Julius stood alone on the packed dirt of the training field, waiting for the man to arrive. He still didn't know the instructor's name; the man had never bothered to introduce himself. All he knew was that his test was going to be different and harder because he had been late.
The crowd of students and instructors formed a rough circle around the arena. The air buzzed with excitement; whispers spread from person to person, all of them staring at him as if he were already doomed.
Then the announcer's voice boomed across the field:
"Now, I present you the biggest fight of the day! Julius, the boy who was late for the test, versus Commander Sigurd, the nightmare of students!"
Laughter erupted instantly, loud and merciless. Some clapped mockingly, others elbowed their friends as if this were a comedy show.
Julius didn't join them. He only swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the wooden practice sword the academy had given him.
Commander Sigurd stepped forward, towering over most men in the academy. His uniform was trimmed with silver, spotless, sharp, and intimidating. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held a cold sharpness that made Julius's stomach twist.
The crowd fell silent.
For a moment, neither of them moved. They simply stared at each other, Julius trying to read every inch of Sigurd's posture, and Sigurd watching him like a hunter waiting for an opening.
Finally, Sigurd spoke.
"Julius, you made a mistake by coming late. Now you'll see my wrath."
His voice was deep, calm, and terrifying.
Julius didn't answer. He didn't trust his voice not to shake. Instead, he pushed off the ground and ran straight toward Sigurd. His heart hammered in his chest. His grip on the sword was so tight that pain shot up his arm, but he didn't loosen it.
Just touch his uniform, he reminded himself. Just a scratch. That's all I need.
With a sharp exhale, he swung. He aimed the tip of his sword toward Sigurd's abdomen—fast, clean, the best he could do.
Sigurd's mouth twitched.
"Good movement, kid."
Then
CRACK.
A fist slammed into Julius's face so fast he didn't even register the punch. One second he was swinging, the next he was on the ground, staring up at the sky.
Warm blood ran from his nose. His ears rang violently. The world felt distant, hazy.
The crowd gasped, then roared.
Julius blinked, dizzy.
'That fast? I didn't even see him move…'
For a moment, the thought came to him—quiet, painful, heavy:
'Well… maybe this is it. I can still try next year. But… why would I?'
He lay there, breathing hard. His fingers loosened around the sword.
Then something rose inside him—anger, pride, stubbornness. He didn't want the last thing people saw of him to be lying in the dirt like a defeated animal.
Slowly, shakily, Julius pushed himself up.
His legs trembled. His grip on the sword was weaker than before, almost limp. His vision blurred every few seconds. But he stood.
He closed his eyes, trying to force the shaking away.
"Julius, you boy…" His father's voice echoed in his memory, strong and warm. "How will you win a battle when your mind is not focused? When you are under pressure, and they make you doubt yourself? Trust yourself. That is where strength begins."
Conner had said those words years ago, during one of their rare training moments. Julius had always remembered them—but remembering wasn't the same as doing.
He tried to focus. He forced his breathing to steady. But fear gnawed at him, doubt pulled at him, and the ringing in his ears made it impossible to think.
How? he wondered. How am I supposed to focus? How do I fight someone like him?
Before he could gather himself, it was Sigurd's turn.
The commander began to walk toward him—not fast, but with a terrifying confidence, each step echoing in the silent field. His shadow grew larger with every pace.
Julius raised his sword again, though his arms felt numb. His feet slid instinctively into a stance, but it was unstable, shaky.
Sigurd stopped a few steps away and tilted his head.
"Standing again?" he said. "Good. That means you haven't broken yet."
Julius tightened his jaw.
Sigurd lunged.
Julius barely reacted in time. He twisted aside, the movement clumsy but enough to avoid another brutal hit. The air whistled as Sigurd's arm passed where Julius's head had been a heartbeat earlier.
He swung desperately—messy, unplanned. Sigurd parried it with two fingers, tapping the sword away as if it were nothing but a stick.
"You're wild," Sigurd said. "No balance. No breath. No patience."
He moved again.
Julius blocked—barely.
The impact numbed his arm all the way to the shoulder. His fingers almost dropped the sword.
Sigurd didn't attack this time. Instead, he stepped back, just watching him. Studying him.
"Do you know why this academy tests people like this?" Sigurd asked, voice steady. "Not to see who is strong. Strength is common. Skill can be taught. But will… will is rare."
Julius wiped the blood from his lip, breathing hard.
Sigurd's eyes narrowed. "You have some will, but it's scattered. Unfocused. You're fighting me, but you're also fighting your fear."
Julius's chest tightened.
Sigurd raised his hand. "Come again. If you fall a second time, this test is over."
The crowd murmured. Some whispered that it was impossible. Others said Julius would faint before taking two steps.
Julius took one deep breath.
Then he charged.
He didn't think—he moved. He attacked high, then low, then twisted his wrist and aimed for Sigurd's shoulder, hoping speed would give him a chance.
But Sigurd caught the blade with his palm.
"Better," he said.
Then he shoved Julius backward with a single push. It wasn't even a strike—just a push. But Julius stumbled several steps and barely kept himself from falling.
His lungs burned. Sweat dripped down his face. His arms felt like lead.
Sigurd lowered his stance.
"Again."
Julius knew he was being pushed to his limit—but something inside him refused to stop. Conner's voice echoed in his mind, clearer than before:
"Trust yourself."
Julius inhaled deeply, tightening his grip.
And he stepped forward again.