Chapter 2

Training Yard. Valtara Academy. 

Northern Wing.

Five months, three weeks, six days left.

The morning air at the Academy carried a deceptive calm, crisp and cool under the pale gold of a lazy sun. Dew still clung to the flagstones of the outer courtyard, making them slick beneath the shuffle of boots and polished shoes. Around him, students streamed toward the main hall in their new uniforms — all loose, poncho coats and bright crests, a parade of  patterns of colors on a gray blue background color, declaring elemental affinities and family prestige. The capital of Valtara was known for its constant rains due to the constant formation of monsoons coming from the East. As such, the city was filled with many rivers and creeks, and the need for raincoats and ponchos was needed.

Caden kept his head low, letting the crowd of students carry him forward. His bag felt heavier than it should, though it was mostly food and bandages—just in case. It wasn’t the weight of the day’s lessons that made his shoulders tense — it was the gnawing reminder that everything here was a countdown. Six months.

Since his grand resolution of "not dying", every hour not working on his survival felt like a waste of time, even sleeping felt like an opulent luxury he could not afford, and the last two nights had been a master class on insomnia.

The grand lecture hall smelled faintly of chalk and burning incense, its vaulted ceiling painted with constellations. The first class was more ceremony than study—instructors outlining schedules, warning about safety during duels, and delivering the usual speeches about discipline and potential.

As Vachi, he remembered something similar for every first day of a school year he took up until High School. Students were expected to relax as the day would've been flooded with greetings and introductions to each course, and teachers would not start their curriculum until the next three days.

It should have been easy to relax. Should have been.

The moment they were released to the practice yard, however, any illusion of calm shattered like glass.

The yard was a sprawling square of beaten earth and white stone boundaries, ringed by racks of practice weapons and runic dummies atop dueling areas of stone on the center. 

The morning mist hadn’t burned off yet, and a faint chill clung to the air.

A professor waited for them, leaning against the school wall with a book in hand. His shaved head, weary eyes, and small glasses lent him a faintly bohemian air, though the disappointment in his gaze was hard to miss. Like all the teachers, he wore a black poncho, and a sword hung loosely at his waist. When they stepped into the yard, he rolled his eyes, sighed, and shut the book with a touch of frustration—almost as if he’d been hoping the class would be cancelled on its first day.

"Good morning, students, my name is Professor Eterport," he said, his voice so low the class and all nature around them had to shut up to fully grasp his words, "I'll be your... instructor and overall tutor during your first-year course. This fills me with, um, incredible joy and pleasure, and... Oh yes, I'm looking forward to seeing how you progress through these months."

The lack of enthusiasm in his words made students exchange glances with uncertainty. Caden bit his lips in frustration.

Of all the teachers, why did I get the disinterested one who's there because he's extraordinary in some magical concept? I would've taken a strict and authoritative figure over this...

His previous knowledge of Hearts & Daggers kicked in. Professor Eterport was barely mentioned as descriptive text, and not a single picture or model of him was ever developed. His uncaring and detached personality had been one of the weak points of the game, but it worked as a plot device for students to act under very lax supervision.

Autodidacticism, my old enemy... we meet again.

Vachir never had the initiative to learn anything other than gaming mechanics to enjoy his time. Everything else had to be shoved into his mind until it reached his subconscious. Naturally, no one was willing to help a student who lacked proactivity, so in the end, his old self had to cram and pull all-nighters learning stuff to pass the exams.

Unfortunately, his new self as Caden seemed to agree with this mindset too. Everyone around him had the impression that he had a degree of potential to become a battlemage, hence his admission, but most believed he had just had learned the bare minimumto be there.  

He felt his mind heavy with boredom as Eterport checked his notes to know what to say next. Caden slapped himself in the face to refocus his eyes on the teacher.

Focus, damn it, he scolded himself, if we allow old Caden or Vachir to take over, our fate is sealed.

"Hmm, erm, ok I found them!" Eterport said, "Ok so... yeah, Battlemages. You've all heard the stories... um, 200 hundred years ago-ish, mages around the world relied on spellcasting and ranged attacks... that was troublesome while fighting great numbers of enemies or, say, erm, monsters. This all changed when—"

"Uther Ooz came, the first battlemage, emerged."

A voice at the front interrupted the teacher unceremoniously; her long golden long hair and green eyes, coupled with her face, were the epitome of noble beauty. Many boys and girls alike basked in her radiance as she stepped forward and turned to the class.

"Uther Ooz brought about a revolution in magic, as his stamina and agility, under the effect of spells, enhanced any mage's spells with physical prowess. Now, battlemages are a thing here in Valtara and any other nation in the world."

Everyone applauded her explanation, but she couldn't care less.

"Professor, would I get extra points for doing your job?"

Eterport was already reading his book again as he blinked towards her, "Um? Oh yes, yes, erm, sure, extra points for Miss Sarashen."

Valery shut the praises down, "Listen up, class, I intend to make this generation the best there is, let every other grade here or school in the world know the great things I—erm, WE will achieve! No one will stop us, we will reach for greatness or die trying!"

As many applauded once again, Caden noticed that Prince Abelard couldn't care less about the speech, his eyes burning with a desire to begin the training. Two were almost drooling plenty for Valery: Zara Chualet clasped her hands in admiration, almost as if her prayers were directed to this earthly goddess, and the other one was Bertrant Dophinet, blushing at Valery's envious body as it arched proudly in front of the class. 

However, Caden noted that Valery remained stoic before the flashy eyes and heart-shaped mouths of her fans; she seemed to look at something beyond everyone, almost lost in her thoughts.

"Right, great, thank you, Miss Sarashen... Um, would you like points for that too?" Eterport said.

"No need, let us begin at once, professor!" She exclaimed.

Caden smiled at her incentives. This was good old Valery from the game. A villainess that stood opposite to the heroine during most of the game. The writing around her had been the subject of praise due to the defiance the character posed to a classical trope.

"Professor, are you going to let her take over your class?" Abelard complained.

"There it is," Caden same with a giggle, "The heated animosity between the duchess and the prince."

One the praised aspects of the game. The villainess and the prince did not like each other. Caden had read somewhere that there was a possible route where both the heroine and the villainess could team up to take down the prince, but it was twice as hard as the hardest meta route.

"This is not a take over, my Prince," Valery said, "I just wanted to cheer our class!"

"Who appointed you as our leader?" Abelard added, "in any case, it should be me, the Prince that becomes the class rep."

"That's... Is his highness seriously using your status to be our representative?" Valery said.

"Whatever it takes to stop you from being the one, my lady" He answered with a grin.

"All right, all right, class..." Eterport butted in, "I'm afraid that we are not selecting a class rep today, that'll be against the program... Um, or so it says here on the chart..."

Valery and Abelard looked at each other. The prince glared at her with such a distaste that Valery immediately felt disturbed. 

"Well, we'll do a couple of sessions today to determine our physical and magical abilities." Eterport adjusted his glasses as he turned the page, "Now... You're all nobles, so magical training surely took place at home, but let's see some martial prowess... Um, Pick a sparring partner and... Ugh you know what, I'll cast a random number under your head!"

With a simple finger gesture, a sparkling dust materialized above each student, coalescing into a number. 

"Now, search your matching number among the crowd... Come on now, chap chap! There we go, searching matches, searching matches everyone!"

Caden saw his number: 10

He looked everywhere as their classmates all soon found a match. Only one rushed to professor Eterport with a 31 on his head.

"Professor," Gael said, his towering frame casting a shadow over Eterport, "I don't have a match..."

Eterport rolled his eyes, as if it were Gael's fault. "You didn't tell me you folks were an odd number, ugh! You're big, muscled do you seriously need to check your physical ability today?"

Gael flexed his biceps and triceps, flattered at his teachers' remarks, but a tear ran through his sturdy cheek. "But I still wanted to duel someone..."

"Maybe next time... A-all right everyone! Begin!"

On Caden's side, a new shadow was cast behind him, blotting out the sun entirely.

That was Bertrand “Bertie” Dophinet with a hovering 10 over his head.

“You’re the lightning kid from yesterday’s test, yeah?” Bertie’s voice carried over the yard, drawing a few curious glances. “Let’s see if your sparks are as flashy as the examiners seemed to think.”

Bertie was everything Caden wasn’t — tall, broad-shouldered, sleeves rolled up to show off forearms roped with muscle. His grin was the kind that never reached the eyes.

The sparring racks were already half-empty when they stepped forward. Bertie tossed Caden a wooden practice sword — more of a baton than a blade — and spun his own in one hand like it weighed nothing.

“Um... remember, it's a standard bout,” Eterport called from the sideline. “P-points, points? Yeah, points for clean strikes. Keep your magic to a minimum unless you’re enhancing footwork or defense.”

Bertie’s smirk deepened. “Sure thing.”

Caden tightened his grip on the smooth hilt. In theory, he knew how to fence — muscle memory whispered from old game tutorials and muscle strain from last night’s panic-fueled push-ups. But theory was a fragile thing against someone like Bertrand.

He was one of the love interests in the game. However, his physicality did suit well with Caden. Even if a heroine was the one romancing the characters, Vachir felt odd romancing a colossus.

They circled once. Bertie lunged first, a blur of wood and motion. Caden blocked — barely — but the impact rattled his arms to the shoulder. Before he could reset his stance, a sudden spray of cold hit his cheek. Bertie’s sword was coated in a thin sheath of conjured water, slicking the wood until it dripped with gleaming droplets.

“That’s not minimum magic,” Caden managed through clenched teeth.

Bertie grinned. “This? Just making it interesting.”

The next strike came low, then high, then low again — feints that had Caden stumbling backward. A flick of Bertie’s wrist and the water sheath unraveled, lashing out in a whip-like snap that caught Caden across the ribs. It wasn’t deep, but the sting drove the air from his lungs.

Wood clacked against wood, then against bone. Caden’s arms burned, his wrists aching from the shock of each parry. The crowd’s murmurs rose as Bertie pressed the advantage, driving him toward the boundary line.

A final snap of that watery lash caught Caden’s ankle, and he dropped hard onto one knee. Bertie tapped the top of his head with the wooden sword — a clean, humiliating point.

“Pathetic, how am I supposed to show my martial prowess if my opponent has a worse physique than a stack of corn?” Bertrand said, offering no hand to help him up, "Stay away from strong winds, little stick."

The martial bouts wrapped. Caden’s shoulders felt like lead, and his ribs throbbed where Bertie’s water whip had struck. He waited by the wall as everyone seemed to be able to stand their ground against their opponents. Every breath came with a dull ache, and he could still feel the sting of the wooden sword from earlier in the day.

The crowd’s voices blurred into a low hum, but inside, his thoughts were sharp and bitter.

He’d known he wasn’t the fastest or the strongest. That was fine—he figured he needed to train hard to be ready in six months. But he felt so weak, he could barely move, as if being hit had been a new, terrifying concept.

All of this meant nothing if he couldn’t keep his feet under him long enough to land a hit. Today had made that painfully clear: in pure physical contests, he was little more than a practice dummy.

He scrambled his thoughts, wanting, hoping to find something to cheer himself up.

"Damn dude," Gael said, coming back from a bout with Bertrand, "You were meant to spar with Bertrand, not serve as his punching bag..."

Gael wasn't helping at all.

"You saw how he fought me just a moment ago, right? You gotta resist those hits and counter!"

"You lost too, buddy..."

Gael flexed his trapezius as he turned to Caden, his veins popping out, his eyes seeming to catch fire. "At least it took him 20 minutes to take me down, and not 10 seconds!"

For all the muscle and territorial display, Caden didn't catch a single flicker of bloodlust or violence in his actions. For some reason, Gael seemed to be unable to hurt a single bug.

"Sorry," Caden said, "It's just frustrating... look at you, you're strong and have a toned physique, I for one, have my ribs and scapula showing..."

"Damn, dude, how much do you eat?" 

"I don't know, but I suppose I need to gain some weight?"

"Err... well, that and many things."

"Ouch," Caden said.

"Sorry, I mean... dude! You have to work hard if you want to stand your ground against... well, anyone here."

I know that... I know that all too well...

Eterport barked for the class to remain in place—the sparring ring would serve for the next test.

“Um, now... Magic proficiency trials,” the bald man announced, always making sure it was written on his notes, “I could not for the life of me check all duels at the same time, so the paired duels will be done one by one. First strike to the marked zone wins. You may use your element freely—but keep the blasts non-lethal. We’re measuring control, not carnage... please?”

He didn't see my duel with Bertrand? Caden thought, shocked and angry, what the hell was the point of this?"

Magic…

Magic was supposed to be different. It was where he’d shine, where the gap between him and the others would close. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t, then he had nothing to stand on here.

Names were called in pairs, students stepping forward to trade spells. Lightning flashed, fire roared, water hissed into steam against rock and wind. Caden flexed his fingers, coaxing blood flow back into them, whispering a silent promise to himself — This is where it changes.

Eterport scribbled, then raised his voice carried over the murmuring crowd:

“Prince Abelard. Caden.”

Everyone muttered, and Eterport seemed to pick on that. 

"All right, all right, stay quiet, let's get on with this because we're running out of time!"

Caden’s heart thudded. He knew exactly who Abelard was: one of the most dangerous fire mages in Hearts & Daggers. He remembered every fighting instance from the game, every savage counter that left opponents sprawled in the dust. And now, somehow, that was his opponent. Abelard was more than a trophy boyfriend to the heroine, he carried true power that could be harnessed in combat instances.

Abelard stepped into the ring like the place belonged to him, crimson dueling coat catching the sun. His eyes were cool and appraising, like he was already deciding which shelf to put Caden on.

“So, Tassad, right? Lightning guy, hmm?” Abelard said, more observation than question. “Try to keep it interesting.”

The two stood, looking at each other, before the command to begin came sharp and sudden.

"Fight!"

Caden reacted instantly, sparks snapping along his fingers as he thrust his palm forward. The bolt flew — but it was thin, sputtering, barely more than a flicker. It splashed harmlessly against the shimmering barrier of flame that bloomed around the prince, vanishing into a hiss of steam.

Abelard didn’t even slow. His shield warped and stretched, the fire twisting into a whip that cracked across the space between them. The strike hit Caden’s side with a hiss and a snap of boiling cloth, the heat biting straight through to skin. He stumbled back with a strangled gasp, vision flashing white.

Before he could regain balance, the whip came again, striking low across his thigh. Pain shot up his leg, buckling his stance. Abelard’s steps were measured, relentless, the whip snapping out in vicious arcs — across Caden’s forearm, catching his shoulder, grazing his cheek with blistering heat.

The smell of scorched fabric and skin clung to the air. Every strike stole more of his breath, his muscles tightening under the burns.

Too slow. Too weak. His thoughts raced between the blows. Every other lightning user he’d seen so far made their magic leap like a living thing while his felt like dragging a stubborn mule uphill.

Another lash caught his ribs, driving him sideways. He hit the ground on one knee, clutching his side, lungs dragging in ragged gulps. Abelard was already closing the gap, the fire in his hand burning hotter, casting his shadow long across the arena floor.

Caden’s fingers trembled as he reached inward, scraping at the dregs of his strength. The burn along his ribs screamed in protest, but he bit down on it. 

Not again, I will not go down like this again!

He had to land something — anything — or he was finished.

As his mind went into overdrive and adrenaline reached its climax, he sensed fainting cracks of electricity behind Abelard's spells. Like the orb back in the test, they seem to linger in and wait to be released rather than dissipate. Moreover, Caden felt like he still had control. 

Abelard lunged, the crackling fire gathering for a finishing blow. Caden thrust his arm up, pouring every scrap of will into the static. The air between them popped, blue light flaring as the lightning leapt point-blank into the prince’s casting arm.

There was a crack and a blinding snap of blue. Abelard jerked back, his  arm seizing stiff for a heartbeat. The crowd roared at the sudden turn, the heat of the fight momentarily replaced by the sharp smell of ozone.

"He hit the prince!" someone said.

The prince’s eyes narrowed. He noticed everyone suddenly shift their focus to the feeble brown-haired boy in front of him—even Valery, who could not care less of the prince's bout, shifted her eyes with a spark of interest. The cool detachment was gone, replaced with something sharp and dangerous.

“You’ll regret that,” he said softly, followed by a cover-up smile.

The next wave of fire came faster than Caden could track. Abelard’s uninjured arm swept, hurling a scorching arc straight into Caden’s chest. It tore the air from his lungs, pain flaring white-hot, and before he could recover, a second blast smashed into his shoulder, spinning him sideways.

He hit the stone floor hard, the world tilting. The noise of the crowd dimmed, heat and pain bleeding together into a heavy, suffocating haze. He tried to push himself up—and the third blast slammed into his ribs.

Something gave way inside.

The last thing he saw was Abelard’s silhouette framed in the sunlight, one hand still crackling with fire, before darkness swept him under.