SWNOVELXO Chapter 18: Rivals and Competitors
The bell hadn't rung yet, but Ares was already sitting on his meditation mat. His back was straight as a soldier's, hands resting on his knees, breathing slow and steady like he was asleep with his eyes open. The cold morning air bit at his skin like tiny needles, but he welcomed it. Cold sharpened his thoughts, like ice water splashed on a sleepy mind, shocking him awake from the inside out.
Mana pulsed in quiet waves through his body, flowing in and out with each breath like a gentle tide. The rhythm wasn't forced anymore, it had become natural, like a second heartbeat threading through muscle and bone, coiling at his core like a watchful serpent ready to strike. No flickers. No missteps. Just perfect, deadly balance.
He could feel the energy dancing under his skin, warm and alive and promising power.
He opened his eyes as the first bell rang across the Cradle, its deep voice echoing off stone walls like a war drum calling soldiers to battle.
Another day. Another climb toward the summit.
---
Breakfast passed with the usual quiet tension that hung in the air like morning fog. Competition was a living thing here, you could taste it in the porridge, smell it in the steam rising from hot bread. Older students grouped by year and merit, their conversations hushed but sharp, eyes like hawks watching for weakness. Among the initiates, it was a cold truce, respect earned through blood, sweat, and staying conscious, not through handshakes and smiles.
Maelia leaned closer across the wooden table, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief as she gave Ares a sly grin that could have lit candles.
"Honestly, you looked like you were going to pass out in that fire chamber yesterday. Your face went whiter than fresh snow. But somehow, you didn't drop."
Ares chewed his bread slowly, savoring the warm, nutty taste before shrugging like it was nothing. "You weren't exactly dancing through the lightning chamber either. I saw you jump three feet when that bolt got too close."
She threw back her head and laughed—a sound like silver bells in the serious dining hall. "Pain makes us stronger, right? Or burns us into little piles of ash. One of the two." She wiggled her fingers like they were still tingling from yesterday's lesson.
Sylas sat nearby, picking at his food like each bite might be poisoned. He didn't join their conversation, but his sharp eyes flicked to Ares every few seconds, quietly taking his measure like a merchant weighing gold.
Lysandra sat in perfect silence at the far end of their table, her posture flawless as a statue carved by master hands. Her fork rose and fell with the grace of a pendulum, each movement precise and controlled. She didn't speak, didn't acknowledge anyone around her. But her ears caught everything, every word, every laugh, every whispered plan.
The girl was a mystery wrapped in silk and steel.
---
The Combat Supervision Hall wasn't like the elegant shrines or quiet study chambers scattered throughout the Cradle.
This place was raw, floor scuffed and scarred by countless boots, air sharp with the tang of steel and honest sweat, walls lined with training weapons dulled by thousands of hours of use. No fancy decorations here, no soft cushions or burning incense. Just repetition, grit, and the kind of hard work that left permanent marks on both body and soul.
Instructor Halveth stood at the front like a mountain that had learned to walk, arms folded behind his back, chest broad enough to stop a charging bull. When he spoke, his voice hit the air like a hammer striking an anvil, impossible to ignore.
"Listen well, whelps," he barked, scanning the room with eyes like chips of flint. "You don't need to swing fast to win a fight. You need to swing right. Speed without purpose is just flailing around like a drowning cat."
A few students snickered at the image, but Halveth's glare could have frozen summer rain.
They were separated by age and skill, first-years in their own corner of the hall, matched to wooden training dummies and basic drills that looked boring but decided who got hurt when real steel came out to play. Form, footwork, balance. Everything that didn't look impressive to watching crowds but kept you breathing when it mattered.
Ares followed the sequence with laser focus, his body moving through each motion like he was carving his name in stone. Step. Turn. Strike. Breathe. Reset. Again. And again.
"Weight in your back heel, you clumsy ox!" Halveth barked at a red-faced classmate who was wobbling like a newborn colt. "Don't lean forward like a drunk reaching for his bottle!"
The boy's face turned even redder, but he corrected his stance.
Three stations down, Sylas flowed through his movements like he was painting invisible masterpieces in the air, each strike precise, clean, and deadly efficient. The wooden dummy shuddered under his blows, but never in the same spot twice. Smart fighter.
Lysandra? Perfect, naturally. Her wooden sword moved like it was part of her arm, each cut and thrust executed with the kind of grace that made other students stop and stare. She made combat look like a deadly dance, beautiful and terrifying at the same time.
Maelia kept pausing mid-swing to adjust her grip or double-check her stance, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration. She cursed under her breath when she missed her target, then reset and tried again. And again. She might not be the most talented, but she had the heart of a lion. That counted for something.
They didn't talk during the lesson, Halveth would have made them run laps until their legs fell off. But they watched each other out of the corners of their eyes, noting strengths and weaknesses, filing away information for later use.
That silent observation meant more than any conversation.
---
By late afternoon, the merit board had grown a second sheet pinned next to the original like a tumor that everyone pretended not to notice. The etiquette points were gone, apparently the instructors had decided politeness was less important than actual skill. Now, shrine attendance, training effort, class behavior, and form scores were tracked and displayed for all to see.
The rankings stared back at them like an accusation:
Initiate Rankings:
1. Sylas – 190 pts
2. Lysandra – 180 pts
3. Ares – 175 pts
4. Maelia – 160 pts
No huge surprises, but seeing the numbers carved in black ink still felt like a punch to the gut. Close wasn't good enough, not for what Ares wanted, not for what he needed.
Third place was just a fancy way of saying "not good enough yet."
But 'yet' was the key word. There was still time to change everything.
---
Later that day, after the shrine rotation schedules were posted and students clustered around them like moths around flame, the courtyard buzzed with nervous energy. Voices rose and fell like waves, some confident, others worried, all of them sharp with the kind of tension that came before big changes.
"You shouldn't hold your breath during meditation," Sylas said flatly, his pale eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for threats. "It blocks the natural flow of resonance. Basic mistake."
Lysandra folded her arms across her chest, her voice cool as winter morning. "And letting the element completely overwhelm you builds what, exactly? Character?"
"It builds tolerance," Sylas shot back, his jaw tightening. "Pain tolerance. Heat tolerance. The kind of strength you need when real power starts flowing through your veins."
"It builds burn scars and dead students." Her words cut through the air like a blade through silk.
The space between them crackled with tension that had nothing to do with elemental magic.
Ares stepped between them, his voice casual but cutting through their argument like a sword through rope. "Maybe you're both right."
Two pairs of eyes, one pale as winter sky, the other dark as polished obsidian, locked onto him like targeting spells.
"Maybe it's not about perfect control or complete surrender. Maybe it's about learning the rhythm of the music before you try to conduct the whole orchestra." He shrugged, hands in his pockets. "Just a thought."
They blinked at him, the tension shifting but not disappearing entirely. Like a storm cloud that might rain or might blow over, you never knew which until it was too late.
Maelia let out a long sigh that seemed to come from her toes. "Well, we all survived another day without setting ourselves on fire or getting struck by lightning. That's worth celebrating, right?"
The four of them stood there for a moment longer, forming an odd little circle in the busy courtyard. Not enemies, they respected each other too much for that. Not friends either, there was too much at stake for easy friendship.
Rivals. Competitors. Four people who might stand together or tear each other apart, depending on what tomorrow brought.
The smart money was on both.
---
That night, Ares sat at his window again, watching torchlight dance along the stone walls like tiny spirits with something important to say. The flames flickered and swayed, casting moving shadows that seemed to whisper secrets in a language he almost understood.
Roul stumbled through the door like a man who'd been hit by a charging horse, his practice armor dented and scratched, eyes blank with the kind of exhaustion that reached all the way down to his bones. He dropped his gear in a heap that sounded like a small avalanche, then flopped onto his bunk like a sack of potatoes that had given up on life.
"Staring into the dark again?" he mumbled into his pillow, voice muffled but still carrying that familiar note of gentle teasing.
"Thinking."
"Dangerous habit. Thinking too much will give you wrinkles." A pause. "Or make you crazy. Haven't decided which is worse."
"Safer than ignoring what's coming down the mountain toward us."
Roul grunted, a sound that might have been agreement or just him settling into his blankets. Within seconds, he was snoring like a contented bear, completely dead to the world and all its worries.
Ares stayed awake longer, feeling his mana pulse steady and strong in his chest like a brewing thunderstorm that knew its time was coming. The power was growing, getting stronger, waiting for the moment when he'd need to unleash it all.
Two months left before the final evaluations.
Two months to climb from third place to first.
Two months to prove he belonged at the top of that board.
He knew who stood above him—knew their strengths, their weaknesses, their tells. He knew who watched him in the shadows, measuring his every move. And he was starting to understand who might stand with him when the final line was drawn in the sand and choices had to be made.
The next time his name appeared on that merit board, it wouldn't be in third place.
It would be first.
And when that day came, there would be no debate, no questions, no doubt.
Just victory, clean and simple and undeniable.
The mountain had better get ready. Ares was coming for the summit, and he didn't plan on stopping until he reached the top.