A Background Character's Path to Power

I sidestepped to the right, my sword flashing up just in time to deflect Aeron’s strike. The impact rattled through my arms, but I held firm, twisting my wrist to redirect his momentum.

Aeron staggered back a step, surprise flickering across his face before he grinned and lunged again. His blade cut through the cold air in a silver arc—faster this time, his form flawless.

I parried, countering with a slash that forced him to retreat.

Again.

And again.

Our swords clashed in the training yard, steel ringing against steel, snow crunched underfoot as we circled each other, breaths misting in the cold air. Around us, snowflakes swirled, undisturbed by the ferocity of our duel.

To an outsider, we might have looked evenly matched. Neither of us gained ground; neither of us faltered. But if someone watched closely—really watched—they’d see the truth.

Aeron’s swordsmanship could be called art. Every movement flowed into the next, his footwork flawless, his technique refined to near perfection. He had the instincts of a prodigy, the kind of talent people spent lifetimes chasing and still couldn’t grasp.

And me?

I leaned more towards brute force, reflexes, and pure, unfiltered instinct.

I wasn’t using any skills either. No echo of life, no Observant Eye. Just my own honed senses and the strength I’d carved into my body through sheer, relentless training. And also the kind of battle IQ that came from surviving Virion’s idea of "sparring."

So I wasn’t exactly cheating either.

Aeron’s blade flickered toward my ribs. I twisted, barely avoiding the cut, and retaliated with a downward strike that forced him to block. The impact sent a jolt through both of us, but neither of us yielded.

Damn.

I had to admit it—Aeron was truly monstrous.

He’d only recently picked up the sword seriously again after ’slacking off’ for years, and yet here he was, already at this level. If he kept going like this, he’d surpass even the instructors before graduation.

That was the difference between a background character and a protagonist, I supposed.

Aeron’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

"Getting slow," he teased, breathless.

"Getting predictable," I shot back.

He laughed—bright, unrestrained—and attacked again.

The duel raged on, neither of us yielding, neither of us faltering.

After what felt like hours—but was likely only twenty minutes, 40 minutes in total—Aeron finally staggered back, his sword tip dropping to the snow as he gasped for breath. Sweat glistened on his forehead despite the winter chill.

"How..." He panted, shooting me an incredulous look. "How do you have this much stamina? You look like you could go another four or five rounds!"

I chuckled, sheathing my practice sword. "Who knows?"

If you got beaten to near-death and trained nonstop like me, you’d surpass even this, buddy.

Aeron groaned, stretching his arms as we moved to retrieve our coats. His fingers trembled slightly as he fumbled with the buttons, the warmth clearly a relief after our intense session.

He eyed me suspiciously. "And why do you look so fine? Are you resistant to cold too?"

I smirked, slipping into my coat with ease. "Nah. Winter’s just colder back home."

"Ah, I see." Aeron nodded, remembering. "Come to think of it, you said you were from the Orlan Kingdom, right?"

"Hmm." I adjusted my collar, watching my breath mist in the air.

Aeron tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Our principal’s name is Orlan too, so is he—"

Before he could voice his ridiculous assumptions, I cut in. "Principal Orlan was from the royal family, but he was adopted. So, he gave up his claim to the throne to focus on the academy, but he still used the name since it gave status and fame to the academy." I shrugged. "It’s also thanks to him that I can study here for free—he sponsors one student from our homeland each year. Separate from the regular scholarships."

Aeron’s eyes widened slightly as he processed this new information. Then he grinned. "Come on, you would’ve gotten a nominal scholarship anyway. You placed tenth in the midterms!"

"I just got lucky," I said, waving him off, hiding the fact that I pulled all-nighters every day. "And I barely squeezed into the top ten." A pause. "Though I’ll probably hit top seven—maybe five—in the upcoming exam." freewebnøvel.coɱ

Aeron barked a laugh. "I know why you didn’t say top three!" He wagged a finger at me. "You think you can’t surpass them, right?"

I shrugged again, not denying it. "First place is practically the big brain of the academy—Miss Luna, our librarian herself. Second is practically our teacher, Zephyr. Third is your dear childhood crush, Emilia, who also happens to be a highly intelligent lady." I counted them off on my fingers. "They’re all academic monsters. I know my limits."

The current ones, at least.

Aeron’s grin turned teasing at the mention of Emilia, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he slung an arm around my shoulders as we headed back toward the dormitory. "Well, Mr. ’I Know My Limits,’ you just held your own against a future Sword Saint disciple. Maybe you’re selling yourself short."

I snorted but didn’t reply.

After a while, we arrived at the building and parted ways at the stairs, Aeron’s laughter still echoing down the hallway as he headed to his room. I shook my head with a faint smile, turning the corner to my own door.

The moment I pushed it open, something white fluttered at the edge of my vision. A single envelope lay on the floor just inside the threshold, as if slipped under the door while I was away.

I froze.

Is it from Cassandra again?

Bending down, I picked it up. The paper was modest but sturdy, the kind used for everyday letters at the academy. But what caught my attention was the handwriting—my name scrawled across the front in uneven strokes, as if written by someone with trembling hands.

So it’s not her...

Closing the door behind me, I sat at my desk and carefully slit the envelope open. The paper inside bore the same unsteady script:

{ Our dear son, }

My breath caught.

The words blurred for a second before I forced my eyes to focus. The handwriting was elegant yet uneven—someone had written this carefully, painstakingly, despite the shaking in their hands.

So, it’s from them, my parents...