Clay stood in the center of a vast training hall, surrounded by equipment and fellow students pushing their bodies to the limit. Sweat glistened on faces twisted with exertion, and the rhythmic clang of weights filled the air.
"Go on, Clay. You need to train harder," the instructor called out.
The seventeen-year-old and his peers—if he could even call them that—trained as though their lives hung in the balance. In a way, they did. Without magic in a world that revered it, physical prowess was their only path to survival.
"Every single one of you needs to work harder," an old man announced from the front of the room. He wore simple clothes that hung loosely on his frame, but his muscular build told a different story. Despite appearing to be in his mid-fifties, he was far older than he looked. His eyes held the weight of decades spent fighting, teaching, and surviving.
A young woman abandoned her equipment and approached Clay, her footsteps hesitant despite her confident words. "Hey, Clay. Want to spar with me?"
Clay glanced up, his expression flat and unreadable. "Fight you? Why would I do that?"
"Well, I mean, I'm pretty strong." She shifted her weight from foot to foot, a nervous habit she couldn't quite shake. "I thought you'd want to face a strong opponent."
"You've been saying that ever since you arrived nearly a year ago," Clay replied, not pausing his workout. The weights rose and fell with mechanical precision. "Yet you haven't faced anyone. All you do is train."
Her brow furrowed in confusion. "And what's wrong with that? Me and everyone else have been sparring non-stop."
Clay set down his weights with a deliberate thud and met her eyes. The directness of his gaze made her flinch. "You? Strong? I didn't know you were the humorous type. Nice joke, though." He chuckled, though the sound held no warmth—it was hollow, almost cruel. "Laughing never hurt anyone."
She stared down at him, her smile fading like sunlight behind storm clouds. "Are you trying to say I'm not strong?"
"Of course I am," Clay interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather. "Look, you have a bit of muscle on you. I could pick you up and carry you like a doll, like the young child you are. I'm not saying this to be arrogant—I'm just stating facts. You're weak. It's as simple as that."
Her jaw tightened, and a flush crept up her neck. "I've sparred more than I've trained, sure. But everyone else has been doing the same thing."
"Exactly my point." Clay returned to his weights, dismissing her with the gesture. "You spar and chat instead of actually training. If you trained like me, you might stand a chance. But you waste your time socializing."
"This place is for training *and* fighting," she shot back, her voice rising enough to draw a few curious glances from nearby students. "Not just training. We're here to spar too."
"You spar more than you train, and that's the problem." Clay still didn't look at her. The weights rose and fell with mechanical precision, as if her presence meant nothing to him.
She crossed her arms, frustration evident in her posture and the way her fingers dug into her biceps. "Fine. If that's how you feel, I'll just leave you alone."
"Go ahead. Doesn't bother me one bit." Clay's voice remained steady as he continued his workout, each repetition a statement of his dedication.
Nearby, two students whispered to each other, their voices low but not quite low enough. "Man, that Clay kid is a real loser," one muttered, shaking his head.
"Yeah, but aren't we all losers?" his companion replied with a bitter laugh. "We came to this place because we don't have magic. You know how magicless people are looked upon." The words carried the weight of a lifetime of scorn and dismissal.
"Be quiet. I'm sure my fists could break through any magic barrier." The first one—Jordan—responded, flexing his hands and examining his scarred knuckles with pride.
"I'm not sure about that. Just because you pride yourself on strength doesn't mean you can actually beat a magic user."
Jordan's eyes flashed with indignation. "You only think that because you're weak. Do you know how many magic users Master has fought over the years? I couldn't even count them all." His voice swelled with admiration for their instructor.
"Yeah, but he didn't win against all of them."
"Well, some people win, some people lose," Jordan admitted, though the concession clearly pained him. "He's not going to be the best fighter in the world, but the fact that he fought so many mages and won against most is impressive enough. Now be quiet—I need to continue training."
His friend stared at him, disappointment creasing his features. "Come on, you're starting to act like Clay. Always training, never really speaking to anyone."
Jordan looked up from his equipment, offense written across his face. "I'm speaking to you, aren't I? I'm not that loser. I actually socialize."
The old man's voice suddenly boomed across the hall, somehow larger and more commanding than an elderly man's should be. The sound cut through every conversation, every clang of equipment. "All of you, line up! I shall spar with each and every one of you. Whoever manages to last one minute against me will have a private training session with me for at least a week. I know how much training means to you all, so this should be a significant prize. Line up now!"
The students scrambled to form a line, their earlier activities forgotten. Clay stood at the back, his expression unchanged. Robin positioned himself directly in front of Clay, while Jordan's friend rushed to claim the front spot.
"All right, first up—Mya!" the old man called, his voice carrying a hint of encouragement.
Mya walked forward, glancing back at Clay. Her earlier confidence had wavered, replaced by uncertainty that made her steps unsteady. "I'm not strong," she whispered to herself, the words barely audible.
"We'll see about that." The master's tone was kind, almost fatherly.
She assumed a fighting stance, trying to remember everything she'd learned. "Three, two, one!" the master counted.
Immediately, Mya rushed forward to grab his wrist, but before she could complete the movement, the world spun. She found herself staring up at the ceiling, pain radiating through her back in sharp waves that stole her breath.
"Four seconds and twenty-one milliseconds. Next up—Cole!"
Mya blinked, struggling to process what had happened. Her mind felt sluggish, as if moving through water. "What do you mean I lost? Four minutes?"
"Four *seconds*," the master corrected gently.
"But I... I trained..." Then Clay's earlier words echoed in her mind: *You spar and chatter more than you actually train.* The truth of it hit her like a physical blow.
"He's right." She lowered her head as she walked away, shame burning in her chest like hot coals. "I'm not strong. I do fight and talk more than actually train. He's right." She sat down on a far bench, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her realization. The bench felt cold beneath her, matching the chill of disappointment spreading through her body.
Cole stepped forward, smirking with the kind of arrogance that only youth and ignorance could produce. "Master, please don't get humbled so easily. I wish not to hurt an old man like yourself."
The old man stared down at Cole, his expression unreadable. "You've always been the arrogant one, Cole. I'll have to knock that arrogance right out of you."
Cole's grin widened, revealing teeth that seemed too white, too confident. "Really? An old man beating a kid? This is going to be fun when I snap your spine in half!"
Without waiting for the countdown, Cole leaped forward, fists raised and moving with surprising speed. *Bam! Bam! Bam!* He managed to land a few hits on the old man, each one connecting with solid flesh. But then his master kicked. Cole dodged, his reflexes sharp, grabbing the foot and slamming the old man into the ground with a satisfying thud.
Cole smirked and dove downward, already tasting victory. But the old man immediately recovered with the fluid grace of someone half his age, grabbed Cole, and sent him flying through the air. He crashed into the bench where Mya sat, the impact knocking him unconscious. His body went limp, and a thin trickle of blood ran from his temple.
"Thirteen seconds and one millisecond. Good job, Cole. You were nearly there," the master said with a slight smile that held both pride and sadness. "His arrogance does match up with his words. If he keeps up this behavior, I might have to kick him out. I wish not to do so, but he's heading down that path. It's sad, losing such a talented student of mine." The words came out heavy, weighted with the burden of difficult decisions.
The old man shook off his thoughts and looked at the next person in line, forcing his expression back to neutrality. "Matthew, step up."
Matthew stepped forward, his face pale with worry rather than confidence. His body trembled like a leaf in a storm, and he couldn't seem to control the shaking in his hands. "Sir, are you sure?"
"You've been here for at least two years, have you not? Haven't you built up any confidence, boy?" The old man's stare made Matthew shiver even harder.
"Look, I'd be happier if anyone else went—Jordan, Kian, Clay, anyone but me." The words tumbled out in a rush, desperation making them run together.
"My decision has been made. You are going to fight me whether you like it or not. This will give you some training, so I'll hold back. I want to see you improve. I don't want to beat you down any more than you already are." He smiled, and the expression transformed his weathered face into something almost grandfatherly. "Three, two, one!"
The old man rushed forward with startling speed. Matthew froze in terror, unable to move, his muscles locked by fear. *No, no, no, no!* In pure desperation, he overrode his fear and leaped to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike. His body moved on instinct, surprising even himself.
Matthew lunged forward, attempting to punch the old man, but his master caught his fist as easily as catching a thrown ball. Matthew's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. Before he could react, a fist drove into his stomach, forcing all the air from his lungs. He tried to gasp, but nothing came in or out. His vision darkened at the edges. Then he was thrown to the ground, his body hitting the marble with a dull thud.
He looked up, still clutching his stomach, fighting the urge to vomit. The old man gazed down at him with a frown that seemed more concerned than disappointed. "At least you tried," he muttered gently. "Better luck next time, kid." The words weren't harsh—they were kind, meant to build confidence rather than destroy it. They carried the warmth of someone who genuinely cared about his students' growth.
Matthew stood shakily and walked toward another bench, his face burning with embarrassment. Each step felt like a walk of shame, and he could feel the eyes of other students on him.
Only a few students remained. The tension in the hall had shifted, becoming something more electric. "Kian!" the master called.
Kian stepped forward with a calm stride, as if he could easily defeat the old man. His movements were fluid, controlled, almost predatory. "All right," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Go ahead and start the countdown, or do I need to initiate it myself?"
"No need," the old man replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Three, two—"
Before the master could finish, a punch landed on his face with a sharp crack.
"Really, Master? You really think I would just let you finish your countdown? In a real fight, that gets you killed." Kian grabbed the old man by the throat, his expression deadpan, as cold as winter ice. "You know, Master, I could easily choke you out and kill you right here and right now. But I'm not going to—this is, after all, just a training session. Now I just have to choke you out for one minute, and I'm golden."
Those words sent a chill down the old man's spine. He knew what Kian was capable of—had seen it firsthand too many times. This was one of his greatest students. He thought of all his students as good, but he knew he had favorites: Cole, Clay, Robin... and Kian. Each one exceptional in their own way, each one carrying the potential for greatness or destruction.
Forty seconds passed, each one stretching like an eternity. The old man's face began to redden, but his eyes remained sharp, calculating. Then he kicked Kian off with explosive force. Kian fell but didn't look surprised. His expression remained neutral, almost satisfied. "At least I made it closer than everyone else did," he said before walking toward the bench where Matthew sat.
Matthew felt a shiver run down his spine as Kian approached. He knew this guy was more dangerous than Cole. Yes, Cole was violent, unpredictable, a force of nature. But if those two ever fought, Matthew knew who would win. He knew how easily Cole could be killed if he ever got into a fight with Kian. Kian was controlled violence, calculated and precise—the kind that didn't waste energy on unnecessary movements.
"Next up—Billy!" the master called, rubbing his throat where Kian's fingers had left red marks.
Billy walked forward confidently, though not as boldly as Robin. His confidence was quieter, more assured. "If I don't beat you," he said calmly, "I know Robin will."
The old man chuckled, the sound rough from his bruised throat. "Whatever you say, kid. All right, you ready, Billy?"
Billy nodded, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. "Start the countdown, Master."
The old man smiled, a genuine expression of anticipation. "Three, two, one!"
Both jumped forward at once, moving with synchronized precision. Billy launched a spinning kick toward the old man's head, his leg cutting through the air with a whistle. But the master ducked, grabbed his foot with iron fingers, and slammed Billy down onto the ground. A small crater formed in the marble flooring, spider-web cracks spreading outward. Chunks of marble shot up—one nearly cut Robin's cheek, but he caught it mid-air and snapped it in half with casual strength.
"Guys, collateral damage," Robin muttered, tossing the broken pieces aside.
*Bam!* Billy went flying until he hit the back wall with a sickening thud, narrowly missing a sharp piece of metal protruding from a piece of training equipment. If he had moved just a few inches to the right, it could have killed him. The thought made several students gasp.
Mya stood and walked toward the equipment, her earlier shame momentarily forgotten. *This is weird,* she thought, examining the jagged metal. *Why is there just a piece of metal sticking out of this equipment? Is it broken?* She ran her fingers along the edge, careful not to cut herself.
A man walked out from the back, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Hey," he said calmly, his voice carrying the easy confidence of someone used to fixing things. "I had to call someone. Some training equipment was messed up."
"Oh, come over here," Mya called, gesturing to the dangerous protrusion.
Lynn walked over, his toolbox clanking with each step. "Thank you, Miss." He began to slowly work on the equipment while everyone else continued training, the sounds of his repairs a counterpoint to the ongoing matches.
"Next up—Robin!" the master announced, his voice carrying a note of anticipation.
Robin stepped forward confidently, though worry gnawed at him beneath the surface like a persistent rodent. He knew he could easily take down a magic user—his confidence in that was unshakable, built on years of training and a few real fights. But fighting his master was an entirely different story. He remembered his own words earlier, how his master had nearly taken down every single mage who had challenged him. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, but he quickly hid it as his confidence returned, forcing itself to the surface through sheer will.
*All right. I must avenge my friend,* he thought, glancing over at Billy, who was still unconscious by the wall, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
Robin cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the sudden silence. "All right," he said, a grin spreading across his face—part excitement, part fear, all determination. "Let the battle begin, shall we?"