The line stretched across half the chamber.

  Apparently, choosing an instrument of violence was a popular activity.

  Students stood shoulder to shoulder — some excited, some tense, some pretending not to be either. Weapons clinked softly as they shifted in their hands: steel against steel, wood against metal.

  No one was talking much.

  Choosing incorrectly wouldn’t just be embarrassing.

  It could be fatal.

  I moved forward with the line, studying the racks.

  What should I choose?

  The previous owner of this body used a sword. The system confirmed that before synchronization erased anything useful.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit muscle memory.

  Only responsibilities.

  And a sword means close combat.

  Close combat means getting hit.

  Getting hit means testing whether my endurance stat is decorative or functional.

  Not an experiment I wanted to conduct on day one.

  Something with distance. Control. Flexibility.

  My gaze swept the options again.

  Spears — long reach, but unwieldy indoors.

  Bows — powerful, but technique-dependent.

  Heavy weapons — impressive, but exhausting.

  Then I saw it.

  A hatchet.

  Compact. Balanced. Single-handed.

  Throw → recall → throw again.

  My thumb tingled faintly beneath the glove.

  Right.

  This wasn’t just a weapon.

  It was a delivery system.

  I picked it up and tested the weight.

  Solid without being heavy.

  The grip felt natural — dangerously natural, like it wanted to move.

  Good enough.

  Also usable in close combat if absolutely necessary.

  Minimal training required.

  Maximum survivability.

  Decision made.

  I stepped forward and presented it.

  Instructor Thorn examined the hatchet, then looked at me.

  “That is a secondary weapon,” she said evenly. “Are you certain?”

  Meaning: unconventional. Not prestigious. Possibly foolish.

  “Yes, Instructor.”

  She held my gaze for a moment, as if assessing something invisible.

  Then she turned, removed four more identical hatchets from the rack, and handed them to me one by one.

  “A full throwing set.”

  Five total.

  Efficient.

  As I adjusted my grip, the glove shifted slightly, exposing the skin near my thumb.

  Her eyes flicked to it.

  A pause — less than a second.

  No reaction.

  No recognition.

  “Next.”

  Dismissed.

  Good.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Attention avoided.

  Break

  Students dispersed across the hall, talking now that the tension had eased.

  Some admired their weapons.

  Some practiced basic swings.

  Others compared choices like this was a shopping trip rather than preparation for combat.

  I stepped aside and fixed the glove properly, covering the mark completely.

  No need to advertise unusual abilities.

  Mysteries attract questions.

  Questions lead to problems.

  The cafeteria was far busier than before. Lines stretched across the counters, voices overlapped, trays clattered.

  Training apparently increased appetite across the board.

  I spotted Rael near the middle of the hall, enthusiastically waving as if we might lose visual contact in the crowd.

  I collected food — chicken again, because reliability matters — and sat across from him.

  His eyes immediately dropped to my belt.

  “…You chose throwing weapons?”

  “Hatchets,” I corrected.

  He leaned closer, examining them.

  “Why not a sword? I thought you used one.”

  Time for a believable explanation.

  “Trying something different,” I said. “Better range control.”

  Also better survival odds, but that part stayed internal.

  Rael nodded slowly.

  “Huh. I went with a mace.”

  Of course he did.

  Solid. Straightforward. Difficult to misuse — a weapon that matched his personality perfectly.

  He lifted it slightly with obvious pride.

  “Good weight, right?”

  “Very persuasive,” I said.

  He grinned, taking it as approval.

  “Still,” he added, “you switching from sword is surprising.”

  “I prefer adaptability.”

  Translation: I prefer not being stabbed.

  Rael accepted the explanation without further suspicion.

  Movement near the entrance drew attention.

  Aric Vayne entered carrying a tray like everyone else.

  Zane Warry walked beside him, speaking quietly. He responded with a relaxed smile, and she shook her head as if accustomed to whatever he had said.

  They moved easily through the crowd.

  No pushing.

  No hesitation.

  Space simply opened for them.

  Aric greeted a few students along the way.

  Zane remained close, occasionally replying for him when conversations overlapped.

  They chose a table near the center.

  Normal behavior performed by people who were anything but normal.

  Rael watched them with open fascination.

  “Rank One eats cafeteria food,” he whispered.

  “Remarkable,” I said. “Next you’ll tell me he breathes oxygen.”

  Afternoon Training

  The break ended quickly, and we returned to the combat wing.

  Ten instructors entered together and divided us into groups of ten.

  No speeches.

  No introductions.

  Just assignments.

  Efficiency over ceremony.

  Our instructor surveyed the weapons in our hands and nodded once.

  “Physical conditioning first.”

  Of course.

  Weapon skill means nothing if your body collapses first.

  Running drills.

  Strength exercises.

  Balance work while holding weapons.

  Reaction tests.

  Mana-enhanced students adapted quickly.

  I adapted… gradually.

  My lungs burned.

  Muscles trembled.

  Sweat blurred my vision long before Silent Eclipse became a factor.

  Apparently Intelligence 9.9 does not improve stamina.

  Disappointing design choice.

  By the end of the session, my arms felt detachable rather than functional.

  “Continue,” the instructor said, as if we weren’t collectively approaching structural failure.

  Encouraging.

  I returned to my room moving at a speed best described as barely upright.

  Shower first.

  Food second.

  Then I lay down “just for a moment.”

  Sleep arrived immediately.

  One Hour Later

  I woke to silence.

  Not refreshed.

  Less exhausted.

  Acceptable.

  No scheduled activities remained.

  Which meant one thing.

  Personal practice.

  If I intended to rely on throwing weapons, I needed accuracy — not theoretical confidence.

  I secured the hatchets, adjusted the glove on my right hand, and headed toward the outdoor training grounds.

  Shooting Range

  The range occupied an entire wing of the complex — long, rectangular, heavily reinforced.

  Lanes were divided by armored partitions, forming individual booths for uninterrupted practice.

  Each booth contained a control panel:

  Distance selector.

  Target type (stationary / moving).

  Impact sensors.

  Damage readout.

  Automatic repair system.

  Targets stood far downrange — thick composite plates shaped like humanoid silhouettes.

  Many bore deep scars from previous sessions, faint outlines where the system had patched them.

  Soundproof barriers muted most noise, reducing impacts to dull, heavy thuds.

  The atmosphere felt quiet.

  Focused.

  Dangerous.

  A few students practiced in other booths — arrows thudding into targets, blades striking metal with unforgiving force.

  No instructors.

  No supervision.

  Just performance.

  Perfect.

  I stepped into an empty booth and set the target to stationary.

  Start simple.

  I took one hatchet in my right hand, feeling the weight settle naturally into my grip.

  Activate.

  Silent Eclipse sharpened the world instantly.

  Edges clarified.

  Distance compressed.

  Detail intensified.

  I adjusted my posture according to the subtle feedback pulsing behind my eyes — shoulder angle, wrist position, balance.

  Throw.

  The hatchet spun cleanly through the air.

  Thud.

  Direct hit.

  The blade buried itself several centimeters into the target’s chest area.

  Functional.

  Good.

  Now the real test.

  I focused inward, directing Ether toward the hatchet.

  The flow responded immediately — thin white threads gathering along the metal like condensation forming on cold glass.

  Throw.

  The result was completely different.

  The hatchet didn’t fly.

  It launched.

  A sharp crack split the air as it crossed the distance in a blur.

  BOOM.

  The target shattered.

  Composite plating split apart, fragments scattering before dissolving under the repair system.

  I stared at the empty frame.

  “…Okay.”

  That was significantly more destructive than intended.

  A surge of excitement rose — brief, unfamiliar.

  Then—

  A faint tingling behind my eyes.

  Sharp.

  Familiar.

  Right.

  Deactivate.

  Silent Eclipse shut down immediately.

  Vision stable.

  Good timing.

  Blindness inside a weapons facility would be inconvenient.

  I reset the target.

  This time — no Ether.

  No ability.

  Just skill.

  First throw.

  Miss.

  Second.

  Edge hit.

  Third.

  Complete miss.

  I recalled the hatchet.

  It vanished and reappeared in my hand without sound or motion.

  At least that part worked perfectly.

  The conclusion was obvious.

  I needed practice.

  A lot of it.

  Abilities fail.

  Cooldowns exist.

  Overuse has consequences.

  Skill remains.

  Maybe I should acquire a talent related to accuracy.

  But that requires Karma Points.

  And Karma Points require helping people.

  I leaned against the booth wall, staring at the repaired target.

  If I’m weak myself, how am I supposed to help anyone else?

  The system had not provided operational guidelines.

  Typical.

  I rotated the hatchet slowly, watching the blade catch the light.

  Step one: become strong enough to survive.

  Step two: figure out how to be useful without dying in the process.

  Simple.

  In theory.