Power unused is wasted.
That truth settled into me the moment I returned to my base with the Sword of Sanctuary secured and sealed. Magic was my foundation—always had been—but even I could recognize the folly of neglecting a weapon that could decide outcomes. A sword that bent probability itself was not meant to remain an ornament in a study.
So I trained.
I cleared one of the inner courtyards of my castle, a wide circular arena of black stone reinforced with impact-absorbing runes and regeneration enchantments. Lava light bled in through high arches, painting everything in shades of crimson and gold. This was not a place for ceremony.
This was a place to learn how to kill properly.
Of all my subordinates, there was no real debate about who would teach me.
Stone Clay.
He was a knight in more than name—disciplined, precise, forged by both battlefield experience and rigid training. Magic flowed through him differently than it did through me: less overwhelming, more structured. Where my power surged like a storm, his moved like a river carved into stone.
That was exactly why he was perfect.
Clay bowed once, fist to chest, his sword already in hand. "I will not go easy on you," he said plainly.
I smiled. "I would be offended if you did."
We began simply.
Stances. Footwork. Balance.
I expected resistance from my body—some disconnect between thought and motion—but it never came. My eidetic memory devoured every correction Clay offered, storing posture, angle, weight distribution with flawless clarity. More importantly, I did not merely watch him.
I felt him.
With my magical perception extended, I followed the flow of energy through his body as he moved—the way magic reinforced his joints, how it tightened at the moment of impact, how it flowed backward during recovery. I mirrored it instinctively, adjusting my own internal currents to match.
Clay noticed within minutes.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he stepped back. "You're copying more than technique," he said. "You're copying intent."
"Magic leaves fingerprints," I replied calmly, rolling my wrist and settling back into stance. "I'm just reading them."
From there, progress accelerated unnaturally.
Hours blurred together as days passed. What would take years for a normal warrior took me mere weeks. I learned when to commit fully and when to let the blade glide. When to fight the flow—and when to surrender to it. The Sword of Sanctuary hummed softly during training, its runes flickering as it reacted to my movements, subtly adjusting probability in my favor.
I did not rely on it.
Not yet.
A crutch mastered too early became a weakness.
Still, I could feel it—how the sword wanted to guide my strikes, to suggest openings that should not exist. Once I understood its language fully, it would be devastating.
Clay, to his credit, adapted. He changed rhythms, introduced feints layered within feints, forced me to think instead of simply imitate. By the end of the first month, he was no longer teaching me basics.
He was testing me.
And I was enjoying it.
Outside the training grounds, my mind never truly rested.
Through scrying spells woven permanently into my consciousness, I kept a distant eye on the world beyond my territory. The Serpentine stirred. Subtle movements. Ancient seals weakening. The pattern matched what I remembered.
The war was coming.
Not today. Not tomorrow.
But soon enough to matter.
At the same time, I began practicing Airjitzu.
The scroll's teachings were dangerous in the hands of the unprepared—binding soul to wind, identity to motion—but I was neither unprepared nor fragile. I dissected the technique intellectually before ever attempting it physically, mapping its spiritual mechanics, isolating failure points.
Once I began, progress was immediate.
Airjitzu was not brute force. It was release.
Letting go of the idea that the body needed to be supported. Letting motion become thought, and thought become direction. Within hours, I could lift myself effortlessly, wind spiraling around my form in controlled currents.
Within days, I was maneuvering.
Within a week, I had mastered it.
Clay watched one session in silence as I hovered effortlessly above the courtyard, drifting sideways without visible effort, sword held loosely at my side.
"That technique destroys lesser men," he said at last.
"I am not lesser," I replied, descending smoothly to the stone. "And I do not intend to linger long enough for it to destroy me."
The truth was simple: I treated Airjitzu like every other forbidden art—not as a temptation, but as a tool. Its risks were manageable with sufficient discipline and safeguards.
And I had both.
Training continued.
Sword and spell. Grounded strikes and aerial maneuvers. I practiced fighting while airborne, weaving Airjitzu into footwork that no longer required the ground at all. The combination was… elegant.
Deadly.
When I finally allowed myself to integrate the Sword of Sanctuary fully, the effect was immediate. My movements felt inevitable. Strikes curved into openings that should not exist. Clay blocked one blow only for the sword to slide, impossibly, into a gap a heartbeat later.
He stepped back, breathing hard, eyes alight with something close to awe.
"If you continue at this pace," he said, "there will be very few beings in this world who can face you blade to blade."
I deactivated the sword's deeper enchantments and nodded once. "That is the goal."
Magic would always be my greatest strength.
But now?
I was no longer just a wizard behind armies and spells.
I was becoming something else entirely.
A warlord who could stand at the center of the battlefield.
A master of blade and wind.
And with the Serpentine War approaching, with destinies still unformed and heroes yet to rise, the timing could not have been better.
Let the world keep turning toward its familiar conflicts.
When the moment came—
I would be ready to cut my way through fate itself.