Morning light bled through the window panes like spilled gold. The academy stirred to life with the sound of footsteps, clashing swords, and distant birdsong. Another day had begun.
Asari stood at the edge of the training courtyard, his bamboo stick strapped to his back as usual. His uniform was clean, neatly pressed—just like yesterday, and the day before. He gave no sign of excitement, anxiety, or fatigue. Only quiet stillness.
Students were already warming up, stretching or swinging their swords with a mix of discipline and desperation. Some showed off their flashy footwork. Others tried to imitate the more experienced. Boasting. Competing. Laughing.
Asari walked past them like a shadow.
Though few noticed his presence, there was a subtle shift happening. Yesterday, he had been invisible. Today, a few glanced his way—briefly, uncertainly. Whispers had started.
"Did you see that guy yesterday?"
"Who, the quiet one with the stick?"
"Yeah. I heard Instructor Vael paused while watching him."
"She pauses for everyone. It doesn't mean anything."
"But I heard she narrowed her eyes."
"Wow, narrowed her eyes? That's huge."
Asari paid them no mind.
He moved to the same spot he had stood in before—back row, far right. Always on the edge, always out of the spotlight. He unstrapped the bamboo stick and gently set it down beside him.
"Beginner sword drills, line formation!" barked Instructor Vael.
The class snapped to attention.
Pairs reformed.
Today, Asari was paired with someone new—a tall, broad-shouldered boy with sharp eyes and a scowl carved into his face. His name was Coren, a noble's son, and not the kind to take being in the beginner class lightly.
""You," Coren said, sizing Asari up with a sneer. "Don't slow me down."
Asari remained expressionless.
Coren clicked his tongue. "Figures. One of those types."
Instructor Vael's voice rang out again. "Footwork into three-point thrust! Begin!"
Wooden swords clacked, feet shuffled.
Coren lunged with enthusiasm, swinging a bit harder than necessary. Asari moved smoothly, blocking with ease. Coren's eyes narrowed.
Again.
And again.
Each time, Asari's defense was fluid, silent, precise. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't aggressive. But it was clean.
Too clean.
Coren frowned. "Are you mocking me?"
Asari blinked.
"You holding back?" the noble boy growled, stepping in aggressively now. His blade moved faster, angrier. "Think you're better than me? Say something!"
Asari sidestepped the next thrust and tilted his head. Not with arrogance—but genuine curiosity. He didn't understand why the boy was angry.
Coren's temper snapped. He lunged too far.
Asari didn't counter. He simply pivoted, letting Coren stumble past him, then calmly raised his sword into the proper stance again.
The class paused.
Some had noticed. A few more whispers floated through the courtyard.
"He didn't even flinch…"
"Coren looked like a fool…"
"Instructor's watching again."
Indeed, Instructor Vael stood with her arms crossed, watching with an unreadable expression.
"Enough," she finally said. "We'll break into sparring matches. Controlled strikes only. No blood. If I see recklessness, I'll personally remove you from the grounds."
Students paired off once more.
To no one's surprise, Coren stepped forward. "I want him."
A few murmurs rose in excitement.
"Go on, noble brat. Let's see you try."
"Bet he'll get wrecked."
"Or maybe the quiet one'll dodge again…"
Asari stepped into position. He didn't raise his sword right away—just observed Coren's stance.
Instructor Vael gave the signal. "Begin!"
Coren charged in immediately, driven more by pride than strategy. He swung wide, aiming to knock Asari off balance with brute strength.
Asari didn't step back.
Instead, he tilted his body ever so slightly and deflected the blow with the side of his blade. His footwork was near invisible, like drifting smoke.
Coren stumbled.
Asari struck once.
A light tap on Coren's wrist.
A clean point.
The class gasped.
"First point—Asari," Instructor Vael said calmly.
Coren's face darkened.
He came again—faster, more furious.
Slash. Jab. Spin. Fake feint.
But Asari saw through it all.
His movements were not showy. No wasted effort. His strikes didn't shout—they whispered. Quiet, controlled, terrifying in their calmness.
Tap.
Another clean point.
Coren stared at his chest in disbelief, where Asari's blade lightly touched his uniform.
The match ended.
Whispers turned to low murmurs, spreading like fire.
"What the hell is that guy…?"
"He's not just good. He's something else."
Instructor Vael didn't praise. Didn't scold. She simply nodded and moved on.
But Asari noticed the slight tilt of her head.
She knew.
The sparring session ended with reluctant applause. Coren stomped off, red-faced. No one dared mock him, but the silence around him spoke louder than insults.
Asari picked up his bamboo stick and walked off quietly.
But the whispers followed him now.
That evening, Asari sat on the rooftop of the dormitory, legs dangling over the edge. The academy looked peaceful from here—trees swaying, torches flickering, shadows dancing over stone paths.
He tilted his head back, staring at the stars.
He hadn't come to make waves.
But ripples had begun.
He could feel it.
Just like back in the jungle—when the forest fell silent before a predator approached.
A storm was brewing.
And this time, he wasn't running.
He would face it.
With silence. With resolve.
With strength that didn't need to roar.