the beginning after the end perfect duo

The Sparring Ground

I woke up from the nightmare, my chest tight, my breath shallow. My heart raced erratically, beating harder than it should. I could still feel the remnants of the dream, its weight clinging to me.

Arthur was still asleep, as were the others, the faint light of dawn creeping in.

My father's face, cold and unfeeling, haunted me even now. He had never shown me love—only anger, only cruelty. I hated him more than anyone, and yet his face still followed me in my sleep, tormenting me with memories I couldn't escape.

They called it a gift, but it felt more like a curse.

I quietly slipped from my bedroll, careful not to wake Lilia, who was curled against me. Her blanket had slipped away, leaving her small form exposed to the chill. I quietly stepped away from the camp and made my way toward the empty hills. The playing field from yesterday was still there, untouched and silent.

I started running, the rhythmic pounding of my feet on the ground slowly clearing my mind. The memories of my father's gaze lingered, but with each step, they faded further into the background. After about twenty minutes, I stopped to practice my stances, letting the movement push away the remnants of the nightmare.

I gripped the hilt of my sword tightly, the metal cold against my palm. My feet were planted firm in the dirt, shoulder-width apart. I took a deep breath, feeling the tension in my muscles as I adjusted my stance. The weight of the sword felt right in my hands, familiar. With a quick motion, I lifted it above my head, readying myself in the high guard. My body was angled slightly, my knees bent, eyes focused ahead as if an opponent stood there.

I moved into the next stance, shifting into middle guard, bringing the sword down in front of me, held horizontally. The blade hovered just above my shoulder, the tip pointing slightly outward, ready to deflect or strike. My breathing evened out as I flowed into low guard, lowering the sword to waist height, legs still bent, my left hand resting lightly at the pommel. I felt the weight of the sword in my arms, its balance perfect.

Each movement was fluid, deliberate. I transitioned into overhead strike, swinging the sword down in a controlled arc, imagining the opponent's defenses breaking before me. I quickly stepped back into side guard, the blade held in front of me in an angled defensive position, my body coiled and ready for another move.

The rhythm of the sword in my hands brought me a strange peace. Every slash, every guard felt like I was carving through the fog in my mind. The anger, the memories—they receded with each practiced motion, replaced by the focus of the blade. I moved faster now, my body instinctively flowing between guards, each strike cutting the air, pushing me further from the past.

I paused, catching my breath, the sweat trickling down my face, but my grip never faltered. My feet were planted, the sword steady in my hands. In these moments, I had control.

It was time to train my core, the core that hadn't improved once since I reached Dark Silver. I conjured water mana and let it flow freely around me, encircling my body like a bubble.

I dissipated the water spell and used wind mana to raise myself slowly. I imagined the wind turning in a rotating motion, and so it did.

I sent a few wind bullets toward some trees, and the green leaves fell around them.

As the spell dissipated, I fell from where I was and smoothed my landing with gravity magic.

I imagined the gravitational pull becoming weaker, and my body lightened in response.

I imagined it getting tougher on me, and so it did.

Mana was truly a fascinating thing, something I couldn't explain with the knowledge from the other world.