When Klarion and Hatsune arrived for Combat Studies, Professor Thrain already stood with a long wooden pole in hand at the center of the class of scions, his eyes raking over the gathered students like a blade scraping across steel. Klarion couldn’t guess what the professor was thinking, but if his expression was anything to go by, the lesson today was going to be intense. Perhaps more so than the first class.
After they selected their practice weapons, Klarion went about finding space off to the side for himself and Hatsune to stand, when he noticed that most of the gathered scions and bodyguards weren’t paying that much attention to the professor. Not that he could blame them, as this time Professor Thrain was not alone.
Following the gaze of his nearest neighbors, Klarion looked over to see that, scattered throughout the training hall, there stood several assistants that the professor had apparently brought along for the class. To a one, they were human men that Klarion quickly assumed to be veteran warriors, each wielding a long wooden pole similar to the professor’s own. They were men of solid build, their expressions as hard and unyielding as the wooden weapons they carried. Some bore the scars of past battles, their presence a silent testament to the kind of experience no textbook could impart. All carried themselves with the disciplined precision of former legionnaires.
Klarion’s curiosity sharpened, as the professor did not strike him as one who would waste time on theatrics.
Professor Thrain let the unease settle a few minutes longer as the remaining stragglers trickled into class. When he finally spoke, his grizzled voice cut through the low whispers.
“Assume sparring positioning, scions and bodyguards.” He rolled his shoulders to loosen them, the casual motion somehow carrying the weight of an unspoken threat. “Today’s lesson is simple—combat awareness.”
The professor lifted his pole and tapped it lightly against his open palm. “While you spar, my assistants and I will be moving through the hall. We will strike at random. If one of us lands a hit on you, you owe me a lap.” A slow, sharp grin spread across his face. “If you get hit twice, you owe me two. And so on. Simple enough, isn’t it?”
The air in the hall grew heavier, tension crackling like a drawn bowstring, and while no scion protested, Klarion did see more than a handful of frowns. Apparently, a good number of his classmates were not looking forward to the lesson. Klarion’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered Professor Thrain’s challenge. Hopefully, his stats would give him an advantage in practicing combat awareness.
“Let me be clear,” Thrain continued, pacing now, his steps slow and deliberate. “I don’t care if you’re fighting the best duel of your life—if you don’t see me coming, you lose.” He flicked his pole toward one of the assistants, a burly man with a shaved head. “And if one of my assistants gets you instead? You still lose.”
The assistant in question gave a vicious smile and gave his pole a testing spin. The man had the look of someone who was going to enjoy his work — probably with harder blows than necessary. A few scions stiffened, some exchanging uneasy glances with their bodyguards.
Thrain’s grin widened, dark amusement flashing in his gaze. “Well? What are you waiting for?” He jabbed his pole against the stone floor with a sharp crack. “Get to work.”
As the scions and bodyguards surrounding them began sparring, Hatsune stepped closer to him, silver-tipped ears twitching as she assessed the challenge. She looked at him with the faintest hint of amusement. “This should be fun,” she murmured.
Klarion exhaled, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. “Perhaps for you. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing a few laps today.”
After making sure no one else was too close, and double-checking the professor nor his assistants were too close yet, Klarion raised his greatsword in one of the guard positions Rolfun had taught him. In response to Klarion raising his sword, Hatsune slid into a ready stance, her weight balanced perfectly, her movements fluid as ever. Klarion shifted on the balls of his feet, trying to keep his focus on Hatsune, but not to the point he forgot everything else around him. He knew he had improved since beginning to learn how to wield the greatsword in his first sparring sessions with Rolfun, but he still felt he was slower, and less precise, than he should be. If he wanted to win—not just against Hatsune, but against all the enemies gathering against him—he had to push himself further.
"Come at me," Hatsune said, voice even. "And try not to get poked while you're at it."
Barely had the Leporine finished speaking when Klarion lunged forward, aiming a strike at her midsection. She pivoted effortlessly, his practice greatsword thrusting through empty air. Her counter came swift and from an unexpected direction—a quick kick aimed at his ribs. He barely blocked in time, his forearm stinging from the impact.
"You're still too focused on me," she noted, resetting her stance. "You need to pay attention.”
Stepping backward, Klarion followed Hatsune’s advice to take a quick look around for the professor and his assistants. Unsurprisingly, Professor Thrain moved like a predator through the Martial Hall, his wooden pole held loosely in one hand, tapping against his palm with an idle rhythm. His steps were slow, measured—no wasted movement, no hurry. He didn’t need to be fast.
Even in that brief glance, Klarion could tell that more than a few of his fellow scions were too focused on their own fights. Pairs clashed across the stone floor, scions and their bodyguards locked in fierce exchanges, their breath coming heavy with exertion. And through them, Thrain prowled. As Klarion watched, the professor’s pole lashed out without warning at an angle behind him. A sharp crack against an unwary scion’s shoulder rang out. It was soon followed by a sudden jab to another distracted scion’s ribs.
“Take your laps.”
The professor didn’t linger after landing a hit. There was no need. His victims staggered back, realization dawning too late, and then they ran.
Some tried to watch him. Tried to track his movements while keeping their focus on their sparring partner. For too many, it rarely helped. If they hesitated, their bodyguard punished them for it. If they committed too much to their fight, the poles wielded by Thrain or his assistants found them instead. The ones who managed to dodge him once—rare as they were—only bought themselves a few minutes. Either the professor or his assistants always circled back around within.
Klarion returned his attention to Hatsune, but even as he exchanged blows with Hatsune, even as he ducked and countered and fought to keep up with her relentless attacks, he tried to keep an eye out for anyone wielding a wooden pole.
Hatsune swung her sword in a feint, and Klarion barely avoided a sharp knee to his side from Hatsune before stepping back, trying to steal a glance around him when he realized he couldn’t see the professor anywhere.
“Sloppy,” Hatsune chided, closing the distance in an instant with her practice sword extended.
Klarion raised his greatsword just in time to block a rapid flurry of strikes, but the impacts still drove him back a step. He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t afford to lose focus on Hatsune, but he also couldn’t let his awareness of his surroundings slip either.
“Better,” she said with a slight smile, then lunged without changing expression.
Stolen novel; please report.
A pole whistled through the air nearby, and Klarion blocked Hatsune’s strike while twisting instinctively. He moved just enough to let the strike of the wooden pole pass a hair’s breadth from his ribs.
Professor Thrain let out a low chuckle from behind him, and Klarion quickly stepped to keep both him and Hatsune in his line of sight. “Not bad, Scion Blacksword.” His gravelly voice carried a note of approval, though it was tempered with something else. Amusement, perhaps. “At least a few of you lot know how to keep an eye on their surroundings.”
Klarion barely had a moment to feel a small sense of pride at the compliment before Hatsune moved.
His bodyguard’s foot hooked behind his ankle and, before he could react, Hatsune swept his legs out from under him, and gravity did the rest. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through his back and shoulders.
Hatsune loomed over him, the tip of her sword pointed down at his face, her expression gleeful at having beaten him. “Your awareness is improving,” she said lightly, “but don’t let the professor’s approval distract you.”
Thrain’s sharp grin widened. He tapped his pole against the ground, shaking his head. “She’s got the right of it. While you should feel some pride at my compliments, as they don’t come easily, if you don’t keep your head, you will quickly end up on your ass. Or dead.”
Klarion exhaled sharply, irritation flaring in his chest as he pushed himself back to his feet. He wasn’t frustrated at Hatsune, nor even at the professor, though. He should have known she’d exploit an opening like that. He should have been ready for it.
Thrain shifted slightly, planting his pole against the stone floor, studying Klarion with those sharp, assessing eyes. “Survival’s about balance, boy. You did well avoiding me, but you lost sight of your real fight.” He jerked his chin toward Hatsune. “And she reminded you why that’s a mistake.”
Klarion pushed himself up, wincing slightly as he rolled his shoulders. “Understood. I’ll do better.”
Thrain snorted. “We’ll see.” Then, without another word, he straightened, spun on his heel, and strode away—back into the swirling chaos of the sparring matches.
Klarion briefly watched as the professor drifted between pairs like a wraith, his pole striking with uncanny precision, his victims cursing as they were sent off running laps. Another scion yelped as the wooden tip thumped against their ribs.
“Lap.”
Similar calls came from other directions now, as the various assistants moved between the sparring pairs like the professor was. A different student, attempting to dodge, took a strike to the thigh instead.
“Two laps,” came the call.
Klarion exhaled, shaking off the remaining irritation he felt at himself. Without a word, Hatsune offered him the hilt of his practice greatsword, and he took it, resetting his stance.
The smack of training weapons against one another and the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground surrounded him as Klarion sank into an almost meditative state while sparring with Hatsune. His greatsword met her longsword in a flurry of swift exchanges—his strikes powerful and sweeping, hers quick and precise. Every step, every pivot, every clash was beginning to feel more instinctual, the rhythm of combat sharpening his focus.
For her part, Hatsune moved more and more like some sort of specter, her silver-tipped ears twitching at the smallest shift in the air. She was relentless, slipping past his defenses, forcing him to react, to adapt. Klarion countered with controlled power, leveraging his greater reach to keep her from closing in completely. Even then, however, he kept his awareness about him, making sure neither the professor nor one of his assistants were able to strike him with the poles they carried. He wasn’t sure how long it was that they sparred, but he was proud that he had been able to dodge six pole strikes.
A sharp crack echoed through the hall as Thrain slammed the wooden pole he had been using against the palm of his free hand, a sharp, percussive sound that cut through the din. The students hesitated, turning toward him, some startled, others visibly annoyed at the interruption.
“Enough!” Thrain barked. “Cease sparring and line up. Now.”
The scions and their bodyguards obeyed, though some did so with barely concealed irritation. Thrain ignored the rolling eyes and scattered sighs. Their attitudes meant nothing to him in the face of the need for them to excel in their training.
“While I am proud of a few of you, from what I have watched, there are still a good number of you who waste my time and your own with this farce of training. If you aren’t sure to whom I am referring, it is more than likely my words are meant for you.” Professor Thrain’s gaze swept the hall, pausing here and there on a scion to drive his anger home. “Your bodyguards hold back, while you prance around as if you're playing at war. But war is not a game, and you will learn that sooner than you think.”
The professor let the silence stretch uncomfortably before speaking again.
"When you leave this Academy, you will no longer be in the safety of these halls. You will not be fighting in controlled duels or training exercises where bruises or easily healed injuries are the worst consequence of failure. You will be on battlefields. You will be hunted by enemies who do not care for your titles or your pedigrees. You will watch men scream as they are cut down. You will feel the spray of blood on your face—yours, or someone else's."
Several students flinched at his words, and a young woman on the far side from Klarion gagged at the mention of blood, but Professor Thrain did not relent.
“You will know fear. It will crawl through your veins like ice. You will feel the red mist descend—the madness of battle, where men lose themselves to bloodlust, forgetting discipline, forgetting tactics, losing all reason. I have seen men who were considered 'elite' abandon their training in the face of that terror. I have seen commanders, noble-born and raised, piss themselves and try to run when the charge came. Do you think the enemy cared who their fathers were?”
Silence now hung in the air.
“Discipline and training are all that will keep you alive. Strength alone will not save you. Rank will not save you. It is your training supplemented by your will to stand firm, to master your fear, to fight even when your body screams for you to flee, that will decide if you live or die."
Klarion glanced around at those the professor had singled out earlier. A few of the bodyguards nodded, understanding his words. They had seen battle before. The scions, however, were a mix of uneasy, defiant, or outright indifferent. Klarion thought the professor was about to continue making his point when, from the line of students, a voice rang out, laced with anger and frustration.
“What if we don’t want to fight?”
The question came from a young noble, his face set in a scowl, arms crossed over his fine academy-issued uniform. The mark showed he was from a Baron’s House. “Some of us are here because of tradition, because our families demand it. Not because we want to swing swords and march in formation. What if we refuse?”
Thrain slowly turned to face the young noble, his expression unreadable. Then, in a tone devoid of the fire from before, he spoke. “You think you will have a choice?”
The scion hesitated, before starting to say angrily, “My father—”
“Will. Do. Nothing,” Thrain interrupted, his voice low and cold. “When the Empire calls, you serve. You do not get to choose whether war comes for you. You do not get to decide if Imperial lands are threatened, if Imperial families are put at risk. If your name is called upon to defend the Empire’s interests, you will serve in whatever capacity the Emperor and the Seven Princes need. The moment you were born into nobility, that choice was taken from you.”
Professor Thrain took a step forward, his presence somehow growing to seem more imposing. “Tell me, Scion—if you refuse to fight, will you tell your men to stand down when enemies breach your walls? Will you watch as your people are slaughtered because you decided war was beneath you? Will you expect someone else to die in your place?”
The young noble's face paled in the face of the professor’s words, but he held his ground. “Not all of us are meant for war. Some of us have other strengths.”
Professor Thrain let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Then you had best find a way to make those strengths useful in combat. Because if you think war will pass you by, if you think the Empire will not call on you, you are a fool.”
The words hung heavy in the air. No one else dared speak. Professor Thrain stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the class once more.
“I will not waste my breath any further convincing you of reality. Either you understand, or you don’t. If you refuse to take this class seriously, do not return. I would rather spend my time on those who wish to live than coddle fools who think themselves invincible or exempt from serving the Empire.”
Thrain turned on his heel, striding toward the exit with the same unhurried confidence he carried into battle. At the threshold, he paused, his dark eyes sweeping over the exhausted students.
“Class dismissed.”
The words rang like a final verdict, cutting through the lingering tension in the air. Relief washed over some, while others stood frozen, still caught in the weight of the lesson. But as the students began to gather their things and file out, Thrain’s voice cut through the noise once more.
“Scion Blacksword. With me."
He didn’t wait for a response, simply continuing forward, his heavy boots echoing as he left the rest of the class and his assistants behind.
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