The next morning came quicker than expected.
James woke before the bell.
For a few seconds, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling. The events of yesterday settled back into place slowly, like pieces fitting into something that still didn't feel complete.
C-rank. Support. Static Field.
It still sounded the same.
Still felt the same.
He exhaled and sat up.
Around him, the dormitory was quiet, most of the others still asleep. A few beds creaked as someone shifted, but no one paid him any attention. Just another morning.
James swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The faint buzz was still there.
He paused.
Focused.
Nothing happened.
"…Right," he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Inconsistent.
Breakfast was quieter than usual.
Not because anything had changed—just because now he noticed it more. Conversations drifted around him, bits and pieces of other people's plans.
"…one of the older kids who left last year got into Iron Vanguard…"
"…they said training starts immediately if you qualify…"
"…I heard some guilds scout directly from the Association…"
James ate slowly, listening without really joining in.
Someone across the table glanced at him. "You went yesterday, didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"What'd you get?"
"C-rank."
A pause.
"Not bad."
It didn't sound like a compliment.
"Support," James added.
The other boy gave a small shrug. "Makes sense."
James didn't ask what that meant.
He found Mrs. Allen near the back office again, sorting through the usual stack of paperwork.
She didn't look up immediately. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep much."
"That'll pass."
James leaned lightly against the doorframe. "You said I should figure out my next step."
She hummed in acknowledgment, still reading. "Have you?"
"Not really."
"That's honest."
She finally looked up, pushing her glasses slightly up her nose. There were faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the kind that came from years of dealing with things that didn't go as planned.
"Then start simple," she said. "What do you want?"
James hesitated.
"I don't know," he said after a moment. "Something… more than this."
She studied him quietly. "That's vague."
"I know."
"You're not academy material," she said plainly. "Not with a C-rank support talent. So don't waste time chasing that."
James nodded.
"Guilds are your next option," she continued. "Or basic combat training if you're serious about using your talent."
"Combat training?"
She gestured toward him. "You think standing still and hoping your ability does the work is enough?"
"…No."
"Good."
She leaned back slightly in her chair. "Support-types who can't fight don't last long outside controlled environments. If you want to make something of this, you'll need to learn how to hold your ground."
James glanced down at his hands.
The faint buzz responded, almost on instinct.
"…Makes sense."
"There's a public training hall a few streets from here," she added. "Nothing special, but it'll do for a start. Cheap, too."
James nodded slowly.
"Don't expect results overnight," she said. "You're starting late."
"I figured."
"Then don't quit halfway through."
"I won't."
She held his gaze for a moment longer, as if weighing that answer.
Then she nodded once. "We'll see."
The training hall wasn't hard to find.
It sat between two older buildings, its exterior worn, the paint chipped in places where time had gotten to it. The sign above the entrance had faded enough that the lettering was uneven, but still readable if you looked closely.
Inside, the space opened up more than he expected.
The floor was scuffed from years of use, marked with faint lines where countless footsteps had passed. Wooden weapon racks lined one side, some neatly arranged, others less so. The air carried a mix of sweat, metal, and something faintly burnt—like old electricity.
People were already training.
A pair sparred near the center, their movements rough but focused. Off to the side, someone practiced strikes alone, repeating the same motion over and over without pause. No one looked particularly impressive—but no one looked careless either.
James stepped in, slowing slightly as he took it in.
No one stopped him.
No one greeted him.
It was the kind of place where you were expected to figure things out on your own.
Near the center stood a man watching the sparring pair.
He wasn't particularly tall, but he carried himself in a way that made him hard to ignore. Lean build, shoulders relaxed but steady. His dark hair was cut short, slightly uneven like he didn't care enough to keep it neat, and there was a faint scar running along the side of his jaw—old, but noticeable if you looked long enough.
His eyes were sharp.
Not intense—just observant.
The kind that didn't miss things.
"Footing," he said flatly as one of the trainees stumbled slightly. "Fix it."
The trainee nodded quickly, adjusting.
James stepped closer.
"Excuse me."
The man glanced at him briefly, his gaze flicking from head to toe in a second. Measuring.
"New?"
"Yeah."
"First time holding a weapon?"
"…Probably."
That earned him a slightly longer look.
The man exhaled quietly. "Figures. Go grab a practice sword. Rack's over there."
No introduction. No unnecessary words.
Just direction.
James nodded and moved toward the wall.
The wooden sword felt heavier than he expected when he picked it up. Not by much—but enough to throw him off slightly.
He adjusted his grip.
Awkward.
Unfamiliar.
"…This is going to take a while," he muttered.
"Of course it is."
James turned.
The man had walked over without him noticing.
Up close, the scar was clearer now. Not deep, but clean—like it had come from something sharp, not sloppy.
"You don't learn this in a day," the man said. "Or a week."
James straightened slightly. "I'm not expecting that."
"Good."
The man nodded toward his hands. "Then start by not holding it like that."
James looked down.
"…What's wrong with it?"
"Everything."
Blunt.
The man stepped in without asking, adjusting his grip with quick, precise movements. "Looser. You're choking the handle."
James followed, trying to match the pressure.
"Better," the man said. "Now your footing."
He tapped James's leg lightly with his foot. "You fall over like that in a real fight, you don't get back up."
James shifted, correcting it.
It still felt off.
"Feels weird," he said.
"It should."
The man stepped back. "Get used to it."
The first hour was worse than he expected.
His arms tired faster than they should have.
His stance kept collapsing.
His swings felt slow, stiff, wrong.
"Again," the man said.
James reset.
Swung.
Too wide.
"Again."
Reset.
Swung.
Too rigid.
"Again."
By the time he stopped, his hands ached, his grip unsteady.
He lowered the sword slightly, catching his breath.
"This is… harder than it looks."
The man gave a faint, almost amused exhale. "Most things are."
James adjusted his grip again, ignoring the discomfort.
"…Can I use my talent with this?" he asked.
The man shrugged. "If you can control it."
James focused.
The familiar buzz stirred faintly.
He tried to guide it—
It flickered.
Then faded.
"…Not really," he admitted.
"Then don't rely on it yet," the man said. "Learn the basics first."
James nodded.
Still—
He tried again.
This time, just as the sword moved—
A faint spark snapped across his fingers.
Small.
Sharp.
Gone in an instant.
The man's eyes flicked down briefly.
"…Do that again."
James blinked. "I didn't—"
"Try."
He did.
Focused.
Moved.
Nothing.
The spark didn't return.
James frowned. "It just… happens."
The man watched him for a second longer, then gave a short nod.
"Then figure out when."
Not how.
When.
James adjusted his stance again, tightening his grip just slightly.
"…Right."
He raised the sword.
Swung.
Missed the form again.
"Again," the man said.
James exhaled.
Reset.
And tried again.