Ashern City - Reinhart Institute of War, 12th of Brightforge, year 315 UC
Name: Bryan Valentine
Magical Attribute: Unknown
Core Size: S
Ether Control: A-53
Casting Speed: B-3
Body Augmentation: C-16 (Training highly recommended)
Magic Sensitivity: A-11
Magic Firepower: C-85 (Training recommended)
Magic Shielding: B-7
Magic Range: C-99 (Training highly recommended)
Current Spells:
Crescent Blades
Manipulation
Spawn
Siphon
Recommended position: Specialist
Training recommended: Increase Body Augmentation rating for better results, current natural body physique cannot withstand attacks from melee, and increasing defensive measures is recommended.
Next spell acquisition: Unknown
Next spell type: Current training path would likely produce a ranged spell for damage. With recommended training path would likely produce a utility type of spell.
'Slow.'
Bryan stared at the stats displayed on his ring, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. The growth was minimal—hardly worth noting. With the amount of training he'd poured in lately, he expected more. A bigger jump. Something.
'Am I doing something wrong?'
Progress had always been slow. That wasn't new. But his body augmentation should've advanced more significantly by now.
Maybe the problem was his training.
In the Inquisition, he sparred against real people—fighters who adjusted mid-battle, constantly pushing him to his limit. The unpredictability kept him sharp.
The holograms weren't the same. Once he read their patterns, it was just a matter of repetition. Even with their difficulty scaled up, it felt too mechanical.
'I need a challenge.'
He couldn't afford to let his instincts dull because of convenience. The limit of these training programs was starting to show.
Sure, he could spar with the other students—but that would mean holding back even more than he already did. Most weren't on his level, and lowering his standards would only stunt his growth.
'Unless I handicap myself.'
An option he'd already been toying with, but it might not yield anything useful. Limiting himself further wouldn't necessarily make him stronger—just slower.
His duel with Victor dragged on only because Bryan allowed it to. He hadn't used his full arsenal, and Victor gained ground as a result. If the match hadn't been public, or the stakes had been real, it would've ended far more abruptly.
But that wasn't an option here. Killing another student would draw unwanted attention. And frankly, no one here was worth killing.
Still, the question remained: Was he doomed to crawl forward at this glacial pace? Or was there a way to accelerate his growth? Weeks instead of months.
Ever since acquiring the ring, he checked his progress nightly. Every stat increase mattered.
'Am I too focused on the numbers?'
He sat on the edge of the bed, brows furrowed. Seeing the stats climb gave him a sense of direction. Proof he was improving.
But were those numbers the same as actual strength?
Combat was more than stats. More than raw figures.
When was the last time he used Sipon or Spawn? Those spells were part of his core toolkit, meant to shift the tide in real combat. But lately, he'd relied too much on the basics—on his crescent blades.
He was slipping. Getting tunnel vision. Training to raise numbers instead of mastering what he already had.
Crescent blades—simple, common, widely used across elemental affinities. Fire, water, wind, shadow—they all had variations. The spell was as basic as it came.
But mastery made it something else.
Mastery meant understanding range, control, shape, pressure. It meant condensing a blade into a scalpel, or expanding it into a sweeping arc of destruction. It meant creating five at once—or one large enough to split stone—and knowing exactly how much ether to use for each.
Some mages thought quantity mattered. Five blades versus one. But more wasn't always better. Each blade required control. Direction. Intent.
That's why Bryan limited himself to six or fewer. Any more, and the effort to manage them diluted his focus.
But the mage who could summon five average blades versus one who could summon a single refined, enhanced blade?
That was the real difference.
Power wasn't in the spell. It was in how you wielded it. In how you shaped it.
'True mastery isn't about complexity.'
Bryan thought.
A simple spell, made to look complex—efficient, deadly, and precise. Using no more ether than the next mage. Just used better.
Bryan's mastery of the crescent blade was solid—better than most his age—but far from complete.
He wasn't a master. Not even close.
Still, his control and application outpaced his peers, and that was enough for now.
Even his ability to manipulate blood—while rare in type—wasn't special in function. Every elemental attribute had a manipulation aspect. Water mages could form tendrils, spears, or shields. Earth mages could shape terrain. He was no different.
He could create blades and simple weapons, but that was the extent of it.
'There's more I can do.'
He thought.
Exactly what, he wasn't sure yet. It would all depend on what spell came next. Once his fifth spell unlocked, he'd have a more complete toolkit—enough to define a style that truly fit him.
Not that his current approach was bad. It was just... limited.
Spawn and Siphon were his least practiced spells. Not because they were weak, but because the situations where they were useful rarely came up.
Spawn demanded more blood than it was worth—and it had to be his. The cost outweighed the benefit. As for Siphon, it relied on the presence of another person. In real combat, that made it situational at best.
His other spells were easier to train solo. With enough time, mastery was just a matter of repetition.
Bryan pulled the ring off his finger and exhaled. A quiet click as it landed in his palm.
It had been days since Zoltan last appeared.
He hated to admit it, but he missed the mouse. The constant banter, the unsolicited commentary—it had been a strange comfort. Now, with silence settling in around him, the days had grown quieter. Boring, even.
'Boring.'
A feeling Bryan wasn't used to. Between his strict training schedule and the classes, he usually had no time to feel idle. But now? With nothing urgent demanding his attention, he simply existed.
He didn't spend time with other cadets. Breaks were just empty stretches of time he filled with training or reading. Even his own squad required little oversight—he just ensured they stayed on top of their work and met the minimum standards.
Alexander had finished his assignment. Unsurprisingly, he hadn't provided any insights Bryan didn't already know.
Still, the boy did observe others well. He rarely spoke to Bryan directly, but when he did, it was usually a thoughtful question about ether control or spell mechanics.
Alexander was improving—but slowly. He wasn't a natural talent, and his spells weren't anything special.
But he worked. Hard. Relentlessly.
That alone set him apart.
'If only he had a bit of talent, then he might actually be useful.'
Bryan thought.
At his current pace, Alexander might need two—maybe four—months to tighten his ether control enough to make his bubbles viable. Strong enough to restrain someone, at least temporarily.
But by then, most of the other cadets would be leagues ahead.
Hard work could only get you so far.
Maybe if Alexander found a way to gain real combat experience—the kind where your life was truly on the line—it would force his growth. Experience like that could close the gap between talent and effort, at least partially.
Bryan tossed the ring into the air, caught it with a soft snap, and smirked faintly.
There was no point thinking about Alexander. He wasn't Bryan's responsibility. He wasn't his friend. He wasn't family.
Still... it would reflect badly if someone on his team got expelled in the first year.
He was about to toss the ring again when a faint sound broke the silence. Footsteps.
They passed his door and kept going.
Light steps.
Not Victor. Not Julius.
Bryan's room shared the floor with them—top-ranked students housed at the top. Everyone else stayed one level below.
Whoever that was, it wasn't one of the usual suspects.
'Whatever. Not like I care.'
He leaned back in his chair, pushing the distraction away, and turned his attention to the combat data he'd recorded earlier.
Numbers, patterns, efficiency.
Something he could control.
Combat duels were held every Monday and Wednesday—sparring days for the entire Excellence Camp. So far, matchups had been randomized, giving students the opportunity to face opponents of varying strength.
Today, Bryan fought Rosemary.
She wasn't terrible. Her area-denial spell, Ice Storm, had potential. But against him, it was useless. Three seconds to cast? That was three seconds too long.
She didn't get the chance to finish. His boot met her face before the spell even reached full formation.
Bryan didn't feel bad. If anything, she learned a valuable lesson: don't take your time in combat.
His peers called him ruthless. Merciless. But behind the judgment, he saw what they wouldn't say aloud—envy. They hated how cleanly he dominated the field, how efficiently he dispatched opponents. They wanted what he had.
He'd hoped Rosemary might have some talent in close-quarters combat. She didn't. Her spacing was poor, reaction time slow, and she cracked under pressure. There was no satisfaction in that match.
But it wasn't Rosemary that caught his attention.
It was Max.
Max Argoon, ranked seventeenth. Lightning affinity. He could conjure a spear of pure voltage—respectable, though Bryan had never paid him much attention. Quiet, kept to his group, not especially threatening.
Today, that changed.
Max was different—agitated, cocky, taunting. He circled Alexander like a predator toying with prey. He could've ended the fight in under a minute, but he didn't. He dragged it out.
Fighting in close, laughing, letting Alexander swing just to dodge at the last second.
It was strange behavior—completely at odds with his prior profile.
Bryan noted the shift immediately.
Sure, Alexander wasn't exactly a powerhouse, but their gap wasn't that wide. Once Max landed the first few hits, Alexander folded. Confidence shattered, and his strength followed.
The crowd had noticed. Bryan heard the whispers. Why was the fight still going? Why wasn't Alexander fighting back? How did someone like him get into the camp?
No one said anything to Bryan directly, but the commentary was there, floating in the margins.
If he were Max, he'd have launched lightning spears from range, then closed in only if necessary. The taunting? Pointless. Waste of time and energy.
Still, it told Bryan something important: Max was hiding something. Or something had triggered him.
Either way, his profile needed a rewrite.
He filed the thought away and turned to the sound of footsteps in the hallway—light again. For the second night in a row. His hand slipped the ring into his pocket as he stood and approached the door.
'Who the hell is walking around this late?'
He expected Farrah. She was the only one who ever showed up uninvited. Always some trivial reason. She at least had the excuse of sharing the dorm building.
But when he opened the door—he froze.
It wasn't Farrah.
"Blackwood."
Gloria Reinhart stood there, her blue eyes meeting his without hesitation.
'Instructor Reinhart?'
"Were you expecting someone?"
She asked, the question dry, with zero curiosity behind it.
"No."
"Good. Bit early for late-night fooling around. But I suppose that'll come soon enough."
He blinked.
'What?'
She didn't wait for him to reply.
"Do you need something, Instructor?"
"You've been holding back."
It wasn't a question.
"Training Room One. Five minutes."
She turned and walked away without another word.
Bryan stood in silence, watching her disappear around the corner.
'Did Gloria Reinhart just challenge me to a duel?'
He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or intrigued.
Maybe both.