I cursed under my breath, teeth gritted, as the stone-forged sword whizzed past my ear and slammed into the ground with a thunderous crash. I backpedaled, trying to keep my footing on the uneven floor of the training hall, my muscles already screaming from repeated swings. Saint didn't give me a moment to breathe, each attack perfectly measured to push me just past my limits.
The Azure Blade felt heavier with every block, my arms going numb from the constant jarring impacts. Each strike from Saint sent a shiver through my bones, reminding me that I was still sloppy, still slow. I could feel sweat dripping into my eyes, burning, but I didn't dare wipe it away—every second counted.
The fourth swing caught me as I overextended my step, tangling my feet in my own misjudged movement. Saint's shoulder slammed into me with a controlled force, and I hit the ground hard, the sound echoing across the hall. My chest heaved, breath uneven, as I tried to push myself upright.
Her stone sword rested against my throat, a perfectly precise pressure, as if to remind me just how far I still had to go. I growled in frustration, and she tilted her head almost imperceptibly, waiting for me to recover. With a sharp command in my mind, I felt her ease the pressure and step back, the sword sheathing itself neatly.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Sasrir leaning casually, clapping slowly, mockingly. Of course he would. Of course someone had to be amused while I was reduced to panting like an idiot. I scowled, glaring at him, but there was nothing to do but push myself upright and keep going.
"Surprise, surprise," he said, voice low but dripping with amusement. "Saint takes the fourth round again. Seriously, Adam… what are you doing?"
I grit my teeth, my pride prickling.
"I thought I was meant to be the frontline fighter," he continued, eyes glinting with a teasing challenge, "and you, the manipulative mastermind. So tell me… why are you beating yourself up like this?"
I flinched at the words. Not because he was wrong—but because he made me feel it. Each strike from Saint had shredded more than my arms and legs; it had gnawed at my patience, my focus, and yes, even my ego.
I opened my mouth to reply, but no words came. Instead, I let my jaw tighten and turned my attention back to Saint, who was already shifting her stance, waiting for my next move.
Focus, I told myself, teeth clenched. Ignore him. Predict her. Adapt. Just survive this round without looking like a complete idiot.
I gritted my teeth and muttered under my breath. Come on, Adam. This isn't life or death. This is training. You can handle this. My muscles screamed in protest as I tried to steady my legs and refocus. Saint didn't stop—she was patient, but relentless, making sure every misstep, every hesitation, punished me just enough to drive improvement.
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of fatigue. The blows weren't fatal, but they weren't easy either. My mind raced, running through angles, footwork, timing. I had to learn. I had to improve. Every strike I blocked—or failed to block—was a lesson written in muscle ache and stinging pride.
I rolled my shoulders, swung the Azure Blade experimentally, testing the range, the timing, trying to anticipate her next move. Saint mirrored me perfectly, as if reading my thoughts, and I felt that familiar pang of frustration. I hated being predictable, hated being outmatched—even by my own creation.
Focus. Control. Patience. Don't let her teach me the hard way.
I inhaled sharply, tasting the copper tang of sweat in my mouth, and squared my shoulders. The next round wouldn't be like this. I would anticipate better, move faster, strike harder. Saint might be relentless, but she was mine to command, mine to learn from. And I would—not could, would—get it right before the session ended.
*********************************
I hit the ground hard, chest heaving, arms splayed out like I'd been wrung through a press. Every joint, every muscle, every nerve in my body screamed in unison. Even breathing felt like a task meant for someone else, someone stronger. My fingers twitched uselessly as I tried to push myself up—and failed.
Saint hovered above me, her ruby eyes fixed on my prone form. There was that faint, almost imperceptible flicker in her gaze—mocking, disdainful, the kind of distaste that only a creature who knows it owns you can display. I groaned, every sound scraping my throat raw, and waved her off with a weak flick of my hand. "Back," I muttered, my voice rough. "Soul Sea. Now."
With a blink and the faint shimmer of her Essence, she dissipated, leaving only the lingering sense of judgment. I swallowed a groan and lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if my body would ever forgive me for this. Every bone felt like it had been twisted into shapes no human should endure, and every muscle screamed as though I'd asked them to run a marathon at the edge of a cliff.
Then, the shadow of a familiar presence fell over me. Sasrir. His boots scraped softly against the floor as he came closer, and my stomach twisted involuntarily—not from fear, but from the realization that he was perfectly composed while I looked like a wrecked puppet.
He crouched down, producing the Rejuvenating Bloom from somewhere beneath his cloak. The single drop he squeezed onto my tongue felt like ice-cold water to a man on the brink of death. My chest eased, my lungs opened, and the dull ache in my limbs faded slightly, replaced by a trembling, grateful warmth that spread through my veins like sunlight through frost.
"Relax," Sasrir said softly, voice steady and calm, yet carrying the faintest edge of amusement. I let the words wash over me, letting them anchor me as I tried to stop trembling.
He dropped the Memory on my chest, its passive healing thrumming against my skin. I could feel it seeping into me, knitting torn fibers, calming stressed nerves, coaxing life back into my limbs. It was almost… blissful. My eyes closed, relief crashing over me in heavy waves, and for the first time since training began, I allowed myself to feel just how completely wrecked I'd been.
But even as I lay there, still trembling under the Memory's hum, I couldn't help but glance at the spot where Saint had been. Her presence lingered in the air, like the faint scent of iron and cold fire, reminding me that even under Sasrir's watchful care, the lessons she'd hammered into me would stay—and that I'd never be allowed to forget them.
I exhaled shakily, letting the healing bloom do its work. Every part of me still ached, but at least now I could sit up without screaming. At least now, I could survive to fight another day.
I groaned again, letting the Memory hum against my chest as I tried to focus on something other than the screaming ache in my muscles. And as much as I wanted to just lie here and pretend the world didn't exist, my mind couldn't stop replaying the last hour of training. Saint… Saint had been relentless. And I had seriously underestimated what "training with Saint" meant.
I had gotten the idea from Sunny, back in the original novels, who had insisted on trying to learn the discipline, precision, and brutality possessed by the Echo. Sunny had made it sound almost… fun, even though the novel was crytsal clear Sunny got his ass beat
But Saint wasn't fun. Saint was a force of nature wrapped in ice and judgment. Every swing, every feint, every flick of her wrist felt like it carried centuries of calculated intent. And I was flailing around like a rookie who had barely survived the Academy's basics.
I was training with Effie too, learning her wolfish and reckless style of fighting, compounding itwith Saint's cold efficiency and killing-machine mindset. If I could pull it off, I was confidant I could become one of the greatest swordsmen of my generation.
And, I was on my way, sort of. Maybe. At least, that's what I told myself, gasping and swearing under my breath. Because while Sasrir had been standing there like he'd invented combat itself, absorbing every move, every trick, every pattern of Saint's assault like he was a sponge made of steel and shadow, I had been bleeding metaphorical—and sometimes literal—bullets. Where Sasrir got that talent, I had no idea. It sure as hell didn't come from me. If anything, my instincts were still the equivalent of a kitten learning to pounce, clumsy and often painful.
And yet… despite all the bruises, the aching muscles, and the humiliation of constantly being bested by my own Echo, I had made progress. I had actually learned something. I could anticipate her swings a little better now, adjust my footwork with slightly more grace, react with slightly less delay. For a complete novice who had only survived the Academy's basic training, that was… not terrible. Not Lost from Light level, Changing Star level, or War Princess level, not by a long shot. But it was a start.
I let out a shaky laugh, bitter and tired, letting my hands twitch over the floor. Sasrir made it all look effortless, as though he had been born with a memory of every strike, every parry, every nuance of combat already etched into him. Me? I had to wrestle with it, claw at it, wrest every lesson out of my brain and body with sweat, blood, and pain. My brain felt fried, my body felt betrayed, and yet, in the midst of all that misery, there was a flicker of satisfaction. I was learning. Slowly. Cumbersomely. But I was learning.
And right now, surviving, breathing, letting the Memory knit me back together—that was enough. For today.