The Weapons Proficiency class was held in a massive, open-air yard paved with packed earth, bordered by high stone walls designed to deflect stray blows. The air was cold, but the sun was bright, and the clanging of metal from a nearby forge provided a rhythmic soundtrack to the proceedings.
Master Veridian, the instructor, was a stark contrast to the mystical Master Harkan. Veridian was a mountain of muscle and scarred leather, a man who spoke with the blunt, practical authority of a seasoned soldier.
"Listen, you privileged whelps and you hungry commoners," Veridian bellowed, his voice carrying effortlessly across the yard. "Magic is useful, yes, but magic runs out. A blade doesn't. A blade is an extension of your own damn will. You choose it, you feel it, and eventually, you make it sing. A weapon isn't just steel; it is the physical manifestation of your intent."
Daemon nodded subtly, filing the information away. Another instance of spiritual language describing mechanical reality. The "extension of the self" was the neurological link; the weapon was simply the inert conduit. A personalized weapon would likely be infused with the owner's magical signature, making the link more efficient.
Veridian gestured to a series of heavy wooden racks lined with various weapons—longswords, war axes, curved scimitars, and short daggers.
"Today, you just handle them. Get a feel for the weight. See what speaks to you. When you start earning credits, you can hire a smith to forge your true partner. Now move!"
The class surged forward. The nobles immediately gravitated toward the ornate, heavy bastard swords and greatswords, weapons that demanded visible strength and pronounced dominance. The commoners went for the simpler, more functional blades—daggers and short axes.
Daemon waited near the back, observing the weight distribution of the different forms. He calculated the center of gravity, the necessary rotational force, and the typical defensive patterns the students adopted based on their chosen arms.
Before he could approach the rack, a voice sliced through the yard, sharp with aristocratic challenge.
"Hold on, commoner."
Daemon looked up. It was Cassian, the silver-braided noble who had humiliated him by twisting his cup. Cassian wore a finely tailored, dark blue practice jerkin and held himself with the effortless authority of inherited rank.
"The Tria," Cassian sneered, his eyes flicking over Daemon's rough, cheap uniform. "Before you soil the weapons rack, why don't you satisfy the curiosity of your betters? We need to see if this 'one-in-ten-thousand' peasant is worth the air he breathes."
He tossed a heavy, blunt-edged practice sword onto the ground near Daemon's feet. "A quick bout. Prove your metal, or admit the Temple was mistaken."
The blood drained from the faces of the nearby commoners. Challenging a Tria was a risky move, but challenging a known Orphan was a safe political play. If Cassian won, he proved that nobility was superior to raw talent. If Daemon won, the noble was merely bested by a statistical anomaly, not a social peer.
Daemon shook his head gently, adopting the tone of meek refusal. "I thank the Noble Cassian for the offer, but I have no experience with weapons, and I am here only to learn."
Cassian laughed, a brittle, high sound. "Cowardice, then. Just as expected."
Master Veridian, however, stepped in, his face stern. He was staring at Daemon's Facade. He clearly did not want a noble challenging a prized asset, but he could not afford to let the low-status orphan publicly humiliate the class structure by refusing the duel.
"Nonsense, initiate," Veridian snapped, fixing Daemon with a hard gaze. "The Academy teaches courage. You will accept the challenge. Pick your weapon. That is an order."
Daemon offered a shallow, submissive bow to the instructor. "As the Master commands."
The strategic decision was made instantly. Failure was no longer an option, but a simple, public victory was just as bad—it would force the nobles to treat him as a threat, escalating scrutiny. He needed a complicated, data-rich loss.
Daemon walked to the rack and ignored the longswords and axes. He selected a short spear—about seven feet of ash wood tipped with blunt practice steel—and a deep, thick-rimmed round shield.
Cassian smirked, hoisting a massive two-handed longsword into the air, the weapon's weight demanding total commitment. "A child's tools, peasant. You want to dance?"
Daemon ignored the taunt and walked to the center of the ring. He adopted a low, braced stance. His mind was not on magic or mysticism; it was accessing the vast historical data Matthew Strickland had accumulated.
Weapon analysis: The longsword requires commitment to attack, wide arcs, and relies on reach and momentum. My selection—shield and spear—negates the reach and capitalizes on close-quarters precision.
Tactical doctrine: Phalanx. Hoplite. The discipline of the spear-and-shield tradition. Use the shield not just for defense, but as a dynamic, mobile wall, and the spear as a rapid, linear thrusting instrument.
Cassian charged first, a roar of youthful aggression leaving his lips. The longsword swept down in a wide, powerful arc intended to cleave Daemon's shield in half.
Daemon, however, moved with an agility that stunned the watchers. He blocked the strike not with the center of the shield, but the heavy rim, deflecting the blow upward. Cassian staggered under the weapon's momentum, opening his side for a counterattack.
Daemon's response was immediate and surprising. Instead of thrusting the spear, he drove the heavy wooden back of the round shield straight into Cassian's chest. The impact was sharp and sickening. Cassian gasped, the wind knocked out of him, and he stumbled back.
Daemon pressed the advantage, not with the spear, but by snapping the edge of the shield across Cassian's collarbone like a blunt disc. It was a calculated, painful strike.
Observation: The force delivered by the shield strike was geometrically disproportionate to the meager physical strength of the Daemon vessel. The blow should have only staggered him; instead, it delivered near-crippling force.
Internal realization: The magical awakening was not merely elemental. It included a fundamental, passive upgrade to the host body's strength and resilience. The Body Application Magic is not just active—it's automatic. A quick, internal calculation based on the kinetic impact: My physical strength is now boosted by a factor of approximately five. This is a permanent baseline.
The realization was exhilarating. He had an integrated, undetectable strength advantage.
Cassian recovered, his face contorted in frustrated rage. He began attacking with greater speed, his longsword flashing in complex, furious combinations. Daemon, powered by the 5x boost and guided by the disciplined historical knowledge of his former life, became a mobile wall. He used the spear to keep Cassian outside the killing range of the longsword's hilt, and used the shield rim to constantly deflect and bruise. He was fighting clinically, efficiently, testing the limits of his new physical boost.
The fight lasted nearly three minutes—far longer than anyone expected a noble with a powerful weapon to fight a supposedly untrained orphan.
Finally, Daemon decided the data collection was complete. He had confirmed the limits of the noble's stamina, the predictability of his attack patterns, and the consistency of his own new, augmented physical baseline.
As Cassian swept his blade wide for a final, desperate overhead strike, Daemon didn't block. He simply dropped the shield and spear to the ground, stepping backward sharply.
Cassian, his blade missing its target, stood there panting, utterly exhausted, confusion flooding his face.
Daemon, outwardly composed but breathing slightly hard, immediately dropped into a low, deep bow, bending his knee almost to the ground.
"I yield, Noble Cassian," Daemon stated, his voice ringing with forced humility and respect. He retrieved his weapons and placed them back on the ground, leaving himself open and vulnerable. "My deepest gratitude for the lesson. It was a privilege to witness your skill and power. I have learned a great deal."
The entire yard fell silent. Cassian, victorious but utterly humiliated by the prolonged fight and the commoner's perfect display of deference, simply sneered, unable to summon a witty insult. He had won the duel, but lost the social point.
Daemon straightened, his green eyes meeting Cassian's. The surface expression was one of grateful meekness, but underneath, Matthew was already cataloging the noble's defeat: Stamina deficit, predictable emotional escalation, and low resistance to blunt trauma.
He had secured the critical data, tested his new physical reality, and reinforced his public facade. The meek orphan was a fighter, yes, but a humble, defeated one who posed no real threat to the social order.