"You've spoken to the boy, I assume?" A voice reverberated throughout the opulent chamber.

"Yes, I have," replied Eston, his tone carrying a note of certainty. "The potential he possesses in sheer willpower alone is worth noting. And while his combat abilities may be raw and unrefined, the courage he displayed while saving my daughter revealed more than words ever could."

Hovering above Eston's desk was a diminutive figure displayed by a holographic device crafted by skilled artisans in the dwarven kingdom. This marvel of magical engineering enabled communication across vast distances, bridging gaps that were once insurmountable. As long as one's mana reserves are held, conversations could unfold as if the participants were in the same room, regardless of their physical locations.

The figure within the hologram was adorned in the attire of a mage, a flowing cloak, and a long, silver-streaked beard indicating the passage of many years. "This boy," the bearded mage within the hologram spoke again, skepticism coloring his tone. "Are you absolutely certain that he warrants such an investment of resources and your coveted recommendation?"

Eston's response held unwavering conviction. "Resources are of no concern when it comes to someone who risked everything for the safety of my beloved daughter. His act alone justifies any investment I make. Furthermore, I see the untapped potential within him—a spark that could be fanned into a blazing flame of strength for our kingdom."

A series of deftly pressed buttons on the holographic device followed, and Eston spoke once more. "I've forwarded the recorded fight I obtained from Arya's surveillance necklace. Watch it at your leisure."

With that, the transmission ended, leaving the room cloaked in contemplative silence. The hologram dissipated, but the implications of their conversation lingered—a testament to the far-reaching impact of choices made in the name of potential and the profound conviction that fueled them.

...

Back in the training yard, the passage of time had been a blur for Bane, lost within the whirlwind of sparring sessions that unfolded before him. Two hours had slipped by, each moment a cascade of lessons and revelations that fueled his determination to a fervent intensity. The sight of skilled combatants testing their mettle had become a wellspring of motivation, igniting a fire within him that was impossible to quell.

As the final echoes of the last sparring session resonated through the air, a sense of closure settled over the training yard. Soldiers and practitioners began to disperse, their camaraderie evident as they shared laughter and exchanged banter, yet Bane's gaze remained fixed- an ember of eagerness burning within his eyes.

The allure of battle had gripped him, and a new sensation had blossomed within Bane—an anticipation that tingled in his fingertips and quickened his heartbeat. The grim reality of survival that had defined his life in the slums was replaced by something entirely different. The battles he witnessed now seemed almost... exhilarating, a dance of skill and strategy that held a unique kind of thrill.

While others folded away their training gear and prepared to depart, Bane's resolve burned brighter. His longing to step into the sparring ring was palpable, a hunger that eclipsed all other thoughts. Sensing his unquenched enthusiasm, Lady Frier, perceptive in her role as a mentor, beckoned forth one of her low-ranked fighters.

The fighter, a Tier 1 aura user at stage 4, stepped forward. His presence exuded a sense of readiness, a silent acceptance of the challenge that lay ahead. Despite his low rank, the fighter held a wealth of experience that overshadowed Bane's experience, making him an ideal sparring partner.

"Boy, you want to fight?" Lady Frier's question hung in the air, a challenge that seemed to beckon Bane forward.

Unconsciously, Bane took a step back, his uncertainty thinly veiled beneath his response. "Not really," his words faltered, a hint of evasion tinging his voice.

A knowing smile graced Lady Frier's lips, her gaze unwavering. With a gesture, she directed his attention toward a sturdy weapon rack nearby. "Choose any weapon from that rack. Let's put your skills to the test. After all, nobody ventures into our training yard solely for leisure."

Excitedly, Bane approached the weapon rack. Its wooden structure bore an array of implements, each one a tool of combat waiting to be wielded. Amidst the assortment, his eyes settled on a particular weapon—an unassuming blade, more a short sword than a knife. It resonated with a familiarity that tugged at his instincts.

As his fingers closed around the hilt of the blade, a surge of familiarity and comfort coursed through him. He swung the weapon experimentally, a dance of steel through the air that felt surprisingly natural. The weight, the balance—it all aligned with a sensation he had known well in the slums.

A quiet confidence swelled within him as he gripped the blade.

"Come forth, boy," Lady Frier's call echoed with a commanding air, her unwavering gaze fixed on Bane.

As Bane took steps toward her, a hushed conversation passed between Lady Frier and her chosen fighter, their words shrouded in secrecy. "Go easy on him, alright? The boy appears to lack the experience to last even five minutes against a tier 1 user such as yourself," Lady Frier's whisper held a touch of concern.

With a nod, the chosen fighter assumed his position within the sparring ring—a designated area elevated two meters above the training grounds. A delicate mana barrier formed a protective shield around the ring, designed to withstand attacks from even the most formidable tier 5 practitioners.

Reaching Lady Frier, Bane found himself once again under her guidance. Her words carried wisdom as she addressed his choice of weapon. "A short sword—a blade that sacrifices reach for speed. A double-edged weapon for the inexperienced, as its swiftness and aggression can counterbalance the limitations of reach. Do your best out there, my boy, and take care not to injure yourself."

With a nod, Bane absorbed her words. A subtle feeling of underestimation tickled the edges of his resolve, but he welcomed it. It only fueled his determination further. As he stepped into the sparring ring, his heart raced, and his grip tightened around the hilt of the short sword. The air bristled with anticipation, a charged atmosphere that spoke of challenges and growth. Bane steeled himself, ready to pour his energy and spirit into the upcoming fight, a fight that would test his limits and push him closer to the strength he sought to attain.

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"I'm ready whenever you are," the soldier's confident declaration filled the air, his grip on the longsword unwavering.

Bane's gaze locked onto his opponent, assessing the seasoned soldier before him. Years of training and battles must have honed his skills to a fine edge, making any conventional approach from Bane seemingly futile. Yet, a spark of unconventional strategy ignited within Bane's mind.

Acknowledging the significant advantage the longsword wielder possessed, Bane's determination solidified. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his chosen weapon, a short sword that symbolized speed and agility. With a surge of resolve, Bane lunged forward, his movements driven by an unyielding determination to make his mark.

The clash was immediate. The resounding clash of metal reverberated through the training yard as Bane met his opponent head-on. The longsword's greater reach became evident as the soldier deftly parried Bane's initial strike, pushing him back with ease. Yet, Bane's irregular tactics came into play.

Sidestepping and evading, Bane's movements took on an almost unpredictable rhythm. He twisted and ducked, exploiting every opening he could find, his short sword a blur of motion. The soldier, initially caught off guard by Bane's unconventional approach, quickly adapted, his experience guiding his defensive maneuvers.

Bane's heart pounded within his chest, the adrenaline fueling his resolve. He pressed on, his strikes becoming quicker and more precise. The fight waged on, a dance of steel and strategy, as Bane aimed to counterbalance the longsword's reach with his own speed and agility.

As the clash continued, Bane's resolve burned brighter. He had no intention of succumbing to the odds stacked against him. Every clash, every parry, was a step closer to his goal. The training yard seemed to fade into the background as Bane's focus narrowed to the immediate challenge before him, a challenge that demanded all of his skill, strategy, and determination.

Bane's heart raced like a drumbeat in his chest, each thump resonating with determination and anticipation. Adrenaline surged through his veins, heightening his senses and sharpening his focus. He advanced with calculated steps, his grip on the short sword unyielding.

The first clash erupted in a flurry of motion. Bane's strikes were swift and precise, his irregular rhythm throwing off his opponent's timing. The soldier struggled to anticipate Bane's movements, forced to deflect and parry with increased urgency. Bane's agility allowed him to weave around the longsword's arcs, his lithe form a whirlwind of rapid strikes.

For a few exhilarating moments, the fight seemed to tip in Bane's favor. His style built solely off survival confounded the soldier, and Bane managed to land a series of hits, each blow punctuating his determination. The training yard resonated with the echo of their clash, a symphony of steel that spoke of Bane's unyielding will.

But the seasoned soldier was no novice. His experience shone through as he adapted to Bane's tactics. As the clash continued, the soldier's movements became more calculated and precise. He anticipated Bane's attacks and countered with measured strikes of his own. The longsword's reach granted him an advantage, and Bane found himself increasingly on the defensive.

Bane's irregular movements, once a wellspring of surprise, were now met with a more composed response. The mere fact that the soldier was a Tier 1 aura user gave him an edge, his enhanced reflexes and heightened bodily functions granted him a swift and commanding presence. Bane's agility, while impressive, couldn't fully offset the soldier's strategic prowess.

As the battle raged on, the relentless exchange of blows took its toll on Bane's stamina. His once fluid movements grew increasingly labored, each swing of his short sword accompanied by ragged gasps for air. Though his agility remained, a weariness settled in his bones, a reminder of the toll this prolonged engagement was exacting.

The shift in momentum became palpable, the scales of advantage tipping in favor of the soldier. Bane's determination burned unwaveringly, but the tide of battle seemed determined to challenge even his unyielding spirit. The soldier's calculated strikes and strategic maneuvers carved away at Bane's defenses, and the initial advantage of Bane's irregular style gradually eroded.

Bane's heartbeat thrummed within his ears, a steady rhythm that seemed to echo the ebb and flow of the fight. The battle had become a test of endurance, a trial of willpower and skill. Despite the growing odds stacked against him, Bane fought on, each movement driven by the fervent desire to prove himself.

Amidst the intensity of battle, hunger gnawed at Bane's stomach—a persistent reminder of the empty void within. He realized with a pang that he hadn't eaten since before that fateful encounter with Arya, a span of time that stretched beyond his expectation. It was a miracle, a testament to his tenacity and the sheer force of will driving him, that he could continue to fight with such ferocity on an empty stomach.

The clash of steel continued as a testament to Bane's resilience and the soldier's mastery. Each strike, each parry, was a testament to their unwavering dedication. Bane's irregular style had made its mark, but now he faced a new challenge—to adapt, to learn, and to rise stronger from this trial.

Bane's heart beat a steady rhythm, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. He was well aware that victory in this fight was an elusive goal, one that had seemed distant even before the clash began. But Bane's resolve remained unshaken, his determination a flame that refused to be extinguished.

Gathering his focus, Bane stepped forward once more, a sense of purpose driving his movements. This time, he approached with a goal, a calculated plan forming in his mind. As he closed the distance between himself and his opponent, his thoughts whirled with possibilities.

With a sudden burst of energy, Bane executed a full 360-degree spin, his body becoming a whirlwind of motion. The short sword left his grip, hurtling straight toward the soldier's face. The soldier reacted swiftly, blocking the incoming strike with his own weapon. However, Bane's maneuver wasn't solely intended to land a direct hit.

Seizing the moment of distraction, Bane's foot lashed out, connecting squarely with the soldier's vulnerable pelvis. The soldier let out a startled grunt, his defenses momentarily compromised. Bane's strategic strike had found its mark, exploiting a weakness that even the advantages of heightened capabilities couldn't eliminate.

The soldier stumbled backward, his balance disrupted by the unexpected blow. Groans of pain escaped his lips as he fought to regain his footing. Bane's heart raced as he seized the opportunity he had created, pressing forward with renewed determination. The tide of the battle had shifted, and Bane was determined to capitalize on this fleeting advantage.

As Bane advanced with instinctive actions, a surge of unease swept over the soldier. Instinctively, primal fear of danger ignited within him, triggering an involuntary response. His grip on his weapon tightened, and in a reflexive burst, a wave of aura radiated from his being, rippling through the air like a shockwave.

The wave of aura crashed into Bane like an invisible force, a sudden impact that sent him staggering backward. The strength behind the release was enough to knock Bane off balance, and his consciousness began to waver as darkness crept at the edges of his vision. The world spun around him, his body growing weak and unsteady.

Spectators from the sidelines rushed onto the sparring area, their concerned voices a distant echo. Lady Frier's voice rang out above the clamor, sharp with admonishment. "I said go easy on him!" Her words carried a mix of frustration and concern, a reminder of the unwritten rules of their friendly match.

Even in her stern reprimand, Lady Frier couldn't help but marvel at the unexpected turn of events. A hint of killing intent, a chilling aura that had emanated from Bane, had ignited an innate survival response within the soldier. The intensity of Bane's presence had been potent enough to trigger an automatic defense mechanism—one that showcased an unexpected facet of his strength.

Bane's unconscious form lay sprawled on the ground, his body weakened by the force of the aura. As the chaos subsided, Lady Frier's gaze remained fixed on him, a mix of curiosity and concern knitting her brows. How had this boy, so unassuming and new to their world, managed to push a seasoned fighter so far? What kind of lifestyle had he lived to release even that small amount of killing intent?