of his feet—
'This is why I love running laps…' 'As long as there's a challenge, even the hard part feels alive.'
And for the first time in a long while, his heart beat a little stronger under all the empty weight—like it remembered how to push back, just a bit.
The sun climbed higher, the track looped on, and the two kept going—forty laps turning to forty-five, dust in their lungs, grins on their faces, the field alive with the simple burn of doing something real.