Sneaking back into the Academy of Aetherion was, surprisingly, the easiest part of my night.
After watching a literal shop — shelves, counter, creepy owner and all — sink straight into solid bedrock like it was diving into water, my fight-or-flight response didn't hesitate.
It chose flight.
Hard.
I didn't even look back. I used the same tiny blind spot in the academy's outer ward that I'd discovered weeks ago — the little hiccup in the barrier's mana flow where the currents overlapped imperfectly — slipped through like a guilty ghost, scaled the outer wall, and dragged myself up to my dorm window.
By the time I collapsed face-first onto my mattress, I was still wearing my boots.
Didn't matter.
Sleep claimed me before my brain even finished processing the pillow.
And then, precisely three hours and twelve minutes later, my internal clock decided to betray me.
My eyes snapped open.
4:00 AM.
I stared at the ceiling in the dark.
The room was silent except for the faint hum of the academy wards and the distant whisper of wind brushing past the towers.
Every muscle in my body protested at once.
My legs felt like they'd been stuffed with wet cement. My shoulders were tight. My mana core throbbed with a dull, residual ache from yesterday's overexertion.
I lay there for a full minute.
'Just stay here.'
'Just today.'
'You nearly died. You deserve a break.'
My jaw tightened.
'If I stay in bed, I die.'
That was the rule of this world.
The plot didn't care if I was tired. The villains didn't care if my calves were sore. Fate didn't give participation trophies.
I groaned and rolled out of bed.
'I really, truly hate my own discipline.'
'Why couldn't I transmigrate into some lazy noble heir? Some rich young master who drinks wine on balconies and critiques tournaments like a bored commentator?'
But no.
I got this body.
This schedule.
This cursed sense of responsibility.
I splashed freezing water on my face. The cold bit hard enough to drag me fully into consciousness. I ran a hand through my messy blonde hair and reached for the newest addition to my inventory.
The rusty sword.
Twenty thousand gold.
I still felt physical pain thinking about that number.
The blade looked like it had been excavated from a grave. The scabbard was cracked leather held together by stubbornness and bad decisions.
I strapped it to my waist.
It felt heavier than my standard academy blade… but balanced.
Perfectly balanced.
It rested against my hip like it belonged there.
That unsettled me more than the price.
The academy grounds were wrapped in thick pre-dawn mist when I stepped outside.
The air was sharp and cold. Wet earth. Pine needles. Silence.
The outer training field stretched wide and empty. No instructors. No students. No judgmental stares.
Just me and the fog.
I walked to the center of the dirt arena and rolled my shoulders.
Pop.
Crack.
'Alright.'
'Let's see if you were worth twenty thousand gold… or if I got scammed by a sentient antique.'
I wrapped my hand around the hilt and drew the blade.
Shhhk.
The steel looked pathetic.
Pitted. Dull. Rust crawling along the edges.
It resembled an oversized letter opener more than a legendary weapon.
I channeled the smallest thread of compressed mana into the hilt.
Just to test conductivity.
The response was immediate.
[OH THANK THE STARS, FINALLY!]
I physically flinched.
My grip almost loosened.
The voice detonated inside my skull.
[DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW STALE IT IS IN THAT SCABBARD? I'VE BEEN MARINATING IN MILDEW AND REGRET! AIR! SWEET, UNFILTERED AIR!]
I closed my eyes and pressed two fingers to my temple.
"You don't have lungs," I muttered flatly. "You are metal."
[I am a Spirit of the Eternal Night, you tragically uncultured child! I perceive the world through mana resonance! And right now your resonance feels like a stressed-out chicken. Relax your shoulders. You're gripping me like I owe you money.]
I stared at the blade.
'Twenty thousand gold.'
'I bought a backseat driver.'
"Nyxaris," I said carefully, adjusting my grip. "I brought you here to train. Not to host a morning talk show in my brain. Can you just… be a sword?"
[I am always a sword! But I refuse to be wielded incompetently! Do you know who held this hilt before you? Raseus De Solaria. The man had hands carved by the gods and the posture of a celestial executioner. You, on the other hand, stand like a startled duck about to apologize.]
A vein twitched in my forehead.
"I literally just woke up."
"Just… shut up and let me swing."
I took a breath and executed a basic vertical slash.
Heel. Hip. Shoulder. Wrist.
The kinetic chain.
[Terrible.]
I paused mid follow-through.
[Your left foot dragged. You leaked kinetic energy into the dirt. Your elbow angle is tragic. Are you trying to cut something or gently persuade it to move aside?]
I gritted my teeth and performed a horizontal slash.
[Too wide! You're exposing your ribs! A blind goblin with commitment issues could stab you right now!]
"If you don't shut up," I hissed, "I am throwing you into the academy furnace and turning you into decorative spoons."
[You wouldn't dare. I am a mythic-tier artifact.]
"You're a rusty nag with delusions of grandeur."
Silence.
Then—
[Your wrist is collapsing on impact. Rotate it three degrees inward. Also your breathing is off. Why are you breathing like you're climbing a mountain?]
I froze.
She was right.
My fundamentals were messy.
Self-taught from books. Observations. Guesswork.
Edward corrected concepts.
Nyxaris corrected millimeters.
'She's insufferable.'
'But she's not wrong.'
I exhaled slowly.
"Fine. Fix my footing."
There was a smug ripple of mana.
[I thought you'd never ask.]
[Seventy percent weight on your rear leg. Thirty on the front. Knees soft. Don't lock them. You're not a statue.]
[Loosen your grip. You're strangling me. Hold me like a small bird — firm enough so it doesn't fly away, gentle enough so you don't crush it.]
I adjusted.
Shifted.
Relaxed.
The difference was immediate.
The sword didn't feel heavy anymore.
It felt… aligned.
Like my arm had grown an extension.
[Better.]
Her tone changed.
Less diva.
More commander.
[Now show me something worth my time. I refuse to spend eternity reviewing basic academy drills.]
I inhaled deeply.
Engaged the Rune of Mana Compression.
The air cooled around me.
I took the opening stance of Judgement of Heaven.
Stillness.
Breath.
Intent.
Inside my mind—
Silence.
No commentary.
No mockery.
Just stunned quiet.
"…Wait."
Her voice was soft.
Trembling.
[That stance…]
[That breathing rhythm…]
I stepped forward.
Severing the Gale.
The blade rose in a reverse arc.
I didn't force Aura.
I didn't shove.
I asked.
A thin pale line formed along the rusted edge.
The mist split.
A clean vacuum remained for three seconds before the air rushed back.
I held the stance.
Exhaled.
The sword vibrated in my hand.
[That… that's his.]
Her voice cracked.
[That's Raseus's art. Judgement of Heaven. He never took a disciple. The lineage vanished. How do you know this?]
"I found a manual."
[A manual?!]
She sounded personally offended.
[That arrogant genius actually wrote it down?! I spent centuries thinking he'd taken it to the grave out of spite!]
I wiped sweat from my temple.
"It leaks when I use Aura. Drains me too fast."
The atmosphere around the blade shifted.
Completely.
The chatterbox vanished.
In her place stood something ancient.
Sharp.
Precise.
[Aura is not something you shove outward.]
[You have intent. That's rare.]
[But you're treating mana like a hammer. You don't smash Aura into existence.]
"Then what do I do?"
[Conduct.]
I frowned.
"Metaphors aren't helping."
[I am literally a spirit sword. Metaphors are my entire aesthetic.]
She huffed.
[Stop coating the blade. Feed me. Push your mana into my core. I'll align it with the edge. You deliver will. I deliver execution.]
That sounded reckless.
Pushing mana into objects usually ended in explosions.
But she wasn't an object.
She was alive.
'If this blows up, I'm haunting that black market shop.'
I took the stance again.
Second Form.
Sky Severance.
Instead of flaring outward, I threaded mana down through my palm… into the hilt.
The sensation was violent.
Like plugging a cable into a massive dormant engine.
She drank.
Greedily.
[Yes! Don't fight it! Let me handle the edge!]
I opened my eyes.
Everything looked sharper.
Clearer.
I swung.
There was no explosion.
No boom.
Just—
Shhhhring!!!
A blade of pale-white Aura extended three feet past the tip.
Stable.
Solid.
Perfect.
I cut horizontally.
The mist didn't part.
It vanished.
A fifty-foot line of absolute void carved through the fog.
The dirt beneath held a razor-thin fissure.
Clean.
Precise.
I didn't feel drained.
I felt focused.
Clear.
"H… holy hell."
[Did you feel that?!]
She sounded ecstatic.
[That was a proper strike! No leakage! No waste! That's how a sovereign cuts the world!]
A grin spread across my face.
Two days.
I'd struggled for two days with unstable Aura.
She fixed it in minutes.
"Nyxaris…"
I laughed under my breath.
"You're insane."
[Correct.]
She purred.
[And you're still sloppy. Your footwork needs divine intervention. But you have potential.]
I let the Aura retract.
The rusty blade returned.
Unassuming.
Innocent.
The sun crested the eastern towers.
Golden light spilled across the severed mist.
'If this is day one…'
'What happens in a month?'
'What happens when I restore her?'
Excitement pulsed through me.
"Alright, teacher."
I raised the sword again.
"Destroy my form."
She snorted.
[Gladly. Left foot forward. Rotate your hips earlier. And close your mouth. You look like a stunned carp.]
I laughed.
And stepped forward.
The plot was moving.
Villains scheming.
Election looming.
But as the blade carved another flawless arc through the morning air, something settled deep in my chest.
I wasn't scrambling anymore.
I wasn't barely surviving.
I wasn't the weakest side character clinging to relevance.
I had a bridge between my soul and the world.
And it was loud.
Obnoxious.
And absolutely lethal.
'Let them come.'
Because this time—
I would hit back.