Lucas stood in the center of the private training hall on the upper floors of Apex Vanguard Guild headquarters, the air thick with the metallic tang of polished steel and faint ozone from active mana barriers.
Behind him, A-class swordsman Dante moved with the quiet confidence of a man who had carved his name into countless Gates.
Dante's long hair was tied back in a simple leather band, strands of silver threading through the dark brown, while his rough, scarred face spoke of decades spent on the front lines — deep lines etched around his eyes and a jagged cut that ran from his left cheekbone down to his jaw.
Dante gestured toward a long rack of swords mounted on the wall. "Pick one. Lift them. Tell me which feels right in your hand."
Lucas stepped forward and began testing them one by one. Short blades felt too light, almost toy-like. Mid-length swords balanced decently, but left his grip unsatisfied.
When he finally reached the greatsword at the end of the rack — a massive, double-edged beast with a black fuller and a leather-wrapped hilt — something clicked. The weight settled into his palms as it belonged there, heavy yet perfectly balanced, the blade humming faintly against his skin as if recognizing a new master.
Dante's mouth curved into a rare, approving smile. "Good. That one suits you."
He pointed at Lucas's chest. "Shirt off."
Lucas peeled off the black neck t-shirt without hesitation, revealing the hard lines of muscle earned from years of manual labor rather than formal training. Dante circled him slowly, calloused fingers pressing into shoulders, arms, and back, testing the density of muscle and the flow of mana through unopened nodes.
"Not systematically trained," Dante muttered, more to himself than to Lucas, "but the foundation isn't bad. Strong core. Good reach. You've been swinging things heavier than most boys your age."
He placed both palms flat against Lucas's bare back, warm and rough. "This is going to sting."
Lucas felt a sudden rush of heat as Dante forced open the dormant mana nodes along his spine and shoulders. Sharp, electric pain flared through his body, traveling down his arms and into his fingertips like molten wire being threaded through his veins.
Sweat immediately broke across his skin, sliding down the grooves of his abs and the curve of his spine. He clenched his jaw but did not make a sound.
Dante stepped back and picked up a training sword of his own. "Basics first. Watch."
He demonstrated a series of simple yet demanding exercises: the flowing crescent cut, where the blade drew a wide arc from high guard to low; the anchored thrust, feet planted as the sword drove forward like a spear; the spinning guard, body turning while the blade created a defensive wheel around the torso; and the rising dragon, a powerful upward slash that started from the ground and ended above the head.
Each movement was deliberate, the steel whistling through the air as Dante explained how the body must adapt to higher ranks — how muscles would eventually channel mana directly, how the sword must become an extension of the wielder's will rather than a separate tool.
"Sharpen the body first," Dante said between forms, voice low and steady. "The rank will come later. The sword is not a weapon you hold. It is part of your arm, part of your breath, part of your rage. Understand that, and you will never be disarmed."
Lucas mirrored every movement, sweat pouring down his bare chest and back, muscles burning as he repeated the forms again and again. His mind drifted to the conversation he had shared with James the day before.
After the awakening, when the status windows had first appeared in his vision — class information, skills, potential stats — James had placed a firm hand on his shoulder and said, "Hold off on looking at it. Learn the basics first. Don't depend entirely on the gift yet. Build the foundation the hard way, like I never had the chance to give you."
Lucas had been excited, almost desperate to see the full details of his Mythic class, but he had held back. He wanted to absorb everything he could the old-fashioned way first — sweat, pain, repetition — before leaning on the power that had chosen him.
Behind the one-way glass wall that overlooked the training hall, James Vanderbilt watched in silence. The world outside was still buzzing with the news of two Mythic awakeners from the same family, but James's focus remained fixed on his eldest son. He knew he didn't have much time to guide Lucas personally.
Alex had been trained by Evelyn since he was a child, every lesson meticulous and tailored. James simply didn't have the same bandwidth now. Creating space for Lucas to develop — safely, steadily, away from the immediate spotlight — was the best he could offer.
Dante continued the lesson without pause, correcting Lucas's stance, adjusting the angle of his wrist, pushing him harder with each repetition. Sweat flew from Lucas's brow as the greatsword grew heavier in his hands, yet he refused to stop.
For the first time in his life, someone was teaching him to become strong rather than simply survive.
The entire day had blurred into a relentless cycle of basic sword forms, hand-to-hand combinations, and brutal survival drills — dodging simulated mana blasts, learning how to read an opponent's footwork in the dark, forcing his body to adapt to sudden shifts in gravity and pressure. Every muscle burned, every breath tasted of salt and ozone, but Lucas had pushed through without complaint.
Dante wiped his brow with the back of his hand and gave a curt nod. "Enough for today. You've got the foundation. Tomorrow we push harder."
Lucas wiped the sweat from his eyes and pulled his black t-shirt back on, the fabric clinging immediately to his damp skin. He followed James out of the hall in silence, the weight of the day settling into his bones like a promise.
The convoy waited in the underground garage — three armored SUVs with Apex Vanguard emblems gleaming under harsh mana-lights. James slid into the middle vehicle beside Lucas while the escorts took their positions, senses on razor-sharp alert. Every guard carried live weapons and active mana barriers; their eyes scanned rooftops and shadows as the cars pulled out into the neon-drenched streets of Seoul.
Lucas stared out the tinted window as the city blurred past — towering holograms advertising guild contracts, late-night food stalls glowing with rune-lit signs, salarymen and low-rank awakeners hurrying through crosswalks. The convoy moved smoothly at first, weaving through busy districts before slipping into a quieter, half-lit industrial zone where the streetlights flickered, and the buildings stood half-abandoned.
A group of trackers in black hoods and featureless masks started to follow the convey, the leader adjusted the talisman-like artifact clipped to his waist. The device pulsed with faint concealment runes, wrapping its movements in a shroud that bent light and sound around them. He spoke into his mana-model earpiece, voice low and clipped.
"Stay alert. Keep a distance. This is not an assassination mission. We only scout the target's potential. Confirm movement patterns and any visible weaknesses."
The replies crackled back in unison. "Received."
They trailed the convoy like ghosts, hoods pulled low, eyes glowing faintly behind tactical visors.
James suddenly straightened in his seat. A mental message from one of the esteemed elders of the family hit him like a blade. His lips curled into a dark smirk.
"The audacity of these fucking rats," he spat, the words dripping with contempt.
Lucas turned toward him, brows furrowed. "What happened?"
James didn't answer immediately. Instead, he tapped the intercom. "Stop the convoy."
The vehicles slowed to a halt in the middle of the silent district. James glanced at a slim female enforcer seated across from them — Sara, lithe and deadly in her fitted black tactical gear, short silver hair cropped close to her scalp.
"Sara. Carry Lucas."
Sara nodded once, her movements precise and professional. "Young master, hold on tight."
Before Lucas could protest, Sara's arm wrapped around his waist in a firm grip. Mana flared around her — a burst of lightning-step technique — and the world blurred. They shot forward in a streak of electric blue, leaping from rooftop to rooftop before dropping into the shadows of an abandoned half-constructed building. Concrete dust and rusted rebar surrounded them. James and the rest of the escorts arrived seconds later, forming a protective perimeter.
The masked trackers froze in the open space ahead, their concealment artifact flickering under the sudden pressure. Their leader's eyes darted left and right, searching for escape routes that no longer existed. The absolute fear on their faces was unmistakable. They knew exactly who stood before them now.
A bald man with sharp, piercing eyes stepped out from the shadows. He wore simple dark robes, hands folded calmly behind his back, yet the aura radiating from him made the air feel like it could slice flesh. This was Kael Vanderbilt, Thorne Vanderbilt's younger brother and one of the most feared elders in the family — an S-rank operative whose reputation for quiet, surgical violence was legendary even among the top guilds.
James placed a steady hand on Lucas's shoulder, voice low but carrying clear pride.
"That's your great-uncle, Kael. Watch and learn what happens when someone messes with a Vanderbilt."
Kael didn't draw a weapon. He didn't need to. The masked group trembled visibly, their concealment runes sputtering out one by one under the weight of his presence. The leader tried to activate an emergency teleport talisman, but Kael simply raised one hand. A wave of invisible pressure slammed down, pinning every tracker in place like insects under glass.
Lucas watched, heart pounding, as the lesson began.
The night had already delivered its first real taste of what it meant to carry the Vanderbilt name — and the enemies that came with it.