The morning sun bathed the stone spires of Crest Academy in gold as Rayan stepped through the wide iron gates, his Adventurer License and acceptance scroll tucked safely in his pouch. The sight of students in crisp uniforms, some already sparring in the distant training fields, filled him with both anticipation and nerves.
Unlike his last time here, Rayan wasn't wearing a noble crest or tailored robe. Just a simple tunic under his leather armor, his iron longsword strapped to his back. This time, he wasn't here as a privileged son of House Sunreign. He was here as Rayan —the boy who clawed his way back with grit and sweat.
Combat Course orientation was brief. Students were split into small squads and led by instructors to their designated training yards. Rayan was assigned to Squad Six—mostly commoners like himself, though a few still carried themselves with entitled pride.
Their instructor, a sharp-eyed man named Captain Elric, didn't bother with pleasantries.
"If you're here for glory, you'll die. If you're here to work, maybe you'll survive long enough to earn it," he said. "Show me how you hold your blades."
When Rayan drew his sword and took his stance, Elric paused.
"Your footing's too heavy. You'll be open after your second swing," he said, tapping Rayan's ankle with the flat of his wooden rod. "Fix it."
The day unfolded with drills—stance work, movement exercises, and partner sparring. Rayan trained harder than most, pushing through the sweat and bruises. Every strike reminded him of how far he still had to go.
But it wasn't all struggle.
Between sessions, he caught glimpses of advanced students demonstrating techniques he only dreamed of—flickering footwork, mana-enhanced strikes, and defensive wards. Rayan watched with sharp eyes, committing every motion to memory.
During lunch, while others rested, he stayed behind to repeat his footwork drills.
"You're still going?" a voice asked.
It was one of his squadmates—a lanky boy named Dren, with a crooked grin and a short spear.
"Yeah," Rayan said, panting. "I've got a lot to catch up on."
Dren chuckled. "You're insane. I like that."
The first week was brutal. Every muscle in Rayan's body screamed by evening, and yet, every day he returned to the yard early—practicing his swings, meditating on his Sword Crest, and refining the lessons in his battered swordsmanship manual.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, he felt it again—that faint pulse on the back of his hand. His Sword Crest glowed briefly, stronger now, more responsive.
He was improving.
Not fast. Not easily.
But truly.
And for Rayan, that was everything.