Sword and Sweat

The training yard smelled like dust, sweat, and burned mana. The stone wasn’t ordinary stone—thin veins of circuitry pulsed faintly under the surface, runes etched into the slabs wired into hidden mana converters. Every strike, every spell, got swallowed into the grid and fed back into the academy’s power network. The whole yard shimmered like a machine pretending to be alive.

“First-years!” the instructor barked, his voice amplified by the rune embedded in his collar. “Line up. Pairs for sparring drills.”

The line formed fast. Sparks danced across fingertips, embers floated lazily in the heat, a blade of compressed air hissed into being before vanishing with a pop. To everyone else, it was easy. Casual. Their blood sang with mana and the tech responded like an old friend.

I stood at the very edge, hands empty, my uniform already sticking to my back. The neon inlaid along my classmates’ cuffs and collars flared when their mana stirred—mine stayed dead.

The instructor clapped once, the sound snapping through the rune-speakers in the yard. “Get to it.”

Pairs broke apart. The air erupted with crackling light and the smell of ozone. Bolts of flame slammed into hexagonal barriers of light. Illusions shimmered in shifting neon colors before glitching apart. The yard was chaos—raw magic interlaced with raw circuitry.

And then three shadows fell across me.

“Well, well,” the tallest upperclassman smirked, his badge glowing faintly under his collar. “The Nullborn. Thought they were joking when they said they let you in.”

My jaw clenched.

“Why don’t you spar with us?” another asked, twirling a whip of glowing plasma-light between his fingers. “It’ll be fun.”

Nearby students slowed, their duels fading as they turned to watch. Some smirked, others shifted uneasily.

“Instructor said pairs,” I muttered.

“Oh, don’t worry,” the whip-boy sneered. “We’ll pair you up.”

The whip cracked against the rune floor by my boot, sparks crawling across the embedded circuit-lines. My muscles locked, instincts screaming.

The second lash came higher, aimed at my shoulder. I ducked, boots scraping. The third slashed for my head. I rolled forward, dirt and glowing dust grinding into my palms.

“Ooooh!” someone jeered. “Nullborn’s got some moves!”

The whip snapped again. I slipped sideways, the heat grazing my sleeve. Panic lit every nerve, but my body moved. Another crack—I lunged, hand snapping up to grab the boy’s wrist.

For one stunned second, he froze.

The yard fell silent.

“That’s enough.”

Kaien’s voice.

He strode into the circle like he belonged to it. His long coat swayed, threads stitched with faint ember-glow sigils. Black hair tied back carelessly, eyes sharp as if they could cut through steel and spell both. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“If you’ve got energy to bully,” he said, calm as static, “you’ve got energy for drills.”

The whip flickered out instantly. The three muttered excuses and melted away.

Kaien’s gaze pinned me next. “You. Name.”

“Kuroganezu. Temo.”

“You dodged well. Clumsy footwork. But you didn’t freeze.”

“…Thanks,” I managed, voice tight.

“Ever held a sword?”

“…No.”

He tossed one without warning. A practice blade, wood reinforced with mana-fibers, thudded into my palms. I nearly dropped it.

“Stay after drills.” No room for argument.

By the time the others filed out, sweaty and laughing, I was still standing there, practice sword dragging at my arm.

Kaien circled me, hands behind his back. “Show me how you stand.”

I mimicked duels I’d seen. Feet too close. Grip too high.

“Wrong.” He nudged my ankle with his boot, forcing my stance wider. “Balance.”

I adjusted.

“Too stiff. You’re not a machine. Loosen up.”

I forced myself to relax, though every muscle screamed.

“Better. Swing.”

The blade hissed through the air—clumsy, off-center.

“Too wide. Again.”

I swung again.

“Too low. Again.”

Over and over. Each strike jarred my hands. Sweat ran into my eyes. The circuitry under the yard glowed brighter with every mistake, amplifying the vibration up through my boots.

“Again.”

My arms trembled.

“Again.”

The world narrowed to Kaien’s voice, the sting of sweat, and the stubborn weight of wood and fiber in my grip.

Finally, the sword slipped from my fingers, clattering across the glowing stone. I dropped to one knee, gasping.

Kaien stared at me. Then, for the barest second, his mouth curved, almost a smile.

“You’ll do.”

“…Really?” I rasped.

“You’ve got instinct. I’ll sharpen it. Or you’ll break trying.”

Then he turned, coat flickering with ember-thread as he walked away.

For the first time at Seiryoku, someone had looked at me and seen more than a mistake.

By the time I staggered to the dorm rooftop, the skyline was bleeding neon. Mana-lamps glowed like a second constellation, towering holograms flickering over skyscrapers in the distance.

Renji was already there, sitting cross-legged with his notebook hooked into a projection slate. “Finally! I thought they killed you off in episode one.”

Kenji glanced up from a manual with glowing numbers scrolling across the margin. “You look half-dead. Which means it worked.”

I collapsed beside them, groaning. “Sword drills. Kaien.”

Renji’s grin widened. “Sword training? Perfect. Nullborn swordsman—it even sounds marketable.”

“More like death sentence,” Kenji muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

A thermos slid across the roof toward me. “I…um…” Hana’s voice was quiet. “I made tea. For after practice.”

I blinked at her, then the thermos. “…Thanks.”

The warmth seeped into my raw palms. The tea was bitter, but it tasted like heaven.

Renji leaned closer. “So? Tell us everything. Did you trip? Fall on your face? Swing like a hero?”

“Yes,” I said flatly. “All of the above.”

He cackled. “Amazing. You’re officially anime protagonist material.”

Kenji shook his head. “He’s officially reckless. Which is the same thing.”

Hana giggled softly. “Still… it suits you.”

The four of us sat as the skyline flickered alive with color, mana flowing like veins across the city. For once, the silence wasn’t heavy. It was steady. Warm.

That night, every muscle burned. My notebook rested on my knees, a half-finished drawing staring back: a barrel, a chamber, a trigger.

Sword. Gun. One I’d earn. One I’d build.

Either way, I wasn’t done.
Not even close.