Mia's POV
Morning light broke through the open windows along the hallway. And I enjoyed the sight of those beams keeping me company. My steps halted in front of a simple brown wooden door—a stark contrast to the luxury of the corridor.
In my hands, a silver tray felt a bit heavy, carrying the aroma of toast that had been dancing in the air for some time now. Along with it was a letter from the head butler for the occupant of this room. I didn't know what it contained, and honestly, I had no intention of finding out. The superiors' business was none of mine.
My gaze fell on the position of the tray, adjusting the balance, composing the right sentences and tone of voice. I pushed the bedroom door open slowly—as gently as I could so the hinges wouldn't betray me with a creak.
Every step I took was calculated. I had to move as lightly as possible—such were the strict orders I had received. However, my steps suddenly locked in place.
There was something that felt different about the young man who was still fast asleep there. Something foreign, something I couldn't quite put a name to, yet it vibrated at the edge of my consciousness. I tried to ignore that awkward feeling and continued my steps toward his bed.
Next to his body, which was still sunk deep in sleep, I placed the tray. My movements were nearly soundless; I truly did not want to be the reason those eyes opened too early.
And that strange feeling now grew even clearer; it felt like standing too close to something hot—yet there was no fire.
My hopes vanished instantly when I saw his long, curled eyelashes flutter, then lift slowly.
Our eyes met. I stood rooted to the spot. The words I had previously prepared in my throat suddenly vanished to who knows where. This man in front of me looked at me with a drowsy, sleepy gaze, and I couldn't help but think how his face... possessed a charm that felt unfair to anyone.
His jet-black irises seemed to dilate as his consciousness fully returned. It was as if he had just realized his position—realizing my presence in his room and realizing that he was still lying down in a posture far from graceful. He immediately moved restlessly, pushing himself up to sit stiffly. A few strands of his pink hair fell, almost covering his eyes.
He looked back and forth between me and the bread on the tray.
"Uhm..." He took a quiet breath. "Thank you for the food—I really appreciate it."
I jolted, just snapping out of my daydream about his face. A wave of heat rushed to my cheeks before I could hide it. My hands waved around aimlessly in front of my chest.
"O-oh, yeah—it's fine, no problem."
He nodded, then his fingers moved to rub his neck awkwardly.
"You don't need to do something like this—preparing breakfast for me." There was a firm tone slipped in there, though his voice remained soft. "I am nobody in this residence."
He paused for a moment, took a breath, and his tone suddenly turned sharper. "I'm just—"
"Do you mean you're telling me to stop working?" I cut him off quickly. I didn't know why those words came out, but...
I could see his eyes widen, and his seating position shifted restlessly. "No, it's not like that..." His sentence hung in the air as I shot back quickly.
"Then just be quiet and enjoy the meal that's been prepared," I replied quickly.
Silence instantly claimed the room.
He looked away, avoiding my gaze. That was when I noticed something that seemed to have escaped his own attention: there were traces of dried blood in both of his nostrils. The reddish stain looked faint yet very clear under the streaming morning light.
My hand had already moved to my pocket before I even decided to do it. I extended a white handkerchief to him—this was my job. This was part of serving well.
Both of his eyebrows shot up. He touched the bottom of his own nose, and then his expression changed as if he had just been caught red-handed making a mistake.
"No need, I have my own cloth," he declined gently.
I kept holding out the handkerchief, refusing to pull it back until he was willing to accept it.
"Yes, alright. I can do it myself," he said finally.
His voice came out raspy, typical of someone who had just woken up. He took the handkerchief with his fingertips, very carefully, as if afraid of dirtying the clean white cloth more than necessary. I just watched as he wiped away the crusted reddish stain with awkward movements.
The distance between us felt very close now. There was a scent emanating from his body—something faint yet real, like the smell of earth right before the rain. I felt my head turn slightly dizzy.
"Why are you bleeding?" I asked. My voice was barely a whisper.
He froze. His fingers stopped at the bridge of his nose. He didn't answer right away, and I could see a flash of hesitation cross his eyes before he finally gave a faint smile. A smile that didn't reach his eyes, making his face look fragile instead.
"Just an old wound that often reopens," he replied softly.
I just remained silent, unsure of whether I should believe him or not.
The atmosphere grew quiet again. There was only the aroma of toast starting to cool and an uncomfortable feeling hanging in the air. He looked down, hiding his eyes behind his messy strands of hair.
— ✶ —
— Third-Person POV —
The training room was circular. Candles lined the edge of the walls, illuminating the intricate stone carvings with a warm orange glow—too warm for a room whose purpose was never pleasant. A sharp, savory aroma floated in the air, coming from the wooden weapons arranged neatly on shelves around the room: coating oil that had long since soaked into the wood fibers, becoming part of its texture.
Marta stood among those shelves. Her fingers moved from one hilt to the next, counting by touch rather than sight—it had already been two full rounds, and she had no intention of stopping.
Except when the person she was waiting for finally arrived.
The door opened.
The first thing Carsel caught was the aroma—sharp and savory, old wood oil that had long since settled. His eyes swept the room out of habit: the shape of the room first, the exit points, the light sources, then the contents. A circle. One door. Candles along the edge. Wooden weapons on shelves lining the walls.
Then Marta.
The woman did not look at him right away. For the first second, her gaze fell upon Carsel's left arm—checking, confirming, before their eyes finally met. Her expression was completely flat, devoid of any layers.
Rai used to look like this too—right when I arrived late. The cat never bothered to get angry. Just stared, untili was the one who couldn't take it anymore.
Carsel's mouth opened—then closed again. He approached her with steps faster than usual, and when he finally stood before Marta, the first thing that came out was just air.
"I'm sorry..."
His sentence hung in the air as Marta's hand rose—a single, short, cutting motion.
"Forget it."
Carsel swallowed hard. Easier said than done.
Marta read that from the sweat trickling down his temples—enough to know that this matter wasn't truly settled in the young man's head. So, she gave him an outlet more useful than forgiveness.
"Next time, prove it by arriving sooner."
Carsel's jaw clenched. His chin dipped slightly, and his eyes answered what his mouth did not say.
Marta crossed her arms over her chest. "I want to ask you something."
"With pleasure."
Marta looked at him directly. "Yesterday's fight—what number was it in your life?"
Carsel's gaze shifted briefly—to the ground beside Marta's leather shoes, then back. A small habit of someone choosing his words carefully.
"The third."
The corner of Marta's lips twitched—not a smile, but more the reaction of someone who had just heard something absurd. "You must be lying."
"I'm not."
Marta scrutinized his face, searching for any small crack of something hidden. There was none.
"The first and second fights—who were your opponents?"
Carsel bit his lower lip unconsciously, weighing his words.
"The first was a guard at the auction house. The second, Lady Seraphina."
A few seconds passed.
Marta did not respond immediately. In her head, the numbers refused to align neatly: a tier-three Swordsman and a tier-five Mage, born with dual roles—which meant the difficulty of raising his tier was twice that of most people—and his third fight was only yesterday.
Impossible.
Her eyes moved across Carsel's entire body in the manner of an inspector accustomed to reading someone by how they stood, not by what they said. What she had noticed since yesterday: his movements were too intricate where they should have been simple. Every attack was given an unnecessary layer—technically luxurious, yet wasteful in stamina. Like someone who knew how to build a palace but had never lived in it.
His tier rose quickly. But his body had never truly fought.
Marta exhaled softly. "I guess the way you broke through to Master was by pushing your aura capacity to the limit—over and over again, wasn't it?"
"Yes." Carsel nodded. "Meditation, pushing the capacity to exhaustion, overcoming fear from within. That was the trigger. And that's also why I don't have much combat experience."
Marta looked away.
"I didn't say you were inexperienced in fighting."
"The look on your face says it."
A brief silence. Marta did not deny it.
"Do you know why not a single one of your attacks landed yesterday?" Her tone wasn't a question waiting for an answer—it was more of an opening.
Carsel shook his head.
"Because I read your intent." Her voice dropped. "If a Mage has mana sensitivity, then a Swordsman has Aura Clarity."
Mana sensitivity. Aura Clarity.
The words did not sink in immediately—they lingered on the surface first, then slowly descended, until something inside Carsel's head began to connect the dots. The way Marta moved yesterday, always perfectly timed, always by a razor-thin margin—it wasn't instinct. It wasn't luck. She was reading something.
"You mean you read the vibrations of my aura?"
Marta nodded once. "Aura is not a completely hidden energy—it leaks out, faintly, almost imperceptibly. And someone with high Aura Clarity can read it before the attack even begins to move."
Carsel listened without interrupting—the habit of someone who knew that cutting in only wasted information.
"When you bent both your knees until they almost touched your heels," Marta continued, "I thought for a moment you were going to execute an intricate technique. But the aura you gathered in your legs was too massive and too obvious—from that alone, I already knew you would bolt straight forward."
Two seconds.
"It all makes sense now." The corner of Carsel's lips twitched slightly, not out of satisfaction—more because something that used to be formless now had a name. "It wasn't mere instinct."
He stared at Marta for a moment before his next question came out—already formulated, not impulsive.
"Can someone with high Aura Clarity suppress their aura until it's nearly undetectable?"
"Yes." Marta looked at him flatly. "That is called Aura Suppression. I am one such example—that's why my presence can be like a shadow."
Carsel digested it for a moment, and then his eyes gleamed slightly.
"Will you teach me?"
Marta crossed her arms. "Not for now."
Carsel's eyes dimmed slightly—only for a second before returning to normal. He already knew that answer was only half of a longer sentence.
And it was true.
Marta grabbed two wooden swords from the shelf beside her. One was tossed toward Carsel—slow, measured, just enough to be caught, not parried.
"What you need right now is experience."
She lunged forward.
The distance between them vanished in a single second, and the tip of the wooden sword struck Carsel's solar plexus with a single, concise tap—enough to make him feel where his defense was holed, without giving him time to ask when the attack had even begun.
"The experience of what it feels like to get hit."
Marta gave him no room to breathe. Before Carsel could even recover his posture, Marta twisted her wrist, pulled back the hilt of her wooden sword, and swung it diagonally from bottom to top.
Carsel's eyes widened. With his remaining, startled awareness, he raised his own wooden sword horizontally to parry.
Crack!
The collision of the two solid pieces of wood sent a shudder through Carsel's entire right arm. The power behind Marta's strike didn't shatter bone, but it transferred enough momentum to throw Carsel's balance backward. His feet dragged across the stone floor, creating a long, sharp screech.
Before Carsel could even straighten his back, Marta's shadow surged forward, closing the distance in the blink of an eye. The old woman's wooden sword pecked again, this time aiming for his left temple.
Carsel lowered his head, letting the wind from the wooden slash sweep past a few strands of his black hair. His combat instinct forced his body to move; he pivoted his heel, utilizing his ducking position to launch a sweeping strike toward Marta's ankles.
It was a swift counter, yet Marta seemed to already be standing on air before Carsel's wooden blade could arrive. Marta leapt over the low attack with a cold grace, and as gravity pulled her back down, the tip of her shoe landed precisely on top of Carsel's wooden blade, pinning it firmly against the stone floor.
Carsel's weapon was locked beneath Marta's foot.
"Too wide," Marta's voice sounded incredibly close, flat and without a ripple. "Every time you intend to counter, your aura gathers at a single extreme point. You are telling this entire room exactly where your weapon will move."
Carsel gritted his teeth. Instead of pulling at his trapped sword, he released his right-hand grip, leaving his wooden weapon behind. His body lunged forward into Marta's personal space, clenching his right fist and throwing a straight punch toward the Grandmaster's lower jaw.
However, just a moment before the fist landed—the face of Marta who had stood before him yesterday—his fist slowly softened. Marta merely tilted her head to the right. A movement so slight that Carsel's fist only met empty air beside her ear. At the same time, Marta's free left hand moved like lightning, striking Carsel's right ribs with the heel of her palm.
Smack!
Carsel staggered to the side, a sharp, searing heat instantly spreading through his ribs. The pain hadn't even faded when Marta kicked the wooden sword beneath her foot upward. The weapon spun in the air, and Marta caught its hilt with her left hand, while her right hand kept hold of her own weapon.
Now, the two wooden swords are in the old woman's hands.
"Take it," Marta tossed his wooden sword back to him.
He caught the wooden hilt mid-air with a right hand that had begun to tremble. His breath was ragged now, a stark contrast to the candles around the room whose flames didn't even flicker from their movements.
"You have speed, Carsel. But your movements are like an open book to anyone who knows how to read," Marta lowered the tip of her wooden sword to the floor, standing in a relaxed posture, yet completely without openings. "Hide your intent. Level the flow of your aura until not a single ripple leaks out before your attack actually touches my skin."
Carsel wiped the sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. His gentle silver irises now sharpened, locking onto the figure before him. He lowered his center of gravity again, this time trying to hold his breath, suppressing the vibration of energy inside his body to keep it calm beneath the surface.
"Again," Carsel challenged quietly, the tip of his wooden sword pointed straight at Marta's eyes.
Marta did not answer with words. Her footsteps shifted again, leaving a soft scrape against the stone, and in an instant, the symphony of clashing wood echoed once more inside the enclosed room.
Marta lunged without creating even the sound of rushing wind. Her wooden blade came from a blind spot beneath Carsel's chin.
Carsel jerked his head back, feeling the wooden tip pass a mere hair's breadth from the skin of his neck. He tried to restrain himself from bursting his aura all at once. Following Marta's implicit instructions, he suppressed the warm energy in his stomach, forcing it to flow as calmly as possible toward his right arm as he countered with a circular slash.
Clack!
Marta did not evade. She tilted her own wooden sword to meet Carsel's blade, then spun it in a rapid, binding motion. The rough friction between the wood forced Carsel's sword to deflect upward, throwing his chest wide open.
Before Carsel could even pull back his weapon, the pommel of Marta's sword struck his solar plexus for the second time. Harder.
Thud!
Carsel coughed, taking three steps back with trembling knees. His left arm, still wrapped in gauze beneath his casual clothes, throbbed painfully from the forced impact of his own body.
Marta did not give him time to complain. The old woman advanced again, her steps as light as a shadow beneath the candlelight. Her wooden sword pecked repeatedly: right shoulder, left ribs, then thigh.
Carsel could only parry the first two attacks haphazardly. The third strike landed squarely on his outer thigh, leaving his leg nearly numb.
If I hide it, my movements slow down from over-restraining myself, Carsel's brain spun rapidly amidst the pain. In that case, don't hide it. Reverse it.
Carsel intentionally stomped his right foot onto the stone floor. He allowed his aura to leak massively into his right leg, as if he were about to bolt forward for a frontal thrust.
Marta instantly shifted her position to the side, preparing to evade the straight trajectory she predicted from the aura's vibration.
However, Carsel did not bolt forward. The foot stomp was a feint. The moment Marta shifted, Carsel spun his body in the opposite direction instead, utilizing the pivot of his left foot, which had been completely free of aura ripples from the start. Using the momentum of his unreadable body rotation, he swung his wooden sword diagonally, aiming for Marta's waist.
Marta's silver eyes flashed. For the first time in this session, she couldn't just shift her body away. Marta was forced to raise her wooden sword vertically to block Carsel's strike.
CRACK!
The sound of clashing wood was so loud it triggered an echo against the room's walls. The collision produced a sharp gust of wind that instantly snuffed out the flames of the three nearest candles.
Carsel felt his right palm tear, fresh blood starting to seep out and wet the wooden hilt. But the corner of his lips lifted. He had succeeded in forcing Marta to defend.
"Good ripple manipulation," Marta whispered from behind the pressing wooden blades.
However, the praise was followed by instant movement. Marta did not pit her physical strength against a young man younger than herself. She suddenly pulled her wooden sword back, letting Carsel's sword lose its resistance and slide downward due to gravity. In the same split second, Marta rotated her body thirty degrees and unleashed a straight heel kick to Carsel's chest.
CRASH!
Carsel was thrown backward, his back smashing into the wooden weapon rack until several replica blades fell over him. The sensation of his lungs collapsing struck him once more. He coughed violently, spitting out the remaining air trapped in his throat.
In the middle of the training floor, now half-dark from the extinguished candles, Marta stood calmly. The tip of her wooden sword pointed to the floor, as if she had just finished an evening stroll rather than an exhausting fight.
Carsel gripped the edge of the weapon rack to force his body upright again. The muscle fibers of his thigh twitched in protest, while his right hand was entirely red with his own blood. He stared at Marta through the strands of his black hair, which was slick with sweat.
"Not over yet," Carsel growled softly, gripping his wooden sword once more and stepping out from the wreckage of the rack with a gaze that refused to submit.
Marta's gaze fell upon his heaving chest. Marta sat down—crossing her legs and placing the wooden sword beside her. "Two-minute break."
It took a few seconds for him to process what Marta had said. Once he understood, Carsel dropped himself to the ground—not sitting, falling—and his back hit the dirt floor of the training field. His eyes stared at the high ceiling above him. His breathing was still ragged.
Two minutes.
His eyes closed.
He didn't mean to go anywhere.
But Uncle Rey was there—a familiar stag form, antlers that always felt too large for his graceful body, dark eyes that always looked as if they were considering something deeply serious.
"You're exhausted," Rey said.
"I'm fine."
"You lie the exact same way you did when you were seven and fell from the bamboo tree."
"I didn't—" He stopped. "Uncle remembers that?"
"I remember everything."
There was something tightening in his throat—not pain, but something that didn't have a proper name. He wanted to say something. A lot of things. Words that hadn't had the chance to come out because when he woke up at noon back then, uncle Rey was already lying in front of the door and there was no time for anything but running.
"I didn't get the chance—"
"I know."
"No, I mean I really didn't get the chance, I didn't even—"
"Carsel." Rey's voice was very calm. As always. "I know."
He drew in a breath. Let it go. Here, his breath was steady—not like on the training field, not like after being beaten by Marta over and over again. Here he just sat beside Rey like hundreds of mornings before, and the world had a texture that made far more sense than marble and swords and names that must not be spoken.
"The two minutes aren't up yet," Rey said.
"I know."
"But you have to go back."
"I know."
But he didn't move. Rey's shoulder was next to him—warm, real in a way that was different from the reality over there—and he wasn't ready to lose this. Not today. Not after a session like that.
One more minute.
Just—
"Carsel."
Marta's voice.
Two worlds collided and he was in both at once for three very long seconds—the ground of the field against his back and the soil of Heartwood beneath his palms, the high ceiling and the open sky, Marta standing and Rey sitting—and then something was violently pulled from under the water, a breath coming in too fast, eyes opening to the wrong place.
A ceiling. Not the sky.
"It's been two minutes," Marta said. Her tone was flat—not judging, just stating a fact.
Carsel sat up. His fingers gripped the ground of the field for a moment, as if making sure this was what was real, then let go.
"Yes." His voice was hoarser than before. "I know."
He stood up.
Marta watched him in a way he didn't like—not a gaze that looked for faults, but one that recorded. Like someone adding something to a list that was already long enough.
Nothing was said.
But when the training session resumed, Carsel moved with an extra layer of heaviness than before—not from physical exhaustion. More like someone who had just been forced to leave an unfinished conversation, and hadn't entirely forgiven this world for it.
✶ ✶ ✶
Crack!
The pommel of Marta's wooden sword struck the back of Carsel's injured hand. The blistered skin burst, spurting fresh blood that instantly coated the hilt of his weapon. Carsel's grip loosened instantly from the shock of pain, causing the tip of his sword to limp down to the floor.
Marta didn't give him even half a second's pause. She pressed forward, crowding Carsel with a sequence of short, fast, rhythmic slashes.
Marta's wooden blade pecked his right shoulder, then his lower ribs, and finally struck Carsel's shin. Each blow wasn't intended to break bones, but the precision of her targets blocked the blood flow in Carsel's muscles. Carsel's right leg went numb, forcing him to rely entirely on his left leg, whose thigh muscle had already been torn since yesterday.
Carsel stumbled backward. His back hit the cold stone wall of the room. He was trapped. He had run out of room to move.
Marta drove the tip of her own wooden sword into the ground. Seeing this, Carsel couldn't find a reason why. No, Marta made it so he couldn't even think about it.
Before he could change his position, Marta used the planted wooden sword as a pivot to spin in the air, unleashing a clean left leg sweep.
It hadn't crossed Carsel's mind to block the kick—yet, his two hands, which should have been incredibly weak, naturally crossed beside his jaw, absorbing the destructive force of that lethal kick.
Smack!
Carsel's head snapped to the side. His vision blurred suddenly, filled with spinning flashes of white light. A metallic taste filled his mouth as he collapsed to the floor, both arms completely numb. His field of vision narrowed, leaving only a blurry, dark tunnel. His ears rang violently, drowning out the sound of his own ragged breathing, which already sounded like a broken machine.
Marta's eyes widened and then returned to normal—she was slightly surprised Carsel could move fast enough to block her kick. His reflexes were praiseworthy.
Without any warning—instantly, the candles in the training room went out all at once.
Not one—all of them.
Total darkness for one second. Then the candles relit themselves as if nothing had happened.
Marta stood still in her position. Her sword was still raised. Her eyes scanned the room. There couldn't possibly be a draft in a tightly sealed training room. She lowered her sword slowly, watching Carsel as he struggled to steady his breathing.
Was he okay? Was his heart rate still stable?
Marta's feet moved before she could decide.
Through his blurred vision, he saw the tips of Marta's leather boots stepping slowly, stopping exactly an inch from his face. The air around Marta felt so thick, so oppressive, as if this entire room bowed beneath the old woman's will.
Marta bent her knees, taking one of his arms. She pressed two fingers—her index and middle—against the inside of Carsel's wrist. Not for long. Just a few seconds.
Still here. Still pulsing. Enough for now.
Carsel's breath caught—his pupils dilated spontaneously.
"That's enough for today," Marta said. She pulled a slender crystal glass bottle with a spiral pattern on its surface out of her pants pocket—which had somehow not fallen out during the intense physical activity earlier.
Inside the bottle were two separate layers of liquid—the top layer a clear blue, and the bottom layer a rose red. She shook the bottle, turning the blue and red liquids into a glowing amethyst purple.
She removed its stopper, which was made of an unusual wood. Carsel asked in a weak voice, "What is that?"
She didn't answer, only tilting Carsel's chin up, lifting it with her thumb.
"This will heal you."
Carsel opened his mouth, even though he didn't know for sure what the liquid was. The moment it passed down his throat, a sharp, minty chill instantly stung his consciousness, driving away the fatigue. A second later, a warmth spread to his chest, crawling down to his torn palms. His bruised skin began to itch.
"This feels strange—"
"That is the Potion of Harmony," Marta said, standing back up. "It heals the aspects of your physical injuries and stamina."
Hearing that, Carsel could only stiffly squeeze his fingers—I'm troubling someone else again...
Marta began speaking again even before Carsel could react to the potion, "My time is up. I must return to my work."
Before she closed the door, their eyes met. "Train on your own." Marta closed the door smoothly without waiting for Carsel to reply.
Carsel stood up with the sword in his right hand. This time, he didn't embrace the silence—right now, what needed to be deepened wasn't his understanding, but his stiff body. He imagined Marta standing in front of him, with the same wooden sword and the same clothes.
Carsel let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing. He naturally assumed a stance: his feet were open exactly shoulder-width apart with his left foot forward as a guide. Sixty percent of his weight rested on the front and forty percent on the back. Both knees bent slightly; simultaneously, his torso rotated thirty degrees. His torso tilted, blading away from the Marta of his imagination.
His breath caught.
His gaze fell upon the hand gripping the sword tightly. I don't remember ever learning this posture—for some reason, my body is moving naturally.
He swallowed unconsciously.
But why does this feel so right to do?
Carsel did not wait for an answer to that question. Nor did he look for it. He simply continued.
The sword was raised.
The solid wood of his sword was steady in his grip. He locked the tip of the wooden blade exactly onto the center of mass on Marta's chest. The blade formed a forty-five-degree angle upward from the horizontal line. His elbows were not locked straight; his arms bent slightly.
His gaze no longer saw Marta's sword. His eyes were fixed on the core of her body.
Marta—the one he created—moved forward, swinging her sword straight down from above her head. Carsel didn't lift his sword horizontally to block the impact. He raised his right hand above his right temple, positioning his blade at a 45-degree angle facing upward.
As Marta's sword struck the angled blade, it slid downward toward the ground on Carsel's right side. While her sword slid down, Carsel used that friction to twist his wrist, pointing his own blade downward, then slashed Marta's descending wrist.
Thwack!
Carsel stepped back but remained in his stance—This is wrong. She isn't that easy to slash. I have to imagine her faster. More skilled... But if I do that, I stand no chance of winning against her.
Marta attacked again, thrusting the tip of her wooden sword straight toward Carsel's solar plexus. He only pulled his stomach back slightly and shifted his left foot to the side to move the target point out of the path of the thrust.
Simultaneously, he brought his wooden blade down right on top of Marta's advancing wooden sword. He pressed his entire body weight downward through his blade, trapping and locking her wooden sword in place. Without lifting his sword, his grip drove the hilt forward, causing his blade to slide over Marta's pinned sword, striking her collarbone hard.
As time went on, Carsel pushed the level of the Marta he created in his imagination higher and higher. Several times, that version of Marta managed to land a strike, but the wounds never manifested—because they were never real.
And Carsel's eyes grew stranger—more focused and completely indifferent to anything other than the fight.
Hours passed.
Carsel slumped down, gasping for breath—his hands and feet were burning hot. His clothes were soaked with sweat, the black hair at the back of his head falling against his neck, with a few strands draping over his silver irises.
His hands pushed his body up. Returning the wooden sword to where it belonged. He left the training room bearing a different kind of weight.
— ✶ —
Carsel walked. The candles began to go out one by one behind him—he didn't look because his back was facing the direction he had already passed.
His hand went up to his neck—not a decision, just a response to a sensation that had been there since before the practice but now felt clearer.
His fingers touched the first mysterious necklace. The frequency in his bones shifted slightly—like something trying to adjust itself.
He stopped walking.
Not because he decided to stop. But his feet stopped on their own in front of the hallway window—the only spot where the light of the setting sun still came in from outside.
He stared at the window for a moment.
In his mind, it wasn't a grand thought—just something faint, like wanting to know if that frequency would change if nothing was blocking it.
He removed the mysterious necklace.
Its frequency changed—not strengthening, more like... breathing. Like something that all this time had to work harder than it should have.
And because one was already in his hand, he removed the second one as well. Not because he wanted to. More because feeling the difference with one but not the other felt incomplete.
His black hair shifted to a soft pink color like cherry blossom petals. His pitch-black irises stared at his faint reflection in the window glass.
He wasn't there for long.
The necklaces went back into his grasp, not around his neck—he would wear them again in his room.
He walked again.
His nose suddenly itched intensely, his eyes began to water, and his head snapped upward reflexively. His body jerked forward violently as air exploded out of his nose and mouth.
"It seems someone is talking about me." He hurriedly wiped his reddened nose with the edge of his sleeve.
His feet began to move again.
The candles went out as he passed them.