I leaned heavily against the low wooden fence of the empty arena, my chest heaving as river-like rivulets of sweat soaked through my canvas tunic and dripped onto the packed dirt. Every single muscle fiber in my arms and upper back vibrated with a deep, burning fatigue. My unconditioned physical frame was screaming in protest, entirely unaccustomed to the gruelling torque I had just forced it through for two hours straight.
TThe physical limits of this flesh were exactly as pathetic as I calculated. Without an ignited mana core to constantly wash raw essence through the muscle tissue, a civilian body can only endure a limited number of heavy swings before lactic acid completely locks the joints. My shoulders felt tight, and my lower back was an absolute knot of burning soreness.
"Hey! Astraeus!"
A loud, booming voice shattered the quiet morning air of the garrison clearing.
I snapped my head toward the arena entrance, my eyes narrowing out of sheer, ten-year vanguard habit. Walking through the wooden gates was a tall, broad-shouldered teenager with messy brown hair, a boisterous grin, and a heavy wooden practice blade resting casually over his thick shoulder.
It was Lysander. My childhood friend, my future sworn brother, and the man who would stand right beside me at the awakening altar tomorrow morning.
Looking at his unlined, laughing face, a heavy knot of emotion tightened inside my chest. In my past life, Lysander had been a rock—a fearless warrior who had saved my life three separate times during the initial dungeon outbreaks, before he was ultimately butchered by a high-tier Rift monster because our noble captains deliberately withheld defensive reinforcements. Seeing him now, completely unscarred and full of idiotically bright optimism, was a jarring psychological trip. The contrast between my blood-soaked memories of him dying in the mud and the lively, robust teenager standing before me made my pulse spike slightly.
"I thought I'd find you skulking around the dirt early," Lysander laughed, stepping into the centre of the ring, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust. He stopped three meters away, sizing me up with a critical eye. "Look at you. You're already completely soaked, and the sun barely cleared the pines. Are you trying to burn yourself out before the priests even arrive tomorrow?"
"Just clearing the morning fog, Lysander," I replied smoothly, keeping my voice light, carefully forcing the cold, analytical edge of a veteran captain beneath a relaxed civilian mask.
"Right, right. 'Clearing the fog,'" Lysander mocked playfully, dropping his heavy wooden blade into a crude, aggressive offensive stance. His feet were too wide apart, his centre of gravity was completely exposed, and his grip on the hilt was far too tight—a dozen fatal amateur flaws that a low-rank goblin would exploit in a fraction of a second. "Well, since you're already warmed up, how about a quick round? Just a light tap-spar to test our reflexes before the grand ceremony locks our paths tomorrow."
I looked back at the weapon rack, my eyes lingering on the heavy wooden greatsword I had just spent two hours wrestling with. My arms were trembling with deep, muscular exhaustion. My shoulders and upper back were far too sore to handle the massive, two-handed torque of another heavy exchange. If I gripped that massive hilt right now, my fatigue would leave me slow, clumsy, and wide open.
Purely as a practical adjustment for my exhaustion, my gaze slid past the greatswords and locked onto a standard, light wooden single-handed shortsword.
I extended my hand, bypassing the heavy steel pipeline entirely, and wrapped my fingers around the slender grip. The weight was practically non-existent.
"Alright," I said, a slow, dangerous calm settling deep beneath my ribs as I stepped away from the rack and faced his grinning face. My adult combat mind instantly mapped the entire trajectory of the clearing. "Let's see what you've got."