A Genius's Special Attribute

Once again, Oswin was hurled against the wall with brutal force. The impact echoed through the arena, and the white smoke surrounding his body flickered with flashes of red.

He staggered, coughed, and then, in an unexpected move, twisted mid-air, planted his feet against the wall as if it were solid ground, and launched himself back into the fight like a living arrow. It was the same trick Beatriz had shown him in one of their old duels, turning impact into momentum.

Ahead of him, Beatriz stood untouched. Cold. Precise. Mechanical, almost inhuman. The only visible change since that day was the orange aura pulsing around her, like disciplined fire dancing at her command.

“Aura…” I murmured to myself, eyes locked on her, more lost in thought than actually following the fight.

It was impossible not to compare it to magic.

Aura, unlike magic — which demanded innate talent and a refined connection to certain elements, often conditioned by rare affinities, study, calculation, symbols, circles, complex formulas, or precise logic — was something else entirely. Raw. Direct.

It didn’t rely on intellect or scholarship. It relied on just one thing: will.

Like magic, aura was also divided into levels — from one to ten, excluding level zero. There were rumors of a level beyond the tenth, a kind of mythical peak. But that’s all they were: stories. Legends. In the last thousand years, whether through magic, aura, or any other method, no one had ever reached it.

But there was something no one ever mentioned...

After five days watching Beatriz and Oswin fight relentlessly — and from afar, observing the training of other squires and noble heirs — I began to notice a pattern. Small. Subtle.

And that’s when an uncomfortable thought came to me… impossible to ignore.

There is, in fact, a level zero.

It wasn’t in any of the books in the library. No knight seemed to know what I was talking about when I asked — not even Sir Kyle, with his obsession for detail, or Sir Isack, with his unmatched experience.

The closest I came to a coherent answer was from Sir Alaric Thornevale — current Captain of the Order of the Knights of the Waiting Fields and Commander of the Fortress.

He looked me in the eye for a long moment and said, with the calm of someone who has answered many curious questions:

“Never heard of white smoke or even a white aura. But what I do know is that when someone is about to awaken their aura... the body changes. Sometimes in battle, other times in moments of desperation, or under intense emotional pressure. It’s like everything... unlocks. Hearing sharpens, vision clears, reflexes sharpen. You feel stronger, faster. For a moment, your body hits its limit. In rare cases... it goes beyond. Just a bit. But enough to notice.”

That description gave me chills on the spot. It wasn’t just theory — it was lived experience.

In practice, this so-called level zero was like a pre-awakening stage. A silent, nearly invisible rite. A threshold.

Most people manifested their aura already at level one, its color and intensity shaped by the dominant emotion at the moment of awakening. Anger, fear, passion, courage — each one molded the aura differently.

But there were curious cases that puzzled me. Like someone known for their short temper developing an aura with freezing effects. Shouldn’t it be fiery? Destructive?

Those contradictions still eluded me.

But one thing I was sure of: level zero exists.

Maybe not as a visible power… but as the boundary between who we are and who we could become. A stage where the body fights to find its truth — and when it does, something greater awakens.

Beatriz was already beyond that line.

Oswin… was about to cross it.

And me?

I was just trying to understand… why I was the only one who could see that faint whitish aura surrounding those on the verge of awakening. It was like a subtle mist, floating around them — almost invisible, yet persistent, like a secret begging to be noticed.

"I’ve just made a huge discovery… and I have no way to prove it."

I brought my hands to my head, rubbing my temples with a quiet sigh.
“Is this what the great scientists on Earth felt like? Especially that guy with the tectonic plates… Wegener, was that his name?” My thoughts drifted, and a muffled laugh escaped me.

“Forget it,” I muttered, a little too loudly.

I took a step back, arms crossed, one hand resting on my waist. It’s not like I want to become some renowned researcher,” I muttered to myself in a resigned, almost mocking tone.

“I’ll leave that to Alice and Alistair…”

It was strange how their names came so naturally to me now. As if I’d always known them by those names.

“Honestly? I think it’d suit you,” said a familiar voice beside me.

I turned my head slowly, already expecting Isack’s signature half-smile. He held a mug of water and looked at me as though he’d heard every thought I hadn’t said out loud.

‘Damn… spoke out loud again.’

“Shame you’re a Dracknum,” he went on, taking a casual sip, “but hey… maybe when you retire?”

The grimace he made afterward, spitting out half the water and grumbling under his breath, pulled a restrained laugh out of me.

“Maybe,” I murmured, eyes drifting back to the center of the arena.

Isack’s suggestion seemed absurd at first… but maybe not so much. I’d always liked teaching, even back on Earth. Granted, only to people I liked — but there was a real joy in seeing someone learn because of me. Maybe, someday… I’d have a student of my own.

“OUAAAAAH!”

The crowd’s roar yanked me back to the present, violently.

“HE DID IT!”

People were on their feet, arms raised, the arena practically boiling over with excitement.

“About time,” even Isack was smiling now, clapping with quiet enthusiasm.

My eyes locked on the arena. There, in the center of the storm, stood Oswin — panting, body slightly hunched forward, fist extended. The white aura around him was no longer subtle; it pulsed. It throbbed like a heart about to burst, flickering with irregular, yet living light.

Beatriz was a few steps back, off balance. One hand pressed against her stomach. The hit had landed — direct and precise. And it wasn’t just one; it had been three, in rapid succession, as if each blow had been practiced a hundred times in his mind before becoming real.

Five days. For five days, he faced Beatriz every morning. The first fight had lasted just four minutes. He was crushed.

The second? He survived five.

The third? Six.

The fourth? Seven.

Today… the fight had already passed the nine-minute mark. And for the first time, he wasn’t just enduring — he was pushing back.

The progress had been almost invisible when taken day by day. But now, added together, it was impossible to ignore.

The white aura glowing around Oswin shimmered in moonlight tones, with flickers of crimson fire — steady, yet trembling with a restrained fury ready to erupt. It was what I called “level zero”: The edge of awakening.

It wasn’t aura in its full form. It was… the whisper before the scream. The silence before the thunder.

And I was the only one who saw it. The only one who felt it. And strangely… that didn’t scare me.

On the contrary — it thrilled me.

But it still wasn’t time.
Not yet.
Not for him.

Oswin lunged at Beatriz, eyes wide, a grin cutting across his face. There was something almost feral in his gaze. His fingers — more claw than hand — slashed through the air with every move.

I could’ve sworn I read his lips in the midst of that flurry: “Finally.” As if today was the day. As if he knew.

But… he was wrong.

Beatriz remained calm, cold, nearly impassive. She blocked, dodged, stepped back. Not with superiority, but with precision. Oswin was pushing her — and for the first time… the pressure was working. A few attacks were slipping through.

Until...

CRACK.

A brutal kick shattered one of Beatriz’s katars. The sharp sound echoed through the arena. The weapon flew off, spinning through the air like a falling star before embedding itself in the ground.

The crowd held its breath.

Beatriz took an awkward step back, off-balance — vulnerable.

Oswin didn’t hesitate. Like a predator catching the scent of blood, he lunged, ready to finish it.

But then...

Beatriz moved. Simple. Elegant.

“Impossible…” Isack whispered, stunned. For the first time since I’d met him, he was truly surprised.

And so was I. ‘Itto-ryuu? No… Jajanken?!’

Beatriz’s stance was... strange. Familiar, yet entirely new.

Her front foot planted firmly into the ground, unmoving. The other slid back a step — like cocking the hammer of a weapon.

Her free hand gripped the wrist of her armed arm. A deliberate, almost ceremonial gesture.

It was a fusion. A blend of styles.

The stillness of a swordsman before a deadly Iai slash...

And the brutal explosiveness of “Jajanken: Rock.”

A hybrid art. Her own creation. Beatriz was about to carve her name into stone.

Oswin didn’t stop. He threw feints, mixed his attacks, unleashed false punches to throw her off.

But nothing escaped Beatriz’s gaze.

She didn’t follow his movements — she anticipated them.

And then... she struck.

With her lead foot locked to the ground, her entire body spun around that single point, like the whole world was anchored there.

She batted Oswin’s punch aside with her free hand — dry, clean, elegant.

In the same breath, her armed arm came up.

Impact.

What was left of her katar slammed into Oswin’s chin with enough force to lift him off the ground.

But she didn’t stop there.

Still pivoting on that fixed foot, she spun and, with her back to him, drove a brutal elbow into his gut.

The thud was deep. Muffled. Final.

And to finish, she completed the rotation — one last impulse — and with the same free hand, punched him in the face so hard I saw not just blood, but teeth flying.

All without taking a single step from where she stood.

Three strikes.
Three angles.
A flawless execution.

Oswin was launched backward like an arrow loosed from a divine bow. His body cut through the air in an arc before crashing into the crowd of young spectators. They caught him as best they could, but he was already unconscious before hitting the ground.

The silence that followed lasted exactly one held breath — and then the arena exploded.

“UAAAAAAHHHHH!!!”
“BEATRIZ!”
“THE QUEEN OF THE WAITING FIELDS!”
“THE STATIC BLADE!!”
“ONE-HIT KNOCKOUT!”
“THE ONE-PUNCH GIRL!”
“BEATRIZ! BEATRIZ! BEATRIZ!”

The roar of the crowd rolled across the field like a crashing wave, each shout hurling her name higher into the heavens. It was as if a new title had just been etched into the history books, born there, amid the dust and disbelief.

Isack was in shock. He clutched at his hair like he was trying to pull the last remnants of his sanity free. The clay mug in his other hand cracked beneath his trembling fingers, water soaking his forearm.

“This has to be a joke…” he panted. “She… she awakened an attribute? Still at level one?!”

I didn’t know what I had just witnessed either. Only one thing was certain — and it burned into me like sunlight on bare skin:

“Beatriz is a genius.”

But then something tugged at the back of my mind — a quiet inconsistency.

“Wait… why are they shouting about a single blow?” I murmured, frowning. “She landed three.”

Isack turned to me. The old, retired captain wore a look torn between relief and comic terror — a face worthy of some ancient stage play.

“Glad I wasn’t the only one who noticed,” he said with a nervous smile. “Thought I was losing my mind.”

“Why?” I leaned in.

He rested his elbows on the edge of the wall, eyes fixed on the spot below, where Beatriz still stood motionless, as if time itself had yet to resume around her.

“Because she did land three hits. It’s just that most people down there… didn’t see them. Didn’t even grasp what happened. They only saw the last one.”

“But… it’s not like she moved that fast,” I argued, though doubt was already blooming inside me. Something was off. Something didn’t quite fit.

Isack turned his face toward me, eyes narrowed.

“It’s not about speed, kid.” He knocked his fist lightly against the stone. “Or at least…” — he sighed — “it’s not just that. It’s something else.”

I closed my eyes, trying to recall. Sweat trailed down my temples.

And then I saw it again. As clear as if someone had swept the dust from my memory.

“By Velmior’s beard…” I whispered.

She was there. In her opening stance. Shoulders relaxed. One foot forward, the other drawn back. Breath held. And then...

Two ghost-like silhouettes — almost phantoms — burst from her body like condensed echoes.

The first stepped back, flowing like water, deflecting Oswin’s strike and countering with an upward slash to his chin. Then it vanished.

The second spun in place, her hair describing a golden arc in the air, and drove an elbow into his ribs. And it too disappeared.

And only after they’d both vanished did the real Beatriz — solid, sharp, absolute — finish it with a straight punch that launched him like an arrow.

“By Velmior’s beard…” I echoed, this time quieter.

“Exactly,” said Isack, eyes glinting with restrained awe. “They weren’t clones. Not illusions. Echoes.”

He leaned closer, as if barely believing the words coming out of his mouth.

“A condensed manifestation of will. Each strike was so precise, so full of intent, that space itself recorded its shape.”

He paused. “To put it simply — it was like space held onto the imprint of her movements for a fraction of a second.”

“So what they saw… was just the last one?” I murmured, the pieces beginning to fit.

Isack nodded. “That’s what we call an Aura Attribute.” His tone hit like an anvil.

“Half of people never awaken it. And of those who do… almost none unlock it at damn level one!” he growled, spitting the last words. “She shouldn’t be able to do this. Not yet.”

“But… what is this ‘attribute’ exactly?” I asked, though I already had a vague idea. Still, he seemed eager to explain — and I was more than eager to listen. Nothing like a little nudge.

Isack crossed his arms. His eyes turned inward, rifling through some old, weathered chest of memory.

“You already know that aura is the manifestation of a person’s will, right? Will... given form.

But just like magic has its systems, aura has categories too. And when we awaken it, each of us manifests a dominant attribute. We classify them into five types:

Strength Type — Those whose aura boosts raw power. They smash walls with their fists, shatter weapons bare-handed.

Speed Type — Aura that translates into agility, reflexes, and precision. Movements so fast they seem a second ahead of time.

Tank Type — Here, aura reinforces the body. Bones harder than steel, skin like stone. Some can even extend that protection to allies.

Elemental Type — The aura takes on elemental traits: fire, ice, lightning. Not as common as the others, but not exactly legends either.

Special Type — The most… peculiar.”

He paused, brow furrowed.

“They’re hard to define. We usually say it’s ‘like a whisper behind your ear and a slap to the face at the same time.’”

“What kind of explanation is that?” I laughed, caught off guard.

“An honest one,” Isack shot back with a tired smile. “Specials don’t fit into the other categories. Sometimes they overlap two or three… other times, they just do something completely absurd.

Stuff like:

An aura that manipulates gravity around the body, making everything heavier or lighter.

An aura that extends in invisible threads, slicing through anything like silk.

People who can manipulate concepts — like ‘reaction time’ or ‘shadows’ — as if they were casting spells or breaking the rules of the world itself.”

“They’re the rarest. And while not all of them are outright monsters, if you were to rank the ten strongest aura users alive, there’s almost always a Special among the top five.

Because of how unpredictable they are. Because of how hard they are to fight. Because trying to understand their abilities is a headache all on its own.”

He glanced sideways at me, a crooked grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Being the patriarch’s son, I figure you’ve seen someone like that before… right?”

Only one name came to mind.

“Israel Dracknum.”