CHAPTER 51: REAL TRAINING

The early sun split through the high lattice windows, casting golden lines across the stone courtyard like divine runes from the Architect Above. Opposite Fenric Vaelthorn Vareldis stood the Knight-Class Dummy—an eight-foot, armor-clad automaton forged from Orichalum alloy and embedded with multiple mana cores tuned for combat simulation.

This wasn’t target practice.

It was war rehearsal.

The construct bristled with reactive defenses, intelligent counter-spell routines, and kinetic resistance designed to break unrefined casters. In short: a rite of passage for real combat mages.

Fenric inhaled slowly, fingers twitching faintly. His mana sea—once chaotic—now shimmered with clarity, calmed and tempered by a month of Mavis’s brutal "training," a word far too soft for what he endured.

"Combat protocol: Initiate," he said.

The dummy’s chest flared to life, mana rings igniting in pulsing layers.

"Tier 1 engagement confirmed. Begin."

It moved like lightning. A full-bodied charge, shield up, sword slicing forward in a textbook gut-thrust meant to end things fast.

But Fenric was done being on the receiving end.

He raised his right hand in a sweeping arc, chanting under his breath.

"Terra Fractum."

Tier 1 Spell: Earth Shatter.

The stone beneath the dummy’s feet buckled and exploded upward, a spike of jagged earth smashing into its midsection. Sparks flew. The automaton absorbed the hit with partial shielding but immediately retaliated—blade swinging toward Fenric’s left side.

He slid under it, body weaving through the motion with near dancer-like grace.

"Ventus Impel!"

Tier 1 Spell: Wind Surge.

A focused burst of wind slammed into the dummy’s side like a battering ram, sending it skidding backward across the court. Dust spiraled. Plates screeched.

But the dummy wasn’t down.

Its embedded glyphs lit up—a combo cast:

Ignis Orba.

Petra Volant.

Lumina Stride.

Fire Orb. Rock Shot. Flash Step.

Mavis, perched on the terrace with arms folded, narrowed her eyes slightly.

Let’s see if he can handle converging elements.

But Fenric was already weaving his response.

His hands blurred through layered sigils in the air, his mana flowing with practiced precision.

"Aegis Pyra."

"Aqua Pulse."

"Umbra Forge."

Fire Shield.

Water Burst.

Dark Construct.

BOOM.

The Fire Orb struck—and evaporated against a radiant wall of flame that wrapped his arm like a gauntlet.

The Rock Shot followed—but was knocked wide by a concentrated jet of water that burst from his left palm.

The dummy blinked behind him using Lumina Stride—but impaled itself directly on a spike of forged shadow Fenric had pre-summoned at his blind spot.

The timing? Impeccable.

The prediction? Flawless.

The dummy sparked and staggered, balance compromised.

Fenric clenched his hand. Mana surged up like a vortex.

He wasn’t done.

"Lux Arcanum."

Tier 1 Spell: Arcane Light Lance.

A spear of brilliant white light lanced downward from above, crashing into the dummy’s helm with surgical violence. The runed alloy resisted for a heartbeat...

And then—

CRACK.

The construct’s head split in two.

[Knight-Class Dummy: Disabled.]

Silence settled over the courtyard, heavy and reverent.

Fenric stood motionless, breathing steady. His robe was tattered, a thin line of blood marked his cheek—but his eyes shone with something sharper than pride.

Purpose.

Mavis descended from the terrace, heels clicking softly on stone.

"...Tier 1 spells only," she said. "Yet you dismantled it like a Grandmaster."

Fenric didn’t respond right away. His eyes remained fixed on the smoking ruin of the Knight-Class Dummy, breath steady, expression unreadable. Then, calmly, he replied:

"The difficulty setting was locked at Tier 1. I simply performed to the expected outcome."

Humble. Professional. Almost too humble.

Mavis snorted, crossing her arms with a smirk.

"Hah! Don’t play coy. You’re starting to take the lead in this game of excellence, whether you admit it or not. Most can barely scorch that dummy with Tier 1 spells, let alone break its core. But you..."

She tilted her head, studying him like an analyst reviewing a rising asset on the verge of overperforming.

"...Your mana is vast, yes—but it’s also frighteningly pure. Refined like royal-grade crystal. Because of that, even your lowest-tier spells behave like they’re Tier 3 or above. That’s not normal. That’s talent—and pain. The kind that’s been forged under pressure."

Fenric gave a slow nod, acknowledging her words without letting them inflate him.

"Understood. So... does that mean some Tier 1 spells are strong enough to carry forward into higher combat scenarios?" he asked, genuine curiosity behind his tone.

Mavis nodded slowly, her expression tightening with something between approval and caution.

"Some? Try many," Mavis said, stepping closer. Her voice held that sharp edge again, the kind that sliced away mediocrity. "When paired with control like yours, even the most basic incantations can rival elite spellcraft. What matters isn’t the tier—it’s the wielder."

She lifted a finger, drawing a glowing rune midair. "Let me give you a simple example. Imagine I cast a Tier 1 spell—let’s say Peon of Myelaste, a standard wind-burst technique. If a Soldier-rank caster tried it, it might just ruffle some hair and kick up dirt."

The rune shimmered, and then cracked as she clenched her hand.

"But if I cast it at my level, with my mana refinement, it would tear through a third-rank Knight’s defense like parchment. The same spell. Vastly different result."

She turned her gaze to Fenric, sharp but not unkind. "Now you—your mana sea isn’t quite as pure as mine, not yet. But it’s already refined enough that your Tier 1 spells perform at the level of a Grandmaster’s."

Fenric nodded, processing. "I see... that makes sense," he said. He already had some awareness of this, thanks to the [Soul Projection] spell, which had allowed him to peer into his own spell matrix and how it connected with his mana sea’s structure. But hearing it from someone like Mavis validated it.

"Anyway, let’s get started," she said, shifting tone like a manager kicking off a high-stakes quarterly drill.

She handed him a small, red-lacquered box wrapped in spirit silk. "This is your reward for surviving a month under my boot—though it might feel like a curse."

Fenric opened the box. A soft red light spilled out, along with the scent of iron and cherry blossoms.

"A Red-Blood Spirit Elixir?" he said, blinking. The vial shimmered like molten crystal.

"Correct. Drink it. It’ll push your body toward its next threshold—but be warned, the process will feel like having your bones reforged while conscious." She gave a mischievous grin. "So do try not to cry."

Fenric, already used to pain, downed it without hesitation.

The moment the liquid hit his throat, he doubled over, every cell in his body screaming. It felt like liquid fire was coursing through his veins, like his muscles were being peeled and rewoven by unseen hands.

And then—

A dull thud echoed through the training hall. The Knight-Class dummy stepped forward, automatically triggered by his vital signature.

Mavis had already activated it. "End it," she said. "End it before the pain makes you pass out. That is your test."

Fenric’s eyes narrowed, sweat already beading on his skin, his body trembling under the elixir’s agonizing effects. Yet he stepped forward.

He didn’t need a full incantation.

"Raen Drath."

A sharp fire strike.

"Solv Vana."

A burst of pressured water.

"Noct Seln."

A shield of darkness wrapped around him.

And then—

CRACK!

He lunged, his body groaning, but his form smooth as ever. Each movement was pain incarnate, yet precise. Like a blade being honed by the whetstone of suffering.

He dodged a swing from the dummy, then slipped under its guard. With one final chant—

"Raen Eryl!"

—he bound the dummy with flame, twisted it off-balance, and drove his palm into its core.

A pulse of heat.

Then silence.

The dummy deactivated with a hiss of steam.

Mavis let out a low whistle. "Still standing. Barely, but still."

Fenric stumbled back, breath ragged, but smiling faintly.

"...Only took five Tier 1 spells."

"Mm. Next time, make it three," she said, already turning away, but there was pride in her voice.

Then—his knees buckled.

He fell.

The world tilted, his vision spiraling into a kaleidoscope of fractured mana, static pain, and flickers of golden light that didn’t belong. The training platform blurred beneath him, the taste of iron rich on his tongue. His body, pushed past its limits, finally rebelled—nerves aflame, bones aching from microfractures, meridians on the verge of collapse.

Mavis was already there before his head hit the ground.

"Tch. You’re reckless, boy," she muttered, her tone half-scolding, half-impressed. With a flick of her wrist, ancient runes bloomed in the air—a formation of concentric circles, layered with elemental nodes and soul-grade conduits.

With one final glyph pressed into the air, the sigil surged.

A pool of golden liquid manifested beneath Fenric, a tub carved of seamless jade rising from the floor as if summoned from the bones of the earth itself. The liquid shimmered with an alchemical glow—like molten sunlight stirred with moonlight, thick with medicinal qi and divine essence.

The Golden Elixir Bath of Remending Soul and Bone.

A privilege. A punishment. A gift only given to those with potential worth more than resources.

She hovered him over with a lift of her finger, mana threads gently guiding his unconscious form into the glowing bath. The moment his skin touched the surface, the tub reacted—runes igniting along its edges, the liquid rippling as it hungrily drank in the damage carved deep into his being.

A low hiss escaped Fenric’s lips as the elixir seeped into his bones, knitting torn sinew, realigning fractured pathways, washing over his core with soothing fire.

Mavis crossed her arms, staring down at him with an unreadable expression.

"Fool. You push like a man sprinting toward death... but your path still leads up."