Leaning against the low wooden fence of the empty arena, my chest heaving as river-like rivulets of sweat soaked through my canvas tunic and dripped onto the packed dirt. Every single muscle fiber in my arms vibrated with a deep, burning fatigue. My seventeen-year-old physical frame was screaming in protest, entirely unaccustomed to the gruelling, hyper-repetitive precision I had just forced it through for two hours straight.
The physical stamina threshold is exactly as pathetic as I calculated, I thought, wiping my damp brow with the back of my hand. Without a stabilized mana core to constantly reinforce the muscle tissue, a civilian body can only execute basic movements before lactic acid locks the joints.
"Hey! Astraeus!"
A loud, booming voice shattered the quiet morning air of the garrison clearing.
I snapped my head toward the arena entrance, my eyes narrowing out of sheer, ten-year vanguard habit. Walking through the wooden gates was a tall, broad-shouldered teenager with messy brown hair, a boisterous grin, and a heavy wooden practice blade resting casually over his thick shoulder.
It was Lysander. My childhood friend, my future shield-brother, and the man who would stand right beside me at the awakening altar tomorrow morning.
Looking at his unlined, laughing face, a heavy knot of emotion tightened inside my chest. In my past life, Lysander had been a rock—a fearless B-Rank vanguard who had saved my life three separate times during the initial dungeon outbreaks, before he was ultimately butchered by a high-tier Rift monster because our noble captains deliberately withheld defensive reinforcements. Seeing him now, completely unscarred and full of idiotically bright optimism, was a jarring psychological trip.
"I thought I'd find you skulking around the dirt early," Lysander laughed, stepping into the centre of the ring, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust. He stopped three meters away, sizing me up with a critical eye. "Look at you. You're already completely soaked, and the sun barely cleared the pines. Are you trying to burn yourself out before the priests even arrive tomorrow?"
"Just clearing the morning fog, Lysander," I replied smoothly, keeping my voice light, carefully forcing the cold, analytical edge of a veteran captain beneath a relaxed civilian mask.
"Right, right. 'Clearing the fog,'" Lysander mocked playfully, dropping his heavy wooden blade into a crude, aggressive offensive stance. His feet were too wide apart, his centre of gravity was completely exposed, and his grip on the hilt was far too tight—a dozen fatal amateur flaws that a low-rank goblin would exploit in a fraction of a second. "Well, since you're already warmed up, how about a quick round? Just a light tap-spar to test our reflexes before the grand ceremony locks our paths tomorrow."
I looked down at my raw palms, then back at his grinning face. My adult combat mind instantly mapped the entire trajectory of the clearing. I knew exactly how he was going to swing, how much weight he was going to throw into his opening lunge, and precisely where his balance would break.
"Alright," I said, a slow, dangerous calm settling deep beneath my ribs as I reached back out and gripped a light wooden shortsword from the rack. "Let's see what you've got."