I Was Powerless Until The Sword System Chose Me

Morning haze clung low to the Bastion grounds, casting long silver shadows between the training fields and dormitories. My legs still ached from the previous night's practice, and my arms felt like overcooked noodles—but I was back out there anyway.

There were no instructors yet. No drills. Just me, the cool bite of dawn, and the steady rhythm of my breath as I moved across the grass.

Step. Slide. Pivot. Recover.

One step back—then sweep. A slide to the side—stand straight. A pivot and parry—blade angled to deflect. Recover, then breathe. Composure came slow, like a ripple settling across water.

I looked down at my palm. Sweat traced along my lifeline, pooling in the grooves. I clenched my fist, slow and deliberate.

Still steady.

I wasn't fast. I wasn't fluid. Not yet.

But I was sharper than yesterday.

And I wasn't done.

I lifted the blade again.

Again.

Step. Slide. One step back—sweep. Pivot. Parry. Recover.

Lucien's footwork still felt too graceful for my frame. Too… clean. I hadn't grown into it yet. But I wasn't trying to mimic him anymore—not exactly. I was adjusting. Adapting.

My steps became shorter. My pivots wider. I focused on balance, on transitions, on keeping my blade close.

When I finished a sequence without tripping or catching the edge of my tunic, I let myself smile. Just a little.

Ding.

> [Training Progress Logged]

+1 Agility

+1 Reflex

I blinked at the prompt. Two stat points, just for refining movement. It felt different from the early days—less like the system was holding my hand and more like it was quietly acknowledging real progress.

I wiped sweat from my brow and glanced around. The training field was no longer empty.

A group of initiates had gathered near the fence line, whispering. Watching.

I didn't turn, but I could hear them.

Whispers.

"…That's the boy from Ashfall, isn't it?"

"He trains out here. Alone."

"Doesn't spar much. Just drills. Over and over."

"I heard he landed a clean hit on Thorne."

"No way."

"I saw it. First sword class. It wasn't luck."

My grip tightened on the hilt.

I hadn't asked for their attention. I didn't want their curiosity.

But I kept moving.

One step back. Sweep. Slide. Pivot. Parry. Recover.

Let them talk.

Let them watch.

I wasn't training for them.

I was training for me.

---

Later that morning, I made my way to the dining hall. My uniform clung to me in places, still damp from training. I grabbed a tray and found a spot near the outer wall beneath a row of hanging lanterns, the glow soft and flickering like morning light through tree branches.

The scent of broth and charred leeks filled the vaulted space. Long wooden tables stretched from end to end, full of clattering silverware and tired voices. My tray clinked faintly as I sat, hands still sore. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, but I barely tasted the roast potatoes.

Then, from the next table over:

"Cale Rennar's actually challenging Drayce Valen tonight. Can you believe it?"

Someone let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Why would he do that? Drayce trains with live blades. They say he fought real bandits before coming here."

"He's from the border territories, right? Veyrholt?"

""He's not just form and flair like some of the exam-trained ones. I've seen his stance—solid as iron."

A murmur spread down the table behind me. Steel scraped bowls. A spoon clinked against a mug.

Across from me, Maribelle Thorne set down her tray with a quiet clatter, joined by Mirelle Duskwood and Henry Durand. They looked winded from the morning session—hair damp, cheeks flushed, jackets hanging off one shoulder.

Henry glanced over his shoulder toward the other table. "He really went through with it, then? Drayce accepted?"

Mirelle nodded, eyes wide. "It's scheduled for tonight. I overheard a senior talking about warding the dueling arena—just in case things get out of hand."

Maribelle frowned, picking at her food. "But why? Cale's no fool. He knows how good Drayce is."

Henry shrugged. "Pride? Pressure? I don't know. Valen must've said something to him. I heard it was during tactics—something that got under his skin."

They all looked to me.

I didn't meet their eyes at first. I stood, letting the quiet scrape of the bench speak for me.

Then, just loud enough:

"He had his reasons."

And I walked off, tray half-full, thoughts heavier than the sword still strapped to my back.

I stepped into the sunlight, letting the cool air cut through the tension still coiled in my shoulders. The Bastion's morning bells tolled softly overhead, signaling second block. My feet moved without thought—down the gravel path between the dining hall and the outer fields, past rows of stone arches and trimmed hedges humming with quiet warding runes.

I didn't want to think about Cale's duel.

I didn't want to think about what Drayce might have said.

But I couldn't stop seeing the look on Cale's face from the night before.

Furious. Ashamed. Determined.

The kind of look you wear when your pride draws a sword your skill can't yet lift.

---

First Block – Swordsmanship Instruction with Instructor Morten

By the time we assembled for sword instruction, the sun had begun to cut through the Bastion's stone spires, turning dew on the eastern field to scattered glints of silver.

Instructor Morten stood at the field's edge, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching us like a warhound deciding which pup to snap at first. His coat hung open despite the chill, revealing the faint glint of a breastplate underneath. Scars peeked from beneath the sleeve on his right forearm.

"Line up," he said. Just that. No shout. No bark. Yet somehow his voice cut through the early haze better than a horn.

Our cohort split neatly into two rows. I found myself between a short, stocky boy named Fenric and Velora Thorne herself—who hadn't even broken a sweat yet.

"This block will be focused on footwork, blade tempo, and recovery positioning," Morten said, his eyes scanning each of us with the intensity of a battlefield scout. "You'll work with steel. No dulled edges. Controlled strikes only."

That earned a few glances. Some anxious. Some too eager.

"You want to swing like brutes?" Morten added. "Go join the pit. Here, you learn to fight clean—or you bleed learning why you didn't."

He pointed to the sword racks, and we each collected a training blade. Real steel. Unsharpened but not forgiving. I adjusted my grip, reminded of the difference in balance. Every swing now had consequence.

"Partner drills," he called. "Two-step strike and recover. Begin."

I paired with Fenric, who grunted something noncommittal and raised his blade. Our first exchanges were rough. He struck with shoulder-heavy swings, his recovery clumsy. I kept my movements tight, relying on spacing and form—but even then, I caught a graze on my bicep after leaning too far into a parry.

"Too square," I muttered to myself. "Tighten your stance."

We reset.

Strike. Block. Recover. Pivot.

Again.

My mind wandered to the training field before dawn. The rhythm I'd built. The adjustments I'd made.

Lucien's movements had been smoother. Cleaner. But mine… mine were starting to feel like mine.

> [Training Progress Logged]

+5 XP

Footwork Efficiency Improved

A subtle pulse echoed behind my vision, and I kept going. Sweat built between my shoulder blades. The next time Fenric overcommitted, I sidestepped and pressed into his open line—not to strike, just to hold the position.

Morten's voice cracked across the field. "Better."

I blinked.

He was watching me.

"Fallow. You've stopped flailing like a drowning dog. Keep that up."

A few initiates chuckled. I tried not to smile.

After ten minutes, Morten clapped once. "Rotate."

I moved to the next pair. Then another. The drills intensified—now incorporating feints, blade contact, and structured disarms. We moved like parts in a living diagram, each mistake becoming a lesson. Some initiates swung too fast, too loose. Others hesitated.

But not Velora.

Every time I glimpsed her from across the ring, she moved like her sword was a limb. No wasted steps. No noise. Just deliberate, perfect execution.

We rotated again. And then—without warning—I ended up facing her.

Her eyes met mine. Calm. Calculating. Then, a faint nod.

"Ready?" she asked.

I swallowed, wiped my palm on my sleeve, and nodded back. "As I'll ever be."

We began.

Her strikes were sharp, measured—testing, not mocking. She didn't press too hard, but she didn't hold back either. I mirrored her pace, focusing on angle, deflection, timing. Each time our blades kissed, I felt the hum of tension travel through the steel.

Step. Guard. Pivot. Recover.

> [Training Progress Logged]

+4 XP

Observational Sparring (Velora Thorne)

"Don't hesitate," she said, parrying me with one hand. "Your second step's too shallow. Commit or reset."

I adjusted. Swung again.

She nodded faintly. "Better."

We reset after five exchanges. I was breathing hard; she looked like she'd just finished a stroll through the gardens.

Morten passed behind us without comment. That, I was learning, was his way of saying acceptable.

We resumed drills with new partners.

By the time the sun climbed halfway across the sky, our limbs ached, and the field reeked of effort—sweat, leather, iron.

Morten stood at the front again, watching as we lined up one last time. His gaze swept over us like we were weapons on a rack.

"Progress today," he said. "Some of you figured out how to listen to your own bodies. Others…" His eyes landed briefly on a lanky boy nursing a bruised wrist. "…still waiting to wake up."

He turned toward me, then Velora. "Fallow. Thorne. Front."

We stepped forward.

"First years watch what effort looks like," he said.

I blinked, unsure if it was praise or pressure.

Velora stepped into stance. I followed.

We sparred for three exchanges—fast, tight, clean. She disarmed me on the fourth, but I recovered fast enough to avoid a final blow.

Morten gave a faint grunt. "Dismissed."

---

Second Block – Battle Tactics with Instructor Theren

Tactics was held in the sunken octagonal hall, where the smell of old parchment clung to every beam. Battle maps stretched along the stone walls—some etched into the very surface, others pinned to corkboards with wax seals.

Instructor Theren was already mid-lecture when we filed in, voice booming like a festival caller.

"—and if you let your flanks collapse, don't come crying when a pack of woodwolves chews off your leg!"

He turned, gesturing with a chalk-smeared baton.

"Fallow! Since you look halfway awake today—if your unit is surrounded and low on mana, what do you do?"

I blinked. "Uh… terrain. Force them into a narrow corridor, staggered fallback pattern. Limit their numbers."

Theren stared.

Then barked a laugh.

"Not terrible. Try using that brain more often."

A few chuckles rippled through the room. I scribbled down notes as he launched into the next diagram—something about hillside chokepoints and wind advantage against flying beasts.

Mirelle elbowed me. "You're getting better at that."

"At what?"

"Thinking on your feet."

I wasn't sure if it was a compliment or a jab.

Probably both.

---

Third Block – History with Mistress Silvarin

The sun had climbed high by the time we entered the vaulted library hall for Mistress Silvarin's lecture. Stained glass windows painted shifting colors across the floor—blues, greens, and soft reds. Shelves climbed toward the ceiling in tiers, heavy with volumes older than any of us.

The classroom's lanternlight flickered softly as breeze drifted through open stone latticework, stirring the map-scrolls that hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Ancient banners rustled above us—some faded, others pristine replicas. Each bore a crest of an old order or fallen house.

Mistress Silvarin moved like a breeze herself—gliding between desks with a presence that was both gentle and sharp. She unfurled a long scroll at the front of the room with a soft snap of parchment, revealing a painted map of Aetherwyn in shades of rust, pine green, and sea blue.

"Today," she said, "we look not at the victories of empires, but the ash they rose from."

She pointed to a crescent-shaped cluster of mountainous land near the map's southern border. "Here—House Veyrholt. A borderland territory known for enduring skirmishes, not waging them. Their warriors trained in real battle conditions, defending against raiders and beasts long before a formal army ever reached their walls."

A few heads turned, including mine. Drayce Valen was from there. I remembered that much.

Her fingers drifted northward. "And here—Ashfall. A province once known for its tranquil balance between sword and soil. Their noble families served as stewards of tradition, but were shattered during the Order Wars."

She tapped a small cluster near the center of the continent—Astraest.

"The centerpoint of the realm. And the jewel of House Caerwyn."

The royal crest gleamed subtly on the scroll's corner—silver and deep sapphire, crowned with a sunburst behind a rearing lion.

"Astraest was once neutral land—unclaimed by any house. It was here, during the final years of the Order Wars, that five ruling houses vied for control. But only Caerwyn united the fractured fronts. Through alliances. Through strength. Through compromise. And yes…" she smiled faintly, "through calculated war."

Her eyes swept the class.

"They did not win with brute force alone. They claimed the center by making themselves indispensable."

She let the words hang.

Another student raised a hand. "Mistress, were the Order Wars fought with mages?"

Silvarin nodded. "In part. Mages served in specific divisions. But the core battles were waged by knights—both mundane and aura-wielding. What we call 'Orders' were elite knightly factions—some tied to houses, others to creeds."

A pause. Her tone softened.

"Few of those Orders remain today. Most were disbanded or consumed during the final years of the conflict. Some were... erased."

I thought again of the name Lucien Vale. The way he moved. Like someone who had seen real war.

"Will we learn about those Orders?" someone asked from the back.

"In time," she said. "History is a blade. Best unsheathed slowly."

A ripple of silence followed.

She turned toward another banner—this one half-torn, its name unreadable. Only the edges of a red veil motif remained, curled like flames.

"For now, remember: the past is not dead. It simply waits for someone to listen."

---

End of Block – Free Hour

As we were dismissed, I gathered my notes and slipped out beneath the archway, the afternoon breeze brushing my cheek.

Free hour. One precious slice of time before the next round of drills—or in today's case, before a duel that had everyone whispering.

I thought about seeking out Cale.

But I knew he wouldn't want to be found.

Not yet.

Instead, I took a familiar turn down a quiet corridor behind the training compound—toward the tree where I'd practiced footwork that morning.

It was quiet here. Still.

And I needed a place to think so I went to the only place I could.

The grass near the training compound was quieter than before. No footsteps. No clashing steel. Just the hush of wind rustling tree branches overhead and the occasional distant bell marking time.

I found the same patch of ground where I'd trained that morning.

This time, I didn't draw my blade.

I just stood there—feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose at my sides, breathing steady. The field felt different now. Not because it had changed, but because I had.

My thoughts churned like stormwater behind my ribs.

Cale. The duel. Drayce.

Everyone had an opinion. A rumor. A reason.

But none of them had seen his face. The moment he snapped. The way his pride folded into something sharp enough to wield.

Neither had I—not entirely.

I stared at the patch of dirt where my footwork had carved faint lines earlier. Most had faded. Some lingered. That felt like a metaphor I didn't want to chase right now.

I took a single step forward.

Slide. Pivot. Stop.

No blade. Just movement.

Sometimes rhythm was the only thing that made sense.

Again. Step. Slide. Recover. Stillness.

My hands moved by instinct, framing phantom guards, imagined strikes—more breathing exercise than battle form. My grip closed around air.

I wasn't here to improve. Not really.

I just needed to clear the dust gathering in my mind before I sat in another classroom and pretended to understand things like aura thresholds or inner core pressure.

I exhaled slowly, arms falling to my sides again.

Would I ever unlock it?

Aura.

Some initiates were already whispering about faint signs—flickers of force during drills, heat blooming along the spine when under pressure. I hadn't felt anything like that. Not yet.

But the System had noticed something.

That was enough, wasn't it?

I lowered into a ready stance one last time—feet light, shoulders square.

Not to prepare.

Not to fight.

Just to breathe.

> [Training Progress Logged]

+2 XP

Mental Focus Recognized — Footwork Alignment (Basic)

The soft pulse behind my vision faded just as the bell for fourth block rang out, distant and certain.

I dusted my palms and turned toward the academy steps. Aura Theory waited.

And maybe… something more.

---

The classroom for Aura Theory wasn't like the others. It didn't sit in a tower or a lecture hall—it was built into the mountainside itself. A wide semicircular room carved from stone, with arching columns that framed a view of the distant peaks beyond the Bastion's northern wall.

Light streamed in through a high slit above, cutting clean beams across the floor. Dust motes danced in the air like flecks of silver.

Master Eryn stood at the front—not behind a desk, but atop a wide circular dais etched with symbols that shimmered faintly beneath her boots. Her presence was calm, self-contained. Like a lit candle in a sealed jar—soft, but unmistakable.

"Take your seats," she said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried—like still water with depth you couldn't see.

I dropped into a bench toward the middle. My pulse still hadn't settled from earlier.

"Aura," Master Eryn began, "is not gifted. It is earned."

Her eyes swept across the room, pausing on a few of us—not in warning, but as if weighing us.

"It is not a thing you hold. Not a skill you borrow. Not something to be whispered into your ear by a helpful system. It is the proof of yourself refined."

She raised a hand, and the air around her shimmered faintly. Just for a moment. No flourish. No gesture. But I felt it.

The hairs on my arms stood up. The space felt thinner. Denser.

"It exists in all of you," she said. "Dormant. Like a spark inside flint."

A boy two rows ahead raised his hand. "But isn't there a ritual to unlock it? Some kind of breathing technique or—?"

Eryn shook her head, faintly.

"Techniques help. But they are tools, not keys. Aura is not unlocked. It's realized. Refined through focus. Pressure. Will."

She stepped lightly across the etched ring.

"You must learn to listen to your body. To your mind. When you strike with conviction, when your spirit aligns with motion… that's when it begins to stir."

My thoughts drifted—to the morning drills. The soft pulse from the System. The fluid rhythm that had started to feel like mine.

Could that have been something?

"Today, you'll learn two foundational breathing patterns," she continued. "Not to awaken aura—but to begin hearing it."

She gestured, and a soft hum passed through the stone beneath us. The etched rings in the dais began to glow faintly—pale silver, then deepening into blue.

"Sit. Straight backs. Palms on knees."

The class followed. Some with curiosity. Others with skepticism.

I closed my eyes.

Breathe in. Slow. Deep. Through the nose.

Hold.

Out. Steady. No tension.

She guided us. Softly. Repeating the cycle. Telling us where to place our attention—on the center of the chest, on the solar plexus, on the space just below the navel.

"In time, you'll feel warmth. Weight. Pressure."

I didn't feel anything.

Not at first.

Just breath and the ache in my legs from sitting so straight.

But then…

A twinge. Barely there. Like the pull of a muscle that wasn't quite physical. A flicker beneath my ribs, like a string vibrating beneath still water.

And then—just for a moment—I felt drawn inward. Not dizzy, not unbalanced. Just… aware.

Like I was standing just behind myself.

My eyes fluttered open.

Nothing had changed.

No glow. No light.

But I felt like the room had taken one long, collective breath.

> [System Alert]

Aura Resonance Detected

Status Updated: Aura – 0

Progress toward Awakening: 3%

My chest tightened.

I hadn't done anything. Not really.

But something inside me had shifted.

Eryn turned toward the class once more. "Some of you will feel nothing today. That's fine. Some of you may feel… flickers."

Her eyes passed over the rows—then landed, briefly, on me.

"Hold them. Do not chase them. Let them come back on their own."

I nodded, almost before I realized it.

The class ended without fanfare.

As we filtered out, I kept my hand low, near my core. Still unsure if what I felt had been real—or just a hopeful echo.

But then again… the System hadn't lied before.

And this time, it felt like it was waiting for something.