Lucius sat alone under the moonlight, staring at his trembling hands.
"You're using magic to heal—but you're not using it to fight."
Adrian's words had been bouncing around in his head for a week now.
At first, he thought he understood. Magic was a tool. He had been using it like a bandage—patching up his wounds, keeping his body from collapsing, but nothing more.
But what did Adrian mean by using it to fight?
He thought back to his past life.
Magic had never been a weapon for him.
He had lived as a scholar, a strategist—someone who analyzed battle but never stepped onto the battlefield himself. His mind had been his weapon, not his fists.
And now?
He was being forced to think like a warrior.
And it confused him.
Lucius spent the next week lost in thought, observing, questioning, analyzing.
He watched Adrian move, the way his footwork seemed lighter, how his speed was unnatural, how his strikes had force beyond simple muscle strength.
And then he paid attention to the knights.
Some of them infused their weapons with mana, making them stronger. Others enhanced their bodies, moving faster, hitting harder.
It was subtle, almost invisible.
Was that what Adrian meant?
He focused on his own magic, testing small bursts—trying to make his fingers lighter, his steps sharper.
But the moment he focused too hard—his magic rejected him.
It flared wildly, then dissipated.
Lucius frowned.
Something was missing.
Determined, Lucius spent the next two weeks experimenting.
Every night after training, he pushed his body beyond its limits—just as before—but this time, he didn't heal himself immediately.
Instead, he tried to channel his magic into his body.
He started with his arms.
At first, it was like trying to grab smoke. His magic dispersed, refusing to stay within his limbs.
But he kept trying.
One night, he felt a flicker of resistance in his muscles. His fingers twitched unnaturally fast, his grip tightening just slightly.
The moment he realized it—it vanished.
He cursed, but he didn't stop.
Again.
And again.
Slowly, painfully, he started to understand.
Magic wasn't just about healing—it was about circulation.
He had to guide it, not force it.
Not control it like an outsider, but let it become part of him.
Like breath. Like heartbeat.
And on the fifteenth night—he finally succeeded.
His sword felt lighter. His grip stronger. His stance steadier.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was a start.
AT NIGHT
Adrian leaned against a wooden post near the edge of the training grounds, arms crossed, watching Lucius with an amused expression.
He had been watching for weeks.
He had seen every stumble, every mistake, every moment of frustration.
And now—he was waiting.
Lucius tightened his grip on the wooden sword.
He didn't ask for a spar.
He didn't need to.
Instead, he moved.
The first strike came like a whisper through the wind.
Lucius lunged, his sword cutting through the night air in a clean, precise arc. It wasn't brute force—it was speed, fluidity, and control.
Adrian's smirk faded.
With a flicker of amusement in his eyes, he sidestepped at the last second.
But Lucius wasn't done.
His body twisted, his footwork shifting with newfound agility. His magic pulsed—not wild, not reckless, but focused.
His second strike came faster. Sharper.
Adrian raised a brow and lifted his wooden sword to block. The impact was stronger than before.
Lucius stepped back, steadying his breath.
Adrian tapped his blade against his shoulder, chuckling. "So that's what you've been up to, huh?"
Lucius didn't answer.
He simply adjusted his stance—and attacked again.
Their wooden swords clashed under the pale moonlight.
Adrian no longer held back, meeting each strike with calculated precision.
But Lucius was different now.
He wasn't just reacting—he was adapting.
Adrian noticed it immediately.
Lucius' footwork was lighter, his attacks more refined. His magic was no longer a desperate crutch but a seamless extension of his body.
Adrian grinned.
"He figured it out."
The spar continued, the sound of wood against wood echoing through the empty night.
Lucius didn't falter.
He didn't collapse.
For the first time—he kept up.
Adrian deflected a strike and stepped back, lowering his sword slightly.
Then, he smirked.
"Not bad, little brother," he muttered, tilting his head. "Looks like you finally stopped fighting like a corpse."
Lucius exhaled, gripping his sword tighter.
Adrian let out a short chuckle. "Alright then. Let's see how far you've really come."
And with that, he attacked.
The real fight had just begun.