“A two-handed mace?” Professor Date’s voice held a faint note of confusion as she glanced from me to the mace in my hand. Her brow furrowed, puzzlement flickering across her face.
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes darted to the tablet in her hand, scrolling through my file. “Your records show you wielded a sword before. Why the sudden change?”
Was she genuinely curious, or was this just part of the academic protocol? I couldn’t tell. Either way, I didn’t have a real answer for her. What was I supposed to say? That I switched weapons because of the physiology enhancement programme? Yeah, that’d go over well. I decided to make up an answer on the spot.
“I did wield a sword before,” I admitted, adjusting my grip on the mace’s haft. “But it never felt natural.”
“Natural?” Professor Date queried, one eyebrow arching slightly.
"It never felt right. It was too elegant for someone like me. The mace suits me: raw, straightforward, and powerful—”
“'Powerful'?” she repeated, interrupting me, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. But I caught it.
“Yes, ma’am,” I curtly replied, not wanting to entertain her nonsense. “I’ll continue training with the sword, but I’ve decided to change my primary weapon.”
“I’ll make a note of it.” Professor Date looked back at her tablet, tapping something. “Few have chosen such a… brutish weapon,” she remarked while studying her tablet.
I didn’t miss the condescension in her tone when she uttered brutish.
We stood near the weapon repository’s door, where I noticed a few students lingering, while others moved to their respective divisions.
“What do you mean by ‘few’?” I asked.
"No one from class A1, other than you, has opted for a heavy weapon. There is one other student from class A2 who has selected the war hammer, though," Professor Date said, reading her tablet.
She nodded and continued, “Make sure you continue with your mana-shaping exercises. Your affinity test will be re-conducted in the coming days.”
“Yes, ma’am, I will.”
“Head to Section A21-HW division. You’ll find Vmb El-Ferath there, the heavy weapons instructor. Good luck.”
Now…uh.
I stood there for a few seconds, debating whether to ask about the academy transfer procedure.
“Anything else?” she asked in a stern tone.
I pushed the thought aside. “No, ma’am. I’ll take my leave.”
Following Professor Date’s directions, I arrived at the training ground’s heavy weapon's division and unlocked the door.
Click!
A hint of an earthy scent brushed past my nose. Gentle, warm rays of sunlight struck my face. The sound of metal clanging echoed in the distance.
I took a step; the soil crunched underfoot.
An atrium-like courtyard came into view, bustling with activity.
Nearby, I noticed wooden weapon racks holding war hammers, battle axes, and greatswords. I decided to put my mace there.
I turned around to spot the courtyard's centerpiece: a towering oak tree. Its thick branches supported iron beams and a pulley system for climbing ropes. A few men were practicing near it, swinging what appeared to be maces with large, bulbous heads. They wore sweat-soaked activewear and protective gloves.
Some were climbing thick ropes and coming down before repeating the process. One person stood out—practicing deliberate, fluid movements with a bastard sword.
The ground itself was... dusty. No, it would be more correct to say that the entire training area was layered with compact soil.
There were targets, positioned as padded dummies, to my left. Behind them was a big rust bucket—a military-grade RV, probably 25 meters in length. It even had antennas and satellite dishes atop it.
To my left, an open area was designated for sparring, with faint chalk and rope boundaries. In it, I noticed a guy around my age wielding a big war hammer, swinging it at an old man who simply grabbed the hammer and delivered what I can only describe as a 'palm uppercut'. The guy stumbled back, losing balance, and his war hammer fell to the ground.
There was also a basic seating area—a gazebo with benches set up as an amenity. Some old men... a bit too muscular for their age, were resting there, wiping sweat off with towels and sipping water. Given their ages, I assumed one of them must be the instructor.
I approached them, taking a deep breath.
Heads turned, their curious gazes momentarily resting on me.
I entered the gazebo and asked, “Are you...uh, is the instructor? I've been assigned here to learn.”
They exchanged amused glances before one of them stood up with a grin. “We’re not the instructors,” he said, his laughter punctuated by a heavy slap on my back that nearly sent me stumbling.
“You don’t look like the type for heavy weapons,” the man added with a smirk.
I felt out of place.
“I see. Who is the instructor then?”
He gestured to the sparring area. “That old man over there—Vmb El-Ferath.”
“Ah, I see…” I nodded and headed directly to the sparring arena that was lined with chalk boundary.
Just as I was approaching, a loud clang echoed in the distance, and a massive, blunt object flew my way.
"Watch out!” came a cry in the air.
It spun wildly, closing the distance too fast for me to react properly.
But my body moved faster than my mind. Nano’s voice rang in my head, but I couldn't catch what it said.
[Activating battle mode!] flashed across my vision.
I found the world warping. There were dull sounds, hard to register, and every motion dragged like a weight through thick syrup.
Before I could understand anything, I felt it…or rather, the absence of feeling: a hollow severing, as though my body had been switched off and rewired. It was like being “possessed”. Not in control. My muscles coiled like a serpent and snapped like tightly wound springs. My foot intercepted it mid-spin. It was a war hammer. Nano's intervention felt invasive. A disgusting sensation tore through my leg—sharp, quick, and ghostly, like a memory of pain rather than the real thing, as though it belonged to someone else. The surrealism faded, replaced by a slow, liquid burn curling through my foot, winding tighter with every heartbeat, until it threatened to snap me apart. Something shifted painfully in my hips just as the hammer slammed into the ground.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Another message lit up in my vision:
[Numbing sensory nerves, initiating healing process.]
The discomfort vanished almost instantly.
I didn't know Nano could do that, I thought.
“Thanks, Nano,” I muttered under my breath, still frowning. I shook my foot to make sure it would respond to me.
Nano gave me the equivalent of a mental nod.
"Watch where you're going!” A teenage boy, about my age, walked up to me and scolded in a slightly irritated tone. He had Asian features.
"I lost my grip while clashing with Master," he said, picking up the war hammer from the ground. His face hardened into a disapproving frown as he glanced at me.
“It's alright,” I replied.
“That’s why I keep telling you to grip your weapon properly!” a rough voice broke the moment.
I looked past the guy to find a man, probably around sixty years old. I couldn’t gauge his rank; it was as if he had tucked it away, like a wolf sheathing its fangs. A beard ring glinted in his mountain goat-like beard, and his gorilla-like nose was adorned with a large septum ring. Tattoos spiraled across his bald head, and his thick, muscular build seemed out of sync with the weathered age etched into his features. By his side rested a large wooden mace, its presence less a weapon and more an extension of his being. He wasn’t tall, perhaps five five, but power clung to him like an aura, dense and palpable. His gait was unusual, marked by a deliberate, shorter step on his left side that hinted at an old injury.
He squinted at me, his gaze deliberate, weighing. His fingers popped one by one. “Who are you?”
“I—”
“Dangerous to just wander near a sparring arena, isn’t it?” His words cut me off before I could finish. “Sharp reflexes though, I must admit.”
“Apologies, sir. I’m Noah Grey, first year, Class A1. Professor Date assigned me to the heavy weapons division.”
“Another newbie?” He raised a brow. Then his eyes flicked to the Asian boy for a moment, as though comparing us. “Didn’t expect two students fool enough to choose heavy weapons in their first year. Most of you go for featherweight toys.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say.
“Well, did you bring your training wear?” he asked.
We needed training wear? How come I wasn't informed? I thought.
“No, sir,” I admitted.
“Figures.” He sighed. “What weapon, then?”
“A mace as the primary weapon. A sword as the secondary,” I said.
His head tilted slightly, a gesture somewhere between approval and indifference. “Uh-huh. That works. I’ll teach you. First, go get activewear from the locker. Myung Joon, show him the way.” He jerked his thumb toward the military-grade RV in the distance.
I blinked. “That’s the locker?” I blurted before I could stop myself.
Myung Joon, my attempted murderer, brushed past me toward the locker, breaking my reverie. I sighed and found myself following after him.
As we approached the so-called "locker," I couldn't resist asking, “Why is a military-grade RV being used as a locker?”
“What do you care?” Myung Joon, the Asian boy, now my reluctant guide, snapped back. He walked a step ahead of me, exuding a no-nonsense vibe that bordered on outright hostility.
I decided not to push. “Alright,” I replied.
He didn’t respond, just grumbled something incoherent as he swung the RV door open and climbed in with practiced ease. The vehicle loomed ahead, towering at least 12 feet high.
Getting inside was less dignified than I’d hoped. With the bus floor raised and the awkward entrance, I had to crouch and squeeze my way in. Myung Joon, of course, didn’t bother offering a hand.
The interior was utilitarian, more practical than comfortable. Rows of matte-black lockers with yellow numbering lined the walls. Metal benches bisected the space. The floor was a yellow-grey composite.
I glanced around, nodding to myself. “Not too shabby…”
Slap!
Before I could take another step, something smacked into my face from the left.
The stinging impact drew a reflexive groan. “Ouch! What the hell, man?” I snapped, glaring at Myung Joon.
He didn’t bother answering. I glanced down to see what he had thrown at me—a small set of keys, glinting on the floor.
“That’s your locker key. Change,” he said curtly, brushing past my shoulder on his way out.
“At least apologize!” I called after him, but he ignored me entirely, the door slamming shut behind him.
I exhaled sharply, clutching the keys.
Friendly bunch, I thought, shaking my head before heading to find my assigned locker.
* * *
Dressed in a fitted grey crew-neck T-shirt, compression tights layered with training shorts, knee pads, and gloves, I arrived in front of Vmb El-Ferath.
The old man gave me a scrutinizing once-over before scratching his bald head. “Have you practiced with a mace before?”
“No, sir.”
“Mmhm.” He nodded thoughtfully, then turned toward the gazebo and let out a sharp whistle, following it with a nod and a motion for someone to come over.
I turned to see a guard in the formal academy uniform approaching us, carrying a metallic rod-like object in his hand. His steps were brisk and purposeful.
What’s this about? I thought, glancing between the guard and Vmb.
When the guard reached us, Vmb greeted him with a firm nod and a casual, “Appreciate it, Zulu.” His tone was professional but carried an easy familiarity, as though he respected the man.
The guard handed him the object, a mace, I realized upon closer inspection, and responded with a brief nod of acknowledgment before stepping back. The exchange was quick, efficient, and devoid of ceremony, but it gave me the impression that Vmb wasn’t one to overlook even the smallest contributors to his work.
“This,” Vmb said, turning back to me with the mace in hand, “is a 10 kg, two-handed mace. Traditionally, it’s called a gada.” He extended it toward me, its black iron surface dull but imposing.
“It’s light,” I said, lifting it with ease.
“Consider it a gift. It’ll help you practice as a beginner. May seem light, but you’ll see,” he said, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
See what? I wondered, glancing down at him—not in the condescending way, of course. Vmb was just short.
We stood on the soil-packed practice ground, my bare feet sinking slightly into its texture. The soil felt strange…subtly oily to the touch, with a peculiar, earthy fragrance. If I had to assume, they added something to it.
“Let’s start with the basics. Do you know the science of stretching? Begin with arm circles,” he said.
As I began the motion, I replied, “No, sir.”
“Figured as much. First rule of stretching: relax. You need to relax to lengthen. Without relaxation, your muscles won’t respond properly. You getting what I’m saying?”
“I don’t think I follow, sir.”
“Mmhm, understandable. With time, you will. Now, the second rule: breathe in through your nose and exhale through your mouth. That’s what keeps your muscles oxygenated and prevents cramping. This isn’t stretching yet, by the way.”
I nodded, still unsure of where this was heading.
“At ease now. Shoulder rolls,” he instructed, and I switched to rolling my shoulders.
“Third rule: never rush through it. Hold the stretch for at least two minutes if you’re aiming for any long-term gains. And listen to your body. Pain isn’t progress.”
I nodded again, thinking, This feels more like a lecture than a warm-up.
He continued guiding me through a series of stretches, correcting my form with precision. “Don’t just move; engage. When you do a cross-body stretch, keep your elbow slightly bent. That way, your muscles don’t slack off. With thoracic twists, make sure you’re twisting from the upper spine, not the lower. The lower back isn’t designed to handle too much rotation—it’s your thoracic region that needs mobility. Loosen up, don't tighten. No, like this, this. Pay attention to your posture. Breathe properly.”
By the time the warm-up was over, I was drenched in sweat.
“Now,” he said, pointing to the mace he’d handed me earlier, “let’s get to swinging this mace. First thing: don’t tense up. It’s just 10 kg, but if you stiffen, it’ll feel twice as heavy. Let the weight work for you. What’s your dominant hand?”
“Right hand, sir.”
“Good. Right hand. This is the basic exercise mace practitioners use. Here’s how to pick up the gada: position the head near your left foot, and grip the handle with your right hand close to the bottom end. Use your legs to lift, not just your arms.”
He demonstrated effortlessly, picking up his massive mace like it was a twig.
“Now, lift it straight up—like this!” He raised the mace into a downward-facing T-shape, his elbows slightly bent.
“Keep your wrists neutral and your shoulders down. Don’t shrug or overextend.”
“From here, slide your left hand down to meet your right. Your grip should be relaxed but firm, like holding a bird—tight enough that it doesn’t escape but not so tight that you crush it. If your hands are too high on the handle, near your chest, it will be harder to swing. See where my hands are? Right in front of my navel. That’s your starting position. Go!”
I mirrored his stance, ensuring my grip and posture matched his demonstration.
“Now, Noah, see my right hand? My index finger is pointing to the left. That indicates the direction of the drop. It’s important to maintain this alignment. No wild wrist movements.”
I nodded, watching as he tilted the mace.
“The gada’s head will drop to the left because of the direction my finger points. The drop is where the movement starts. Pay attention to the path of the swing, it’s like a pendulum. Gravity does most of the work; you’re just guiding it.”
With a smooth motion, he swung the mace behind him, letting it arc naturally, and then brought it back to the starting position with precision.
“Drop—shhh!” he said, demonstrating the motion again. “And pull! The pull is key, it’s what brings the mace back up. Drop and pull! Fluid and controlled. You’re not muscling it; you’re working with the momentum.”
I followed his lead, attempting to mimic the swing. My first attempt felt clunky, the mace wobbling mid-swing.
“Relax your muscles when you swing! Stop fighting the weight,” he barked, stepping closer to adjust my grip and stance. “Keep your core engaged. The power comes from your hips and torso, not your arms alone. Your arms are just the guide, not the engine.”
I adjusted my posture, loosening my grip slightly and shifting my focus to my core and hips. On my next attempt, the motion felt smoother, almost effortless.
“Better. See? The mace isn’t your enemy. It’s a tool. Now, remember to breathe—exhale during the drop, inhale during the pull.
Breathing stabilizes you and prevents fatigue.”
With every correction, my movements became more fluid. The initial awkwardness faded as I began to understand the rhythm and mechanics.
And so, my mace training began under Vmb El-Ferath’s watchful eyes.