He landed on the front lawn of the sprawling war college with way too pretentious to remember her name in a quick trot. He took a moment to drink in the exterior. The Scions of the First Light’s Spell Warrior college certainly presented to impress. The front of the lawn held vibrant green grass, no doubt fed by the proximity to the wellspring of light. White marble steps lazily rose to grand gold trimmed doors at the front of the college. On closer inspection, the gold trim possessed light rune, water and spirit runes. The entrances were warded? They apparently took security seriously.

It all reeked of pompous arrogance in the design elements, though. From the sprawl, and the way no one actively paid him any attention. As if he was below their gaze. Part of him railed against an invisible cage, wanting to show them why they should fear him. This place oppressively weighed down on his soul.

He bit down on that desire, and chose instead to focus on his now assigned task of reporting to whomever these people were. Who were they to tell him how trained he was or not? It must be so nice to sit around in some plush college and play at swinging swords while other people are out bleeding and dying in battle. Or worse.

Stepping into the war college, he saw small circular dueling arenas spread out in a massive circular pattern, with healing wards on all of them. Something cold inside him flashed.

System Info: Perception Check: Results: +4 Successes. The wards are situational healing wards. They’ll prevent you from dying if critically injured, but won’t take effect until then. So don’t get stabbed.

“Interesting,” he muttered to himself.

Slowly, he walked onto the grand floor, noting that each arena was ringed by a gold ring with light runes etched into them. Warm glowing motes of light aether lazily floated up from each rune, powering the wards. Against the cold void that sat within his chest, the light magic made his skin feel slightly tingly. Blades clashed and hummed like music to his ears. For a brief instant, he almost felt like he was home. Maybe he’d been too hasty to judge this place harshly?

“There you are, air peasant.”

And just like that, he remembered why he hated this place. Reluctantly, an annoyed sigh eased past his lips. He turned and saw Cenin approaching like a charging cow protecting young from a predator. She wore what he was quickly coming to think of as her trademark sneer. Her eyes flowed up and down him, giving him an extremely judgemental once over.

“I should have known you’d wear your gear in here like unrefined trash.”

He noted she wore a simple tunic and slacks that closely resembled a uniform. She had a patch on the shoulder that bore the logo of the Emerald Watch, signifying she was one of Aeryn’s elite troops. Her spell blade sat buckled at her hips. Her too perfect hair was pulled tightly back into a severe ponytail. She folded her arms and burned holes in him with her judgemental stare.

“Well,” she said finally. “Take it off.” She pointed behind him towards a large sign against the wall. He suddenly felt like a heel. First impressions usually set the tone for how you could expect interactions to go. And he’d just set his by saying he didn’t pay attention and was entirely as stupid as she judged him to be. He didn’t display any weakness in his response, however, and simply nodded.

“Very well.” He fed the armor some void magic and drifted back to the doorway, and then activated the mind rune. His armor went ethereal pinkish purple, and he phased out of it before solidifying it again. In his basic service uniform, he tugged the jacket down and then opened the equipment portal and withdrew his weapons, slinging the rifle and buckling his blade’s hilt at his waist as Cenine wore hers.

As he walked back, Cenine gave him a dismissive sneer. “What’s the matter, peasant? Afraid you won’t be able to cast simple bolt spells? You won’t need that rifle here.”

“With respect, spellmaster 2nd class, I was out fighting Sauridius while you were doing your hair and makeup. I’ll carry whatever I feel like. Now, if we’re done measuring dicks? Can we get started?”

“Why you filthy curr!” Her hand darted to the hilt of her blade, but it didn’t draw.

“What? You’ll draw on me? Go ahead. I’ve been itching for a chance to wipe that stuck up look off your face from the instant I met you.”

“Well then, if it’s a duel you’d like, you’re more than welcome to one,” a new voice said from behind his shoulder. A taller, slender woman with chestnut hair and the same uniform approached. She towled off a soft sheen of sweat and looked him over impassively. She, too, had a spell blade at her hip. But something in Akamori sensed the danger that lurked in her presence.

“Headmaster,” Cenin said with a supplicating bow.

Akamori ignored the respectful gesture and remained facing Avreone. “You’re in charge here?”

“I am,” she replied simply.

“What am I to learn that I haven’t already?”

“That’s what we’re about to find out,” Avreone said simply and nodded to the arena as Cenine rose back upright and marched stiffly towards the center. There were small moments in his life where Akamori wished his mouth hadn’t just run off with whatever inane thought his brain came up with. This was one such moment. Often, training could be a painful affair, and he had the feeling he’d just volunteered for the elite training difficulty.

Well. He got himself into this. Time to see it through. He turned and made his way to the arena. Stepping through the safety ward, he could feel the warm tingly effect as the wards admitted him. His body bathed in the mitigating energies of the wards, infused with light aether. He felt the pool of void energy within him writhe, slightly uncomfortable.

Cenine held her weapon of choice aloft. A simple spell blade haft. The mark IX gave itself away by the lack of a solid blade, and instead using shaping runes to forge a blade made of pure plasma. She ignited the weapon, feeding it a point of her pool, and the weapon converted the raw energy into the blade. It crackled and hummed, blazing like a rod-shaped star that burned shadows into his vision. The smug spell warrior smirked at him.

“First time seeing a superior weapon?”

He snort laughed at the clumsy jab. “Lady, I’m a spell soldier in the Mage Federation. Everyone has superior weapons to me.” His own blade thrummed agitatedly. Had he just insulted it? Oops…

He drew his own spell blade. He had no clue what its quality was. He didn’t expect it to be very high given where he grew up. Even with Kusinaki’s help as the resident artificer. His own blade thrummed eagerly in his grasp. Like a leashed attack dog that smelled blood in the air. He wondered for a moment if there was some kind of psychosomatic bleed effect from user to weapon. If the sword took on characteristics from himself and he from it.

He stopped the errant train of thought and forced himself to prepare. Cenine held out a taunting hand and gestured for him to attack in invitation. A smug smirk on her features.

“I’m expecting you to disappoint me sorely, so I’ll give you the opportunity to surprise me by attacking first. Prove you’re not the peasant trash you appear to be,” she said.

Peasant trash. He repeated the words in his mind. They tasted as sour as grapes that hadn’t ripened yet. His face twisted into a bitter scowl. He knew she was baiting him. But gods damned, was he going to make her eat those words.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Pouncing forward, he opened with a sweeping slash. Cenine responded by evading his strike with a simple backwards hop. Her off-hand shot up, palm out, and glowed. Light aether pooled into a swirling, writhing mass. Something inside him and his sword responded equally. Danger! He dodged to the side just in time to see a few strands of his hair sizzle away in the blast of raw plasma that crashed into the arena barrier.

He dashed laterally, moving to her side and threatening her rear flank. Channeling a point of AP he flicked an altered air bolt at Cenine. The feminine spell warrior nimbly dodged the attack and responded with a punishing flurry of blows. It took all his wits and training to parry and dodge the blows.

Akamori reacted on pure instinct, spending 2 more points of AP and channeled air aether into a tendril of air that mimicked a long ropey air dragon. It sank its small fangs into the leather of Cenine’s left boot near the ankle. Cenine’s advancing strikes halted, and she glared down at the construct, flicking her blade at it.

Before her spell blade could sever the air dragon in two, Akamori gave it a sharp tug. Cenine flew from her first point of contact to her fourth with a pained grunt. She flicked her blade through the air tendril. The plasma blade snapped as the energy sizzled through the air tendril. Motes of air aether glittered into the air like opened magical arteries from each end until it unraveled completely. Her feet spiraled in a figure eight and she was upright in the blink of an eye.

She darted forward in a lunging stab. Her blade passed so close to him, the uniform jacket burst into flame and ash. The skin on his waist reddened and blistered with intense burns. He hissed. The pain lessened immediately as the light aether wards already went to work healing the worst of the damage to just excruciatingly painful instead of lethal.

Akamori twisted into a spin, clenching his jaw to bite down on the pain. He felt like a white hot fire poker had been thrust into his ribs, and that was nearly the physical truth. Now that he was behind her sword arm, he hooked his own off arm under hers and leg swept her from behind. The two of them toppled forward, with him riding her like a Cenine shaped impact cushion. Cenine caught herself on her off arm in a pushup position with him on her back. Now that he had the advantage of the position, it was time to strike.

Akamori dropped his spell blade to free up his hand. The instant the hilt left his hand, he summoned the void aether to his hand. Void manipulated gravity and mass and destroyed matter. Right now, he wanted to manipulate mass and gravity variably. He channeled three points of AP into the spell, increased the mass and gravity. At the apex of the spell, he let his metaphorical hammer drop.

The spell enhanced blow caught Cenine in the back of the head with a sickening crunch. He watched with grim satisfaction as blood spurted out in a multidirectional spray as her nose shattered against the floor. His entire body clenched as her spell blade punched through her body and into his own. Cooked meat, burned fabric, and acrid ozone attacked his nostrils. He leaned close to her ear, his mass and gravity enhanced fist still weighing down on her head and whispered through clenched teeth. His vision went red, and he could see his HP counter in the corner of his vision drop to single digits.

“Look at what the filthy peasant did to your pretty little face.”

Without his armor, that strike had been near lethal, and he had a feeling the only reason he could realize that was because of the mitigation wards. Without the health potions on his armor, though, he had no way of staying in the fight for much longer. The wards were good, but they wouldn’t remove his damage fast enough to make a positive impact on him. She’d gotten him good, and that was a bitter pill to swallow.

He forced himself up, making a ragged mess of the stab wound as the blade withdrew. A few more HP fell away, leaving him with as many health points as he had digits on a single hand. Hot embers and ash drifting away even as the healing wards fought overtime against the injury. Bone, sinew, and flesh slowly knit back together under the healing power of the mitigation wards. His vision doubled and tripled and he swayed on his feet.

On a basic level, he understood he was in shock. But there was nothing he could do for it now. His blood turned to ice when he watched Cenine rise to her feet and channeled light magic through her body. Repairing all the damage he’d previously done. Even the smoking hole she’d punched into her own body when she’d turned her weapon on herself to spite him. The healing spell even reset her nose, leaving her hands free.

“Sonovabitch… That is so not fair…”

“You said yourself, peasant. You’re a spell soldier in the Federation. You should be used to unfair,” Cenine growled, then spat blood.

Well shit. She had a point there. He had nothing to respond to that.

“That’s enough. For now.” Avreone said as she strode into the wards and interposed herself between Cenine and Akamori. She gave Akamori a studious glance, with a cocked eyebrow. “You may have won this match, but I suspect you’ve only purchased more misery in the long haul.”

Akamori’s hands cupped the injury gingerly, even as the wound closed at a very painfully slow rate. The room spun, and he dropped to a knee. Propping himself up on a hand, he struggled to figure out which of the three Avreones he should focus on. His face was more pale than normal made him look almost ghostlike. He wanted to respond, but staying conscious was taking all of his focus.

Avreone continued to speak as if sensing his current state. “Your skills are… basic at best. Your blade work has a foundation for want of better words. But it lacks experience and, refinement. Everything you do is purely impulse driven. But because you don’t understand your own technique, you’re incapable of doing little more than reacting and improvising.”

“My technique?” he said in a strained voice.

“More like lack thereof,” Cenine scoffed as she continued tending her own injuries.

“What is it?” he asked.

Avreone folded her arms, still studying him. “I could tell you about the form you use. Where it’s rumored to have originated. Famous practitioners. But first I need something from you. Train with Cenine. Master the basics. All the basics. If she feels you’re making progress, and show promise? I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Okay.”

The agreement had come so quickly from himself he wasn’t sure he’d actually made it. He never questioned his father’s form during his short training at home. Learning more about it might help him learn more about his father and his people. Might make their loss feel less final.

“Now, let’s see to that injury.” Avreone said.

The headmaster circled around him and pressed a palm to his shoulder, and warmth flooded through him. Pain ebbed, a sense of comfort and ease settled in. He watched as his HP rose back to 15 and settled out. It wasn’t much, but enough to keep him out of the red. He let out a relieved sigh, feeling much better than he had moments ago.

“Light mages make tough opponents,” he mused aloud. “If you can’t put them down for good, they just heal and get back up.”

Avreone finished her work and circled back around him. Her composure was tight, measured. Like a jungle cat on the prowl. If Cenine was a threat, Avreone was fatally dangerous. He noted the spell blade hilt clipped at her waist. It was even more elaborate, inscribed with runes and glyphs than Cenine’s. A mark XII? Regardless of its make, he didn’t want to be on the business end of it.

“You will find that every mage has their own advantages and disadvantages. The trick is knowing how to adjust to them. Reaction will only get you so far, however. It relies too much on luck. It sacrifices momentum and initiative. You allow your opponent to dictate the terms of battle. Eventually, luck will fail you.” She gave the pink spot on his stomach an intentional glance.

“So, how do I take command of the fight if I don’t even know my form?”

“By mastering all aspects of combat. You could have countered Cenine’s spell bolt, instead you evaded. Had you been a fraction slower, it would have been a lot more than just a hole I was patching up. This shows you lack some aspects of spell combat. Your swordsmanship is barely adequate. Your physical condition needs work. We haven’t touched on your piloting at all. To put it simply? You need more training. What have might suffice to throw yourself against poorly trained ground troops of the Sauridius, but against more capable opponents? You’ll come up short. Lesson 1 is free. The rest will cost you in sweat and effort.”

Ouch. She wasn’t wrong, though. But why is it everyone always wanted to poke holes in his skills instead of teaching him how to fill those in? Ok, well up till now anyway. He hated feeling always behind the curve. But he was big enough to admit she was right. He got lucky on Hidros, and he couldn’t always count on luck to carry him.

“Okay. There are gaps in my training. Even I recognize that. I’ll put up with the hazing. I’ll put up with the bullshit. I’ll even let Cenine call me a peasant, if you can teach me.”

“The question isn’t if we can teach you. It’s are you capable of learning?” Avreone said.

“I am. And I will.”

Avreone studied him silently for several moments. Sizing him up. Weighing his words. Everything seemed to be a matter of deliberation for her. He got the feeling she would be a terrible opponent to challenge at strategy games. “Very well. Your mentor will Spell Warrior 2nd class Cenine will handle your training.”

“Headmaster Av-” Cenine protested.

“Catch him up to speed, Cenine.” Avreone gave Cenine a look that conveyed there was no arguing about the matter.

Cenine relented with a huff, “Come along, peasant. I’ll show you to your dorm.”

This would be fine. He could do this. Right? He’d agreed to it, after all. With a quiet sigh, he fetched his armor, then followed Cenine to start his training.