The training yard stretched before Fin like a canvas of hard-packed earth, its surface scarred by countless footsteps and faint echoes of clashing steel. His bare feet pressed into the dirt, cool and unyielding beneath his soles, grounding him in a way that felt primal, almost sacred. Across from him stood a newly assigned estate guard, a man whose broad shoulders and steady grip on a wooden training sword betrayed years of disciplined combat. The morning sun blazed overhead, its golden light spilling across the stone walls that hemmed in the yard, casting long, jagged shadows that danced with the warmth of the breeze. Fin scarcely noticed. His mind was adrift, tangled in a web of frustration and yearning.
Today, his focus was supposed to be Transfer, the elusive energy that had taunted him for weeks within the dim confines of the cultivation chamber. The artifacts there, ancient relics humming with latent power, had proven maddeningly uncooperative. He had sat for hours, legs crossed on the cold stone floor, his breath slow and deliberate, reaching out with every ounce of will he could muster. Yet the Transfer energy remained just beyond his grasp, a faint, tantalizing current that brushed against his senses like a whisper on the wind. He could feel it, vaguely, a river of potential flowing through the air, but every attempt to seize it was like clutching at water rushing through his fingers. It slipped away, leaving him empty-handed and hollow.
Donovan, his father, had observed his futile efforts in stoic silence, his face unreadable. At last, with a heavy hand clapped on Fin’s shoulder, he had hauled him out of the chamber’s oppressive stillness and into the open air of the training yard.
“You’re thinking too much,” Donovan had said, his voice steady as the earth itself. “Transfer energy isn’t something you wrestle into submission. It’s not a beast to be tamed or a puzzle to be solved. It’s a current, Fin, a flow. You don’t command it; you allow it. Sitting still in that chamber won’t teach you how to feel it. You need motion. You need to fight.”
And so, here he stood, the dust clinging to his feet, the weight of his father’s words sinking into his bones.
The guard across from him shifted his stance, his wooden blade held with the easy confidence of a seasoned warrior. He dipped his head in a gesture of respect, his dark eyes glinting with quiet curiosity. “Ready when you are, young master.”
Fin drew a slow, deliberate breath, the air warm and dry in his lungs. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, sharp and unrestrained. The past year had been a slow grind of patient cultivation, endless hours of meditation, of coaxing Lightning mana to crackle through his veins, of shaping Fusion mana into something tangible and fierce. It had been rewarding, yes, but it had also worn on him, chafing against his restless spirit. This, though, the clash of wills, the pulse of adrenaline before the first strike, the crystalline focus that only combat could summon, this was where he learned to thrived. He never picked up a sword in his past life, but he felt alive with one in his hands now. The world narrowed to a single, vivid point, and every doubt burned away in the heat of the moment.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said, his voice carrying a spark of challenge.
The guard moved first, swift and sure. His boots scuffed the dirt as he lunged forward, the wooden sword slicing downward in a sharp, overhead arc. Fin’s body reacted before his mind could catch up, sidestepping with a fluid grace honed by years of relentless training. His muscles sang with memory, guiding him out of harm’s way as he pivoted on his heel. His own training sword rose to meet the guard’s next strike, a diagonal slash aimed at his ribs, fast and precise.
The impact reverberated through his arms, a jolt that rattled his small frame. He twisted his wrist, pushing back to deflect the blow, but something felt wrong, off-kilter. His father had trained him to absorb and redirect force, but not this time. The strike’s momentum carried forward. It sank into him, heavy and unyielding, seeping into his muscles like lead. His stance faltered, his movements growing sluggish, as if the air itself had thickened around him.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The guard sensed the lapse, pressing his advantage with a predator’s instinct. Another strike came, swift and unrelenting, and Fin raised his blade to block. The force of it drove him back, his feet skidding a step across the dirt, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
From the sidelines, Donovan’s voice cut through the haze of combat, firm and unyielding. “You’re still trying to take the hit, Fin. Transfer isn’t about absorbing force, it’s about redirecting it. Use what’s given to you. Don’t fight it; guide it.”
Fin exhaled sharply, the breath hissing through his teeth. Use what’s given to me. The words lodged in his mind, sharp and insistent, cutting through the fog of frustration. He adjusted his grip on the training sword, his fingers tightening around the worn wooden hilt. His eyes narrowed, tracking the guard’s every move with renewed focus.
This time, when the guard swung, a powerful arc aimed for his shoulder, Fin didn’t brace himself to meet it head-on. Instead, he flowed with it. At the last possible moment, he twisted his body, angling his blade so that the descending strike slid along its length rather than crashing against it. The force didn’t stop him; it propelled him. He stepped into the motion, letting the guard’s own strength carry him forward, redirecting the momentum with a subtle shift of his weight.
It was a small adjustment, barely perceptible, but it worked.
In an instant, he was behind the guard, his training sword pressed lightly against the man’s spine, the tip hovering just below his shoulder blades. The guard froze, his breath catching in his throat. Then, after a beat of silence, he let out a low, appreciative laugh. “Well done, young master. I didn’t even see that transition.”
Fin stepped back, lowering his blade. He blinked down at his hands, still tingling from the exchange. For the first time, he had felt it, truly felt it. The energy hadn’t resisted him or slipped away. It had moved through him, a seamless current that he hadn’t forced or shaped, but simply guided. It wasn’t like Lightning, which he had learned to draw into himself, a wild spark he could harness and unleash. Nor was it like Fusion, which he had molded with painstaking care, forging it into something solid and enduring. Transfer was different. It was about harmony, about becoming a conduit rather than a container. It was about flow.
A grin spread across his face, wide and unguarded. “Again,” he said, the word laced with hunger.
The guard obliged, raising his sword with a nod. This time, Fin leaned fully into the sensation, letting it guide him. Every strike that came his way became part of a larger rhythm, a dance of motion and intent. He shifted his weight with each blow, tilting his blade to redirect the force rather than resist it. The impacts no longer jarred him, they flowed around him, through him, propelling his movements with an efficiency he hadn’t known he could achieve. His footing grew surer, his strikes more precise. He wasn’t fighting against the guard’s strength anymore; he was borrowing it, weaving it into his own.
From the sidelines, Donovan watched with a faint nod, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Now you’re starting to get it,” he called, his voice carrying a note of approval.
Cahira, leaning out a window watching, smirked. “It took you long enough. I hope it doesn’t take you a year or two to absorb Transfer energy or poor Marian might be bald before you have time to master it.”
Fin rolled his shoulders, ignoring her jab. His body still thrummed with the aftershocks of the fight, a quiet hum of energy that pulsed beneath his skin. He had only brushed the surface of Transfer’s potential, a fleeting glimpse of what it could become, but that glimpse was enough. For the first time, he understood its essence, not as a tool to be wielded, but as a path to be walked. It was about connection, about aligning himself with the currents that moved through the world, rather than bending them to his will.
He turned to face the guard again, his grin softening into something steadier, more resolute. “One more,” he said, raising his sword.
The guard mirrored his stance, a glint of respect in his eyes. “As you wish, young master.”
As they circled each other, the sun climbing higher in the sky, Fin felt a shift within himself. This was no longer just a sparring match, no longer just a lesson. It was a revelation.
This, he knew was only the beginning.