Walking through the door, Riven was met with a sight that seemed utterly out of place in the tavern. While the rest of the establishment was composed of rough, untreated wood—its walls and floors scuffed and worn from years of use—this room was crafted with the highest quality materials. Dark, polished wood paneled the walls, a plush carpet stretched across the floor, and a grand stone fireplace rested against the right wall. A gleaming mahogany table stood at the center, paired with a luxurious leather chair so well-cushioned it looked like one could sink right into it. To the side, a towering bookshelf overflowed with tomes and rune crystals, their faint glow hinting at enchantments of notable power.

Roman didn’t slow down. He strode across the room with purpose, heading for another door in the far-right corner.

“Where are we going?” Riven asked, his voice laced with confusion.

Roman grunted in response and shoved the door open without a word.

Riven sighed, slumping his shoulders slightly, but followed. The moment he stepped through, his eyes went wide.

An entire training ground stretched before him—vast, open, and impossibly large. The floor was covered in sanded sparring areas, benches were scattered around the edges, and weapon racks lined the walls, their steel contents gleaming under the light. The sheer scale of it was staggering. It had to be at least as big as the tavern itself.

Wait. That’s not possible.

Riven stood rooted to the spot, mind racing as he tried to piece together the room’s impossible dimensions. I walked around the tavern’s perimeter. There’s no way a place like this was attached. His gaze darted from wall to wall, scanning for an explanation, before finally landing on something that made his breath hitch.

Embedded into each wall of the rectangular space was a massive, head-sized gemstone, its surface carved with glowing blue runes.

No. It couldn’t be.

Riven rubbed his eyes, blinking rapidly. But the sight didn’t change. His lips parted slightly, and a single word slipped out.

“Wow.”

Spatial anchors. That makes sense. But how did this guy afford them?

From what Riven recalled of his father’s stories—tales spun around the fire after long days of hunting—such devices weren’t something one could just buy, even with hundreds of platinum coins. They were priced in magic stones, rare and invaluable.

He turned his gaze toward Roman, who was now standing before a wooden weapon rack, casually surveying the collection. Riven had known the man wasn’t ordinary, but this… this was far beyond what he’d expected.

His curiosity, as always, got the better of him.

“These are spatial anchors, right?” he asked, unable to keep the amazement from his voice.

Roman didn’t immediately answer, his attention still fixed on the weapons. A few seconds later, a quiet sigh escaped his lips.

“Yes. And they were a gift. No more questions.”

Riven nodded, making a mental note of that particular wording before stepping closer.

Roman finally turned, gesturing to the rack. “I can tell you have no mastery with any weapon, so just pick one. We’ll figure out the best fit for your body from there.”

Am I that bad? He could tell just by looking at me?

Deflated, Riven obeyed, his gaze drifting across the weapons. His mind flickered to images of warriors—one wielding a noble sword, another commanding a vicious spear. The spear, in particular, called to him. He reached for it, gripping its shaft, only to realize just how heavy it was.

Even with my enhanced body, this thing is dense. Must be made of enchanted materials.

Gritting his teeth, he channeled his amber mana, letting it flood his limbs, reinforcing his muscles. The moment it took effect, the spear lightened, its weight shifting into something much more manageable.

Roman scowled at the display. “Put your mana away.”

Riven frowned. “Why? It helps me handle the spear better.”

A muscle in Roman’s jaw twitched. He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as if warding off a headache.

“This is going to be a pain,” he muttered under his breath. Then, more clearly, “You can’t master a weapon if you don’t start from the base—your body, without mana.”

Riven hesitated. That didn’t make sense. His father had always drilled the importance of mana control into him—enhancing one’s body whenever possible was a fundamental principle. But…

He also didn’t want to waste five gold coins on a lesson he wasn’t willing to learn.

With a reluctant sigh, he reined in his mana, pulling it back into his core. The spear immediately regained its full weight, tipping slightly from where he had it resting on his shoulder. The unexpected shift nearly made him stumble.

Roman caught the spear before it could slip. He studied Riven for a moment, then gave a quiet “Hmmm,” before turning and stepping into a circular sand pit nearby.

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Riven straightened, gripping the spear properly, holding it vertical the way he’d seen some of the guards do. Then, without a word, he followed Roman into the pit.

“Hit me with your best shot,” Roman said, his tone serious.

Riven didn’t hesitate. He simply shrugged, shifting into a wide stance—one he’d seen warriors use before. Gripping the spear with both hands, he held it horizontally, the tip aimed directly at Roman. Then, with a burst of movement, he lunged forward, thrusting the spear straight at his opponent.

Riven barely registered Roman’s movement before everything went wrong. The spear suddenly felt heavier, jerking off course, its tip plunging into the sand. The abrupt stop sent Riven tumbling forward, his face colliding with the shaft mid-fall, slamming painfully against his forehead. He reeled back, landing in an undignified heap.

What the hell was that?

Laughter cut through the throbbing in his skull.

Still disoriented, Riven pushed himself up and glared at Roman, who was grinning like he’d just seen the funniest thing in the world.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded.

Roman’s chuckling died down, replaced by a matter-of-fact expression. “Your form was so bad, I barely had to do anything. I just stepped to the side and smacked the shaft downward, redirecting your momentum straight into the ground.”

“Wait—you can do that?”

Riven was beyond baffled. He hadn’t even realized something like that was possible. Unfortunately, he didn’t get a chance to mull it over, because Roman had already moved on.

“Pick another weapon,” he ordered. “Let’s go again.”

Riven wanted to argue, to insist he be given another shot with the spear, but he held his tongue. He’d never felt particularly attached to the weapon anyway. Maybe it was for the best.

With a sigh, he approached the rack and grabbed a broadsword. Testing its weight, he swung it experimentally.

A grin spread across his face.

Yes. This is what I’m talking about.

The sword felt right in his hands, its weight solid but not cumbersome. His grip tightened as he made his way back to the sand pit, taking a more stable stance. He held the blade away from his body, angled for a proper strike.

I’m not making the same mistake twice.

This time, he focused not just on where he planned to land his attack, but on Roman’s entire body. Any shift, any movement—he would see it coming.

“Come on then,” Roman taunted.

Riven smirked. He lunged, swinging diagonally for Roman’s chest while keeping a close eye on his arms for a counter.

At the last moment, Roman jumped back, dodging effortlessly.

Damn it!

Riven had put too much force into the attack, and the momentum carried the blade all the way down. The sword crashed into the sand, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

Gritting his teeth, he moved to pull it back and try again—only to find the blade wouldn’t budge.

His eyes snapped up.

Roman stood over him, grinning wickedly, his foot planted firmly on the sword’s hilt.

Annoyance flared through Riven. He let go of the sword, straightened up, and leveled an unamused stare at his opponent.

“That,” Roman said, shaking his head, “was probably the worst swing in the history of that sword’s existence.”

Riven clenched his jaw, tempted to argue, to demand another try with his favorite weapon—but Roman was already gesturing to the weapon rack.

“Next,” he ordered, his voice leaving no room for debate.

Muttering curses under his breath, Riven turned back to pick another weapon.

A few tries later, Riven lay sprawled in the coarse sand, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. For the past hour, Roman had been beating him senseless as he cycled through weapon after weapon, trying— and failing— to land a proper hit. This was a bad idea, he thought for the hundredth time, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

"You are, without a doubt, the most hopeless student I’ve ever trained," Roman said, shaking his head.

Riven had enough. Through sheer exhaustion, he managed to wheeze out, "Maybe if you let me fight with the same weapon more than once, things would be different."

Roman’s stern expression softened slightly as he exhaled. "You still don’t get it, kid. Every warrior has a natural affinity for a certain weapon—maybe not a perfect match, but something that suits them." His gaze was sharp, his tone almost reluctant. "You, however, don’t seem to have the slightest connection to any of them."

Riven’s frustration gave way to something colder, heavier. The same sinking feeling from when he was first told he couldn't bond with powerful beasts gripped his heart. His fingers curled into a fist over his chest. At least my soul is powerful, even if nothing else is.

Before the weight of that thought could crush him, a ripple of warmth pulsed through his mind, brushing against the edges of his consciousness. Confused, Riven focused on it, tracing its source—Luna.

Perched atop a nearby shelf, curled up with her tail wrapped around herself, she peered down at him with quiet reassurance. A small smile tugged at Riven’s lips. Yeah, you’re right. Too soon to give up.

Drawing strength from that moment, he dug his fingers into the sand and pushed himself upright. "Let’s continue." That was all he said before striding toward the nearly empty weapon rack.

Roman folded his arms. "The weapons left are all complex—not what a newbie should be handling—but what the hell, let’s see what happens."

As Riven neared the rack he realised only four weapons remained. Most were foreign to him, save for one—the scythe.

His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for it, wrapping both hands around the smooth, worn handle. The moment he lifted it, something clicked. The weight felt natural. The balance was perfect. He didn’t know how to use a scythe, and yet, his body moved as if it had been waiting for this weapon all along.

A grin spread across his face. This. This felt right.

Walking back to the sand pit, he took his stance, angling the scythe diagonally downward, its wicked blade jutting out to his right.

Roman watched him with a calculating gaze. "Begin."

Riven didn’t hesitate. He lunged, twisting his body instinctively, swinging the scythe in a deadly arc toward Roman’s neck.

Roman’s eyes flickered with surprise, his grin turning genuine as he ducked left, narrowly dodging the strike.

Riven didn’t stop. He planted his foot, used the momentum to swing the weapon back around, angling for another strike.

This time, Roman stepped in, redirecting the scythe’s path with the palm of his hand. In the same motion, his other hand lashed out, striking Riven square in the solar plexus.

Riven’s vision blurred. The air in his lungs vanished. His body rocketed backward, slamming into the wall with a dull thud.

"Finally," Roman said, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath. "Now that was a good swing."

Riven groaned, pressing a hand to his pounding head as he staggered upright. "Was that really necessary?"

Roman didn’t answer. But there was relief in his eyes.