Akira pushed himself upright, still breathing hard, the bow trembling faintly in his grip.
Sebastian stepped forward.
"The commander has evaluated your resolve," he translated, calm as ever. "And therefore, he has decided your first task."
Akira steadied his breath. First task?
"You have one week," Sebastian continued. "One week to learn our language. After that… true training begins."
Akira blinked. "A week? How am I supposed to—"
Sebastian shook his head. "There is no alternative. If you cannot understand his commands, you will die on this field before you ever face an enemy."
Raizen spoke again — short, sharp. Sebastian translated:
"Show up here at dawn — when the week ends. If you fail… you will not be needed."
The words hit harder than any illusion. Akira's grip tightened around the bow. He wanted to shout, to demand fairness — but the burning pulse of the curse mark in his chest reminded him where he stood. Powerless. Controlled. But not defeated.
Sebastian placed a hand behind Akira's shoulder. "Come," he said softly. "The royal linguist has been informed. Your nights… will be short."
Akira cast one last glance at Raizen. The commander wasn't looking at him anymore. To him, Akira was merely a weapon being sharpened.
One day… I'll make you acknowledge me.
They entered the library — shelves stacked high with scrolls and books, the air heavy with dust and discipline. Waiting was a woman in uniform, silver hair tied in a tight bun, glasses perched on her nose.
Sebastian bowed. "Master Akira. This is Scholar Yulia, Royal Linguist. She will instruct you."
Yulia's voice was clipped, efficient. "So. The Hero who cannot speak."
Akira flinched. "…Just Akira," he muttered.
Her eyes narrowed, assessing. "Then Akira," she corrected. "Sit."
He obeyed.
A thick book lay open before her, pages crowded with runes. She tapped the first one.
"This means 'I'."
"I?"
"Aish. Say it."
He tried. "Ash?"
"Aish," she repeated, slower.
He inhaled, trying again. "Aish."
Yulia nodded once. "We will do this one hundred times."
Akira's eyes widened. "One… hundred?"
"For today." She turned the page. "Eight more words."
Sebastian cleared his throat. "Think of it as basic survival, Master Akira."
He straightened, jaw tight. Survival.
Hours passed. Tongue twisted over foreign vowels, brain tangled in moving puzzles of symbols. Ink stained his fingers, throat raw. Each mistake corrected, each lapse in focus punished by her sharp gaze. Water offered only to prevent collapse, never kindness.
When Yulia finally closed the book, dusk lay over the library. "You learn fast," she said. "Training resumes in an hour."
Akira froze. "Just… an hour?"
Her glare was immediate, cutting. "Did you speak?"
His mouth snapped shut. Not another word.
The week that followed was a relentless rhythm. From dawn until night, he sat in the library, reading, writing, repeating, speaking. Fatigue clawed at him, threatening unconsciousness, but Yulia never relented.
"You are awake, Akira," she snapped. From a small vial, she poured a faintly glowing potion into a cup. "Drink. Sleep is for the weak."
Bitter, burning, necessary. One gulp, and the weight of exhaustion eased just enough to keep him upright.
Breaks lasted only ten minutes — water, dry bread, or relief — then back to the books.
His voice grew hoarse, fingers raw from ink and repetition, eyes stinging from strain. Yet each day, he pressed on. Words merged into phrases, phrases into sentences. By the final night, he could speak short, understandable sentences.
"You can take him now, Sebastian," Yulia said as Sebastian appeared from the shadows.
"Master Akira, for your sake, I hope you are ready," Sebastian said, leading him to his room.
"Rest for now, as you'll need it."
Alone, Akira sank onto the bed, muscles trembling, bow still in hand. Exhaustion clung to him as he passed out.