The eastern edge of the tutorial town was quieter than the rest.
While the central plaza buzzed with summoned players scrambling to pick classes or shouting theories about the Tower's purpose, the Swordsman Hall sat undisturbed—a squat stone structure with open courtyards and walls worn by time and use. It didn't gleam or draw a crowd like the Archery Pavilion or the Mage Spire. It simply stood.
Jett stepped through its doors on the first day.
Inside, racks of standard iron longswords lined the walls. A few others had arrived—muscular types, cocky types, wide-eyed kids who still thought this was a game.
He didn't speak to any of them.
The man who introduced himself as Kael said little.
His armor was simple but unmistakably real—scarred from battles that hadn't been simulations. His voice was quiet but held a command that silenced the chatter without effort.
"I am your instructor," Kael said, pacing slowly before the group. "You want the sword? You'll earn it."
He pointed to the rows of practice dummies out in the courtyard beyond the hall.
"One hundred strikes. Intentional. Disciplined. Once you complete them, the system will register your basic class and grant you the standard skill."
Most of the recruits barely waited for Kael to finish speaking. They grabbed weapons, joked about breaking records, and began hacking away at the dummies.
Jett took his time.
He picked a sword—standard iron, heavier than it looked—and tested the weight in his hands. Then he walked to the farthest dummy, isolated from the others, and began.
His first day passed like that—quietly, diligently. One hundred swings. No shortcuts. No celebration.
The system chime rang softly in his ears at the end.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]Class acquired: SwordsmanSkill learned: Basic Swordsmanship
But Jett didn't stop.
While others dropped their weapons and laughed or collapsed onto benches, he kept swinging. Not wildly. Not to impress anyone. He moved like someone who wasn't content with "good enough."
Kael noticed.
But said nothing.
Day Two
Fewer people returned.
Most had gotten their class and skill and now wandered the town, exploring shops, swapping rumors, or trying to learn how the Tower's system worked. A few asked the instructors if there were side quests. One tried to flirt with a local NPC.
Jett was already in the courtyard when Kael arrived.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't try to game the system. He picked up the same sword, stepped into the same spot, and began again.
Swing after swing. Morning to night.
Kael said nothing. But he watched. Every day.
Day Three. Four. Five.
Word began to spread.
There was a guy in the Swordsman Hall who hadn't stopped training. Didn't talk. Didn't leave. Just kept swinging. Kept repeating forms. Kept pushing himself. The others started calling him "the obsessed one." A few came to watch. Some scoffed. Others were quietly impressed.
Kael never intervened.
But when the others weren't looking, he began to correct Jett's footwork with a glance. A raised eyebrow. A faint nod when a stance was held correctly for the first time.
He said nothing. But Jett noticed.
And every subtle cue was absorbed, practiced, sharpened.
Day Six
The courtyard was nearly empty now.
Most players had either moved on to other tasks or simply relaxed, killing time before the gates to Floor One opened at the end of the week. Many assumed the tutorial period was just a waiting room. A safe zone. A breather before the "real" challenges began.
But Jett didn't think that way.
Every hour was a gift.
A window.
An opportunity to build a foundation no one else would have.
Day Seven
The final day.
Only Jett remained in the training yard.
His hands were blistered, layered with raw callouses. His shoulders screamed with strain. But his swings were clean. Tight. Balanced.
He moved like a swordsman now—not a player pretending to be one.
Kael stood at the edge of the yard as the sun dipped below the plains.
For the first time, he spoke.
"You did not ask for anything," he said. "You did not complain. You did not waste time searching for secrets or shortcuts."
Jett paused, lowering his blade.
"I came to get stronger," he said, voice hoarse from a week of silence. "Not to pretend."
Kael stepped forward and unwrapped a cloth bundle from within his armor. Inside was a scroll, bound in deep crimson ribbon and sealed with an unfamiliar sigil.
"This technique was not meant for any of you. Not unless one proved worthy."
He held it out.
Jett hesitated—then accepted it.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]You have unlocked a Hidden Class Skill."Veiled Edge – Form One: Windpiercer"A high-speed sword technique forged by Kael, Guardian of Floor Twenty-One. Refined over decades, this form sacrifices brute strength for precision, velocity, and momentum.Skill Tier: Unique – Evolvable
Basic Swordsmanship has been overwritten.
A subtle shift coursed through his body. Not power—clarity. His stance adjusted unconsciously. The sword in his hand felt lighter, more like an extension of his will than a separate object.
Kael stepped back.
"Remember this," he said. "Mastery is not talent. It is time. Attention. Sacrifice."
Jett bowed his head slightly.
"I understand."
Kael turned. "Then go. Floor One opens at dawn."
That night, while others celebrated, Jett stood in the courtyard once more.
He practiced Windpiercer for the first time—slowly, deliberately, like the week had taught him. Each motion sang in the air, silent but deadly.
Unseen, from behind the shadowed fence, Lyra passed by and paused.
She didn't interrupt.
But she watched—longer than she meant to—and then moved on, a quiet thought forming in her mind she couldn't quite place.