The moonlit courtyard was my new sanctuary and my personal hell. After the last of Damien's cronies had departed, their contemptuous glances still stinging my pride, I was left alone with the weight of my failure and the weight of the sword in my hand.
My first attempts at practice were pathetic. I tried to replicate the basic stances from Lucian's memories—the High Guard, the Iron Shield—but they felt hollow and wrong. My arms trembled from the sword's weight. My legs, unaccustomed to the deep crouch, burned with a fiery protest. My balance was nonexistent; a stiff breeze would have been enough to topple me. The original Lucian had learned these forms in the most superficial way possible, concerned only with looking the part of a swordsman, not being one. The foundation I had to build upon was not just weak; it was rotten.
Frustration mounted with every failed attempt. This was useless. Simply mimicking shapes without understanding their purpose was a fool's errand. I would be no better than a scarecrow dressed in a knight's armor.
I let the tip of the sword drop to the flagstones with a weary scrape. My mind raced, replaying the humiliating "spar." I couldn't track Damien's speed. I couldn't match his strength. His technique was leagues beyond anything I could hope to achieve through simple imitation in the short time I had.
But I hadn't been entirely helpless. My Soul Resonance… it had seen his attacks. Not with my eyes, but with a deeper sense. I had felt the spike of his intent, the cold, sharp direction of his will, a fraction of a second before the physical blow landed.
What if I could use that?
I closed my eyes, leaning on the sword for support. I focused my Soul Resonance inward, not on the world around me, but on the fresh, painful memories of my own defeat. At first, all I felt was a chaotic jumble of my own fear, shame, and the physical shock of the impacts. It was a dizzying, unpleasant sensation. I pushed past it, searching for the clean, sharp signals of Damien's intent that had pierced through my panic.
Slowly, I found one. A memory of a simple, direct thrust he had aimed at my shoulder. I isolated it. I didn't just remember it visually; I focused on the feeling of his will behind it—a pure, needle-sharp spike of aggressive intent. I could feel its trajectory, its speed, its purpose. It was an echo of the blade, perfectly preserved in my memory.
I had my training tool.
I opened my eyes and took a deep breath, raising my sword into a clumsy defensive stance. "Again," I whispered to the empty courtyard.
I replayed the memory, and the phantom sensation of Damien's intent flared to life in my mind. The 'ghost' of his attack shot towards my shoulder. My body, driven by panic, reacted sluggishly. I tried to parry, but my blade swung through empty air a full half-second after the ghost attack would have landed.
Failure. But it was a diagnostic failure. I knew exactly how and why I had failed.
I tried again. And again. And again. My world shrank to this single, repetitive action: triggering the echo of the attack and attempting to meet it. It was grueling, monotonous work. I wasn't fighting an opponent who might tire or make a mistake. I was fighting a perfect, relentless memory, a recording of a master's technique.
Slowly, painfully, I began to adapt. I stopped thinking about the grand, sweeping blocks of formal swordsmanship and focused on the most efficient movement possible to intercept the attack. My parry, which started as a wide, clumsy swing, became a tighter, more controlled motion.
After what must have been a hundred repetitions of that single thrust, my muscles screaming and raw blisters forming on the soft skin of my palms, I finally got it.
I triggered the echo. The spike of intent flared. And this time, my body moved without conscious thought. My sword came up in a short, sharp arc, and for a glorious, imaginary instant, I felt the phantom impact—the perfect interception of the ghost blade.
A breathless laugh escaped my lips. It was a tiny, insignificant victory that no one would ever see, but it felt more real and satisfying than any praise the old Lucian had ever received from Damien.
This was my path. This was how I would learn. Damien, in his arrogance, had sought to break me. Instead, he had given me the perfect lesson plan, written in the language of my own soul.
For the rest of the night, I continued my grim training. I moved on to other attacks from the spar. The memory of his low sweep that had tripped me became a drill for my footwork. The echo of the strike that had disarmed me became a lesson in grip strength and wrist control. I was not just learning to block; I was learning to understand the intent behind every type of attack.
The two moons began their descent, and the first hints of dawn painted the eastern sky in shades of gray and rose. I was drenched in sweat, my uniform was streaked with grime, and every fiber of my being ached with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion I had never known.
Yet, I wasn't finished.
I found a secluded alcove in the courtyard, hidden by overgrown ivy, and forced my protesting body into a cross-legged position. My physical training was for survival tomorrow. Mana Breathing was for survival next year. I could not afford to neglect either.
The process was even harder this time, my body's aches a constant distraction. But when I finally managed to sync with the world's rhythm for a few precious breaths, the pure, cool mana that flowed into my Core felt like a soothing balm, easing the fire in my muscles and clearing the fatigue from my mind. The two disciplines, one of external violence and one of internal peace, were beginning to feel less like separate tasks and more like two halves of a whole.
I stumbled back to my dorm room just as the first golden rays of sunlight crested the horizon. I looked a wreck. My silver hair was matted with sweat, there were dark circles under my eyes, and my hands were raw.
I caught my reflection in the silver mirror. The aristocratic face of Lucian Greyfall stared back, but he looked different. The ingrained arrogance was gone, stripped away by pain and effort. The weakness was still there, but it was now overshadowed by something new burning in his gray eyes. It was a fierce, unyielding fire, forged in humiliation and tempered by a will to live that was entirely my own.
I collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to remove my soiled uniform. In just a few hours, I would have to wake up, put on a fresh set of clothes, and walk out that door as Damien Vrael's shadow. I would have to play the part of the lazy, arrogant fool he had so thoroughly beaten.
Let him think he had broken me. Let them all think I was the same pathetic sidekick. They didn't know about my nights. They didn't know about the ghosts I fought in the moonlight or the secret breaths I stole from the world itself. Every moment of their contempt was a shield for my real work. And I would use it.