Chapter 11

"Today, we will move on to External Enhancement," George announced. He stood before Lucien, holding a wooden sword in a relaxed grip.

After two weeks of what the so-called "training," he could finally wield the damn Aura—not perfectly, but at least he could summon and dismiss it at will.

"At higher mastery," George continued, "it may manifest as Aura Emission."

Pressure slammed into Lucien's chest, driving the air from his lungs. His hands shot to his knees as they buckled; Aura surged through him in an uneven pulse, barely keeping him upright.

George's indifferent gaze pinned him in place. Lucien met it head-on, jaw clenched, nails digging into his knees as he forced himself to straighten. He knew George hadn't even come close to using his full Aura—yet the pressure alone had nearly crushed him.

"This is often perceived as killing intent." George withdrew his Aura, and the suffocating presence vanished. "Its use is prohibited in public spaces. Civilians lack the means to resist it."

Lucien straightened, chest rising and falling unevenly. Even with the pressure gone, his hands wouldn't stop trembling.

"Understood," Lucien said, exhaling slowly.

George regarded him with an indescribable expression before nodding. "Then there is Aura Projection, or what some call a pressure blade."

He swung his wooden sword. A crescent of blinding light tore through the air and cleaved into a training dummy.

Lucien's eyes locked on the severed remains. Aura couldn't be felt while it was internal, true, but once unleashed, it became a tangible pressure—a physical weapon.

That was why Aura was called the manifestation of the soul; it was simply one's very essence taking form in the world.

"Here," George tossed the wooden sword his way, which he caught mid-air. "Enhance it."

At his command, Lucien guided his Aura into the wood. For a heartbeat, the sword hummed—then spasmed, vibrating violently in his hands. He tightened his grip, trying to anchor the energy, only for the wood to detonate into splinters.

A transparent barrier flared just in time, blocking the spray of jagged shards. A sharp sting pulsed up his left forearm. '…the Aura backfired.'

"Too much output," George flickered his hand, dismissing the barrier. "Control is key. You're not overpowering the weapon; you're reinforcing it."

Of course, nothing was ever easy when it came to Aura—that was simply the nature of it.

Brushing the thoughts off, he gave a short nod. "Noted."

George offered him a new sword. "Again. This time, let the Aura seep in gradually. Treat the wood like parched earth soaking up rain, not a dam about to burst."

Lucien took the sword and nodded. "Understood."

Drawing in a deep breath, he reset his stance. Instead of a sudden surge, he visualized his Aura as a slow-moving liquid, trickling into the microscopic pores of the practice sword.

The weapon trembled—less violently than before—but split cleanly in half. The broken tip clattered to the ground with a clack. Lucien's jaw clenched; the recoil bit deeper, the pain sharper than before.

"Better," George's voice pulled his attention.

Lucien looked up to find the man stepping closer. He took the broken hilt from his hand and examined the jagged edge.

"You've dialed back the force, but your focus is still uneven. You're soaking the hilt and starving the tip." Tossing the useless wood aside, he handed him a fresh one. "Concentrate on the flow, not just the entry point."

"Yes, Sir."

Suppressing the agony, Lucien centered his focus and poured his Aura into the blade, yet it continued to fracture.

Again.

And again.

"Urk!"

Lucien's jaw locked as agony lanced through his left arm. The broken hilt slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. He stared at it in a daze, his breath ragged. The relentless backlash had robbed his hand of all sensation.

Closing his eyes, he took a slow breath, then straightened up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

No matter how much he adjusted his output or refined the flow, the result never changed. Even the pile of broken wood at his feet had grown into a small hill. Somehow, this mental precision was more tiring than tapping into his Mana Reservoir.

Lowering his hand, Lucien wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve and met George's gaze. Once his breathing steadied, he asked, "Why does the sword keep cracking, even when I try to resonate with it?"

"The parched-earth image helped you control the force," George continued. "But you're still thinking of the sword as separate from you. Until you treat it as an extension of your own circulatory system, you'll keep shattering it."

An extension of his circulatory system.

The words echoed in Lucien's mind as his gaze drifted to his trembling hand. To say he wasn't fed up with the constant failure would be a lie—but he didn't have the luxury of choice. Giving up meant letting the story dictate his life, and that was something he refused to accept.

Lucien lifted his gaze to George. "Can I try again?"

George produced another wooden sword and placed it into Lucien's hand. "Go on."

Lucien tightened his grip on the hilt. He didn't rush this time; he let his Aura bleed into the wood, traveling to the very tip of the blade before looping back toward his palm in a continuous, pulsing circuit.

The sword quivered. A faint light gathered along the edge, slowly spreading across its surface—only for the tip to splinter and clatter against the floor.

A sharp exhale escaped his nose. Frustration gnawed at him, but it was not pointless. The fracture occurred later; the resonance was closer to holding.

'Just a little more…'

Without a word, George handed him another sword. Lucien took it immediately and drew on his Aura again.

If the real Lucien could break through this wall, then so could he.

So he pushed on.

Again.

And again—until he lost count, until his left arm felt like a dead weight.

Hours bled into one another. The sun's gentle warmth sharpened into a stinging blaze, mocking his lack of progress. His stomach churned, his head throbbed; the Aura drained his stamina far faster than he'd anticipated.

It wasn't until what felt like the thousandth attempt that the blade finally held.

Breathing in ragged lungfuls, Lucien stared at the wooden sword, its surface suffused with a steady glow. Sweat soaked through his clothes, his vision flickering at the edges.

He closed his eyes and breathed out, the tension in his muscles slowly easing.

'Finally.'

"Good." George's voice pulled his attention; he was nodding. "You can stop now."

Lucien gave a slight nod and withdrew his Aura. The light faded, and the sword returned to plain wood. His knees threatened to buckle, but he forced himself to remain standing.

George took the sword from his hand and set it aside. "Remember that feeling. You won't get it back easily."

Lucien nodded, chest still heaving, too drained to offer more than a quiet acknowledgment.

"Rest well," he said, "Tomorrow we see if you can keep it that way while moving."

As George turned to leave, Lucien's legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the ground. He lay there, steadying his breathing, gaze fixed on the cerulean sky where clouds drifted lazily overhead. A cool breeze brushed his face—a brief, sweet respite from the heat of his exertion.

'Will I be able to master both magic and Aura before the fateful day arrives?'

A shadow fell across his vision. Lucien shifted his gaze to find Sanchez standing over him, an umbrella held aloft, a benign smile on his face.

"Your Highness might catch a cold if you lie on the ground."

Beside him, Kyle offered a fresh towel and a water bottle.

Lucien pushed himself upright and accepted the towel first, pressing the cool fabric to his face before taking the bottle. He drank slowly, the water easing the sandpaper dryness in his throat.

"Thank you," he said, voice rough.

Kyle crouched and extended a hand. "Can you stand, Your Highness?"

After a moment, Lucien nodded and took it. His legs protested with a sharp tremor, but they held.

"Let's get you inside," Sanchez said. "The physician's waiting."

Lucien cast one last glance at the scattered splinters, then turned away.

He wasn't where he wanted to be, but at least he was on the right path.