The instructor's voice carried authority as he addressed the gathered children. "Now that you’ve got the hang of it, it’s time to put what you learned into practice."
Their gazes collectively shifted to the side, where a dark-armored figure approached. This was the same figure who had adjusted their armor earlier. Floating just above his head was a shifting mass of metal—a cluster of shields and swords, each moving in a slow, deliberate orbit. The weapons varied in condition; some gleamed with careful upkeep, while others bore the unmistakable signs of rust and wear.
With a downward motion of his gauntleted hand, the armored figure guided the weapons toward the ground. The pile settled with a dull clatter of metal upon dirt..
“Now, each of you, grab a sword and a shield,” the instructor commanded.
Some children hesitated, while other rushed ahead. Each selecting a weapon and shield from the heap.
Some took pristine arms, while others ended up with gear marred by time and use. Regardless of what they picked, their hands tightened around their grips, the weight of the steel unfamiliar yet thrilling.
Once all had their sets, the instructor addressed them again. “Before we begin, I will show you how a shield and a sword should be used.”
From the pile, he selected his own pair—a small, battered shield and a short sword that looked almost comically tiny in comparison to his massive, armored frame. Yet, despite the mismatch in proportions, the moment he took his stance, all amusement faded. The children watched in silence, drawn in by the sheer presence of the warrior before them.
With a controlled movement, the instructor raised his shield, tilting it at a slight angle rather than holding it flat. “A shield is not merely for blocking,” he explained, his voice steady. “A flat shield absorbs the full impact of a strike, making you stagger or lose your footing. Held at an angle, it deflects the force away, making it easier to recover and counterattack.”
He demonstrated by pivoting on his back foot, moving his shield subtly as if redirecting an invisible blow. The motion was smooth, effortless—a sign of countless years of experience.
“Now, the sword,” he continued, adjusting his grip on the hilt. “Swinging wildly will get you killed. A proper strike is controlled, precise. You do not fight the enemy’s weapon—you fight the enemy. Every movement must serve a purpose.”
With a single step forward, he executed a lightning-fast slash, the blade cutting through the air with an audible hiss. There was no wasted effort, no unnecessary flourish—just pure efficiency. The children flinched at the speed, realizing that despite the heavy armor, he moved like a seasoned predator, fluid and deliberate.
“Your footwork matters as much as your weapon,” he continued, taking a step back and then to the side in a seamless motion. “A poor stance leaves you open. You must always be ready to shift, to adjust, to strike or defend as the battle demands.”
The instructor lowered his weapons and regarded the children, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension. “Now,” he said, his voice steady but firm, “it is your turn. Show me what you’ve learned.”
The kids started to practice what they just saw .
The instructor moved between the students, using a wooden baton to adjust their stances and correct their movements. His sharp gaze caught every flaw, and each correction came with a brief comment—pointed but not cruel, demanding their improvement without coddling them.
He stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he observed Cale. "Very good, young man. Have you trained like this before?"
Cale halted his movement, glancing up at the instructor. "No, sir." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It just feels... natural."
A sharp glare from Tristan pierced through him. The envy he had tried to suppress all morning stirred again, rising unbidden.
"You have talent. Resume your practice." The instructor’s words carried weight but little warmth. Without another word, he moved on, stepping before Tristan next.
"You have precision, but you lack strength. With strikes like that, you’ll be lucky to even scratch your opponent’s armor."
Tristan clenched his jaw. "Yes, sir." He adjusted his grip and put more force into his next strikes.
The instructor’s gaze then settled on Davion. A smirk tugged at his lips. 'This kid has potential,' he thought but said nothing as he watched Davion’s strikes. They weren’t perfect, but the boy was learning quickly. He let him continue without interference.
After some time, the instructor raised his baton and brought the session to a halt. "Form pairs for duels and head to the sand pits."
Cale turned instinctively to Tristan, expecting to pair with him as they had in the morning’s grappling match. But Tristan was already gone, talking to Davion.
Cale took a step toward them, intending to ask, when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Fingers pressed down with just enough force to make him stiffen.
He turned and froze.
"You don’t have a partner, do you? Let me be yours." Garret’s smirk was sharp, predatory. It sent a cold shiver down Cale’s spine.
Cale opened his mouth, hesitation warring with his instincts, but he stopped himself. Instead, he offered a defeated nod. Garret’s smirk grew wider, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
Davion approached them. "Sorry, Cale. Tristan wants me as his partner. Are you okay with that?"
"Yeah, I’m fine," Cale said, his voice quieter than usual.
Once Davion left, Garret wrapped his arm around Cale’s neck from the side.
"That’s more like it, little brother," Garret said, his grip tightening—just enough to remind Cale of the difference in their size and strength.
The walk to the sand pit.
The pairs lined up, their swords and shields raised.
"Begin!" the instructor shouted.
The sound of clashing steel rang through the air as the children engaged, but Cale barely heard it over the pounding of his heart.
Garret lunged first.
It was like facing down a savage beast. Garret’s movements were not those of a disciplined fighter but of a predator pouncing on wounded prey. His strikes came heavy and wild, each one carrying the weight of brute force rather than finesse. Cale barely had time to raise his shield before the first blow crashed against it. The impact sent a jarring vibration up his arm, rattling his bones.
He took a step back, then another. His instincts screamed at him to run.
Garret pressed forward, his sword an unrelenting force as it hammered down against Cale’s shield. Again. And again. The dull steel clashed against metal , ringing in Cale’s ears like a war drum signaling his demise.
Fear gripped his heart.
He couldn’t keep up. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t strike back.
The thought of getting hit—of that heavy blade slamming into his ribs, his legs, his arms—made his stomach twist. He knew the swords were dulled, but that didn’t matter. His mind painted vivid images of himself being struck down, crumpling to the sand, gasping for air as Garret loomed over him in victory. The fear spiraled, wrapping around him like chains, tightening with every step he took backward.
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Another strike. His shield wavered.
Another. His knees buckled.
Then, through the haze of terror, he heard it.
A low hum. The deep, steady resonance of metal shifting, of armor moving.
The sound reached into the storm of his thoughts, cutting through the panic, anchoring him.
Cale drew in a breath, slow and deep. The shield felt less like a wall to cower behind and more like something solid—something he could trust. The weight of it became a reminder of his own strength. His grip tightened. His heart still pounded, but now it beat with purpose, not fear.
Garret swung again.
This time, Cale didn’t just block—he deflected. A subtle angle, a shift in movement. The strike slid off his shield rather than crashing into it. Garret grunted in surprise, momentarily thrown off balance.
Cale stepped forward, not back.
The battle changed.
It was a fight of David and Goliath, a boy against a brute, but something had shifted. Garret was bigger, stronger, more aggressive—but Cale had focus. His mind was no longer drowning in fear. He was in control.
Garret came at him with another vicious strike, but Cale moved with purpose. He sidestepped, angling his shield just enough to make Garret’s attack glance off harmlessly. Another step. Another deflection.
He wasn’t losing anymore.
He was fighting.
Garret growled in frustration, lifting his sword high for a heavy overhead swing. It was a mistake. A desperate attempt to overpower him.
Cale reacted.
As the blade came down, he turned his body and stepped into Garret’s space, raising his shield at an angle. The sword struck the shield but, instead of absorbing the force, Cale used it—redirecting the momentum just as the instructor had shown earlier. The blade skidded off, throwing Garret off balance.
Now.
Cale surged forward, ramming his shield into Garret’s chest with all the force he could muster.
Garret stumbled back, his footing lost. Sand kicked up around him as he flailed to regain control. Cale didn’t give him the chance. With a swift motion, he swung his dull blade, stopping just short of Garret’s exposed side.
The fight was over.
Garret froze, his breath heavy, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Cale blinked, still processing what had just happened. His gaze flickered from Garret to the instructor, then to the other trainees. He looked around, confusion written all over his face. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, as if trying to ground himself in reality.
He didn't know how to explain it—not even to himself.
One moment, he had been drowning in fear, barely holding his shield up against the relentless onslaught. The next, everything had become sharp, clear. His heartbeat, the hum of metal shifting, the weight of his blade in his hand—it had all blended into something deeper, something instinctual.
It wasn't just focus. It was something more.
His body had moved on its own, each step, each deflection, each strike landing with purpose. He hadn’t thought—he had simply acted, as though he had done it a thousand times before.
Garret’s face twisted in frustration. With a grunt, he stood up and raised his sword to strike Cale, his anger boiling over. But before he could swing, something whistled through the air and struck him squarely on the head.
A wooden baton—flung with perfect precision.
“That fight is over!” the instructor’s voice rang out, sharp as steel.
Garret froze in place, his hands tightening around his weapon as his face burned with barely contained rage. His glare turned murderous as he shot one final look at Cale before storming out of the pit, his steps heavy with frustration.
Cale exhaled, his grip loosening as the tension drained from his body. His muscles ached, but his mind was still caught in the whirlwind of the fight. Without thinking, he walked out of the training pit and collapsed onto the ground, his back pressing against the cool earth. He let his eyes drift upward, locking onto the endless stretch of blue sky above.
The weight of the day settled over him.
A faint scuff of boots against dirt made him turn his head to the right. Someone was approaching.
He met Davion’s gaze.
The other boy had a soft smile on his face, his usual cautious demeanor momentarily absent. Without a word, Davion lowered himself onto the ground beside Cale, mirroring his posture, both of them staring up at the sky in comfortable silence.
"So, you beat Garret," Davion finally said, his tone carrying both admiration and a hint of amusement.
Cale offered a small nod. "Somehow, I did."
Davion's smile faded as his expression turned serious. His brows furrowed slightly, his jaw tightening.
"Be careful with Garret," he warned, voice low and firm. "I know the kind of guy he is. He won’t let this go. He’ll want his revenge."
Cale sat up, drawing his knees to his chest. He wrapped his arms around them, staring down at the dirt beneath his feet. His fingers clenched slightly.
"He’s my roommate," Cale confessed.
Davion’s head snapped toward him, his frown deepening.
"What?" There was a sharpness to his voice, an edge of concern. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and placed a hand on Cale’s shoulder, his grip steady and reassuring.
"If he does something to you, tell me," Davion said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I’ll make sure he learns his lesson."
A warm smile appeared on Davion’s face, but it wasn’t just for comfort—it was a promise.
Cale hesitated, his lips parting as if to speak. He wanted to tell Davion everything. About how Garret had nearly choked the life out of him, about the way his smirk made his skin crawl, about the weight of fear that still sat in his chest like a stone.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, he swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded.
----------------------------------------
After the fights were over, the kids removed their armor and carefully placed their shields and swords back in their designated spots. The dark-armored figure, a metal mage, raised his hand, and with an effortless motion, the scattered equipment lifted from the ground. The metal pieces—armor, shields, and swords—merged into a single, massive sphere, floating effortlessly above his head. Without a word, he turned and walked toward an adjacent building that resembled a storage shed, the hovering metal following him like a silent sentinel.
The instructor left the yard, and in his place, Alden stepped forward. His piercing gaze swept over the gathered children, his presence commanding instant silence.
"Today, I will show you how a metal mage fights," he declared, his voice steady and unwavering. "You are not yet at the level to wield this power yourselves, but today, I will teach you the basic movements."
Excited murmurs rippled through the group. The anticipation was palpable.
"Take a few steps back," Alden instructed.
The kids obeyed, creating space in the yard as the dark-armored figure returned, metal sheets floating in a slow orbit around him. He approached Alden and, with a simple flick of his wrist, sent the sheets gliding gently to the ground beside him.
Alden exhaled, his stance shifting ever so slightly. Then, with a sweeping motion of his arm, the metal sheets shot into the air, hovering like waiting sentries. His fingers twitched, and the sheets bent and curled as if they were alive, reshaping into razor-thin blades, their edges gleaming under the sun. He turned his palm, and the floating blades circled him in a synchronized dance, controlled with nothing but his will.
The kids watched in awe.
With a sharp movement, Alden thrust his hand forward. Instantly, the blades shot toward an empty wooden target at the edge of the training yard. Instead of piercing straight through, the metal warped and twisted mid-flight, wrapping around the post in a spiral before contracting, crushing the wood into splinters.
He wasn’t just throwing metal—he was commanding it.
Alden turned his gaze back to the children. Without breaking his focus, he spread his arms wide. The shards of the broken wood and the twisted metal lifted from the ground, reforming in midair. The metal stretched and flattened, merging back into perfect, untouched sheets as if they had never been used. With a final motion, the metal sheets settled at his feet once more, completely restored.
The yard was silent. The kids stood frozen, their eyes wide with disbelief and admiration.
Alden smirked. "This is what it means to be a metal mage. It is not brute force, nor mindless destruction. It is precision. Control. Mastery. And one day, if you are strong enough, you may wield this power yourselves."
The air felt heavier, charged with the weight of the moment.
“Sir?” a boy asked, raising his hand hesitantly.
“Yes?” Alden responded, turning his sharp gaze to the child.
“Didn’t you say you were an earth mage?” the boy questioned, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“I am an earth mage,” Alden confirmed, his voice steady. “But I also have a dual affinity for metal. My second affinity is much weaker than my first.” He let his eyes sweep across the gathered children, letting the weight of his words settle over them. “But that does not mean I have not trained it to its limit. I cannot count the number of times my control over metal—weak as it is—has saved my life.”
The children remained silent, absorbing his words, some nodding in newfound understanding.
“Enough talking. The sun will start to set soon. Let’s get some practice in,” Alden commanded, his tone brooking no argument.
For two hours straight, he had them practice slow, deliberate movements—each one a reflection of what he had demonstrated earlier. The training was grueling, demanding, yet oddly rhythmic. He showed them how to chain movements together, when to move with the flow of battle and when to break the rhythm. When to be slow, precise—when to strike fast, unyielding. He taught them to control their breath, to regulate it with each shift of their stance, to move in harmony with the earth beneath them. He drilled into them the importance of stable footing, of balance, of never overextending beyond what they could control.
Despite the number of children before him, Alden’s gaze remained fixed mostly on Cale.
He saw it—felt it.
Every movement the boy made was too natural, too fluid. There was no hesitation, no struggle—only instinct, as if he had done this before, as if the knowledge had always been inside him, waiting to be drawn out. More than that, Alden could feel something else. The metal buried deep within the ground hummed in response to the boy’s presence, faint but undeniable, as if waiting for a command that had not yet been spoken.
Alden’s suspicions only grew stronger.
And if his instincts were right, then this boy was something far more significant than any of them realized.