Regalia Power of the King

The wind howled across the training field, carrying with it the sting of sand and the chill of the approaching night. I stood still, bracing myself against the gusts, thinking of Takeshi and Jin. Takeshi's precision and efficiency, Jin's adaptability—they were each powerful in their own ways. But where did I fit into that equation? How could my Regalia complement their strengths and shore up their weaknesses?

They're so different from each other, I thought, pacing slowly as the sand whipped at my feet. I imagined a battle scenario, the three of us working together. Takeshi darting forward, his movements sharp and decisive, creating openings with his sheer skill and discipline. Jin followed, weaving through chaos, his adaptability shining as he exploited every opportunity. My role had to bridge that gap, to amplify their strengths while covering for any vulnerabilities.

A shield for Takeshi to push forward unrelentingly. A weapon for Jin, one that could shift in purpose as easily as he adapted to situations. Or maybe something less obvious—like a way to disorient enemies or provide support without stepping directly into the fight. The possibilities spun in my head, each one leading to more questions than answers.

Then there was the battlefield itself. It wasn't just about our strengths but the terrain and conditions we'd face. Could I shape the environment to give us an advantage? Barriers to divide opponents, platforms to create elevation, or traps to control their movements? My Regalia wasn't limited to tools. It could redefine the space we fought in.

The thought of disorienting enemies intrigued me. Jin could exploit confusion better than anyone, and Takeshi's precision would shine in chaotic situations. What if I created flashes of light or bursts of sound to disrupt an opponent's focus? It didn't have to be physical—it could be psychological.

And then there was communication. A team's coordination could make or break a battle. What if I created a way for us to silently signal each other like small, glowing markers that could be placed strategically to signal positions or warn of danger. The more I thought about it, the more I realized my Regalia wasn't just about creation. It was about innovation.

The possibilities seemed endless, but with each idea came a new question. Could I create these things quickly enough in the heat of battle? Could they withstand the strain of real combat? And most importantly, could I maintain the focus to bring them into existence while supporting my teammates?

The wind picked up, tugging at my clothes as if urging me forward. I stood and stretched my hand out, focusing on the energy within me. My Regalia hummed faintly, the vibration steady and calm. I wasn't creating anything yet—just feeling the potential, the unformed possibilities waiting to take shape.

"Takeshi's efficiency. Jin's adaptability. My creativity," I whispered to myself. "If I can bring those together, we could be unstoppable."

The thought brought a small smile to my face, but it was quickly tempered by the weight of responsibility. My Regalia had to be more than a tool. It had to be the glue that held our team together, the edge that turned a close fight into a decisive victory.

But to do that, I need to become stronger, not just for myself but for my team. To cover the gaps in our collective weaknesses, I have to bring more to the table—strength that can hold its own when needed. Teams rely on unity, but there will be moments when I can't depend on anyone else. For those times, I need a weapon that ensures I can fight and win on my own.

Jasper's earlier demonstration flashed in my mind—the way his weapon had seemed to hum with intent as it pierced through the air. He had created not just a sword, but a force. That was what I needed to do. His blade hadn't just flown; it had moved with an undeniable purpose, propelled by something more fundamental.

Force. The word lingered in my mind, bringing with it the rules of physics I vaguely remembered from high school. Newton's laws. Motion. Acceleration. Momentum. It wasn't just abstract—it was measurable, predictable. If my Regalia allowed me to create, then maybe the missing piece wasn't about the object itself, but the forces acting on it.

I closed my eyes and replayed Jasper's demonstration in my head, this time focusing not on the blade, but on what it had done. It accelerated. It traveled in a straight line, cutting through the air as if resistance didn't exist.

"Force equals mass times acceleration," I muttered, the equation coming to me like an old friend. "The sword has mass. So the force… it has to come from somewhere."

My mind raced, sifting through possibilities. If force was simply a product of energy transfer, then my Regalia needed to replicate that. But how? Could I create the kinetic energy itself? Could I generate the invisible push that propelled objects forward?

I took a deep breath, letting the wind whip around me as I extended my hand. A sword materialized in the air, its form steady and familiar. But creating the blade was the easy part. The challenge was making it move.

I imagined the mechanics of motion—how a car engine transferred fuel into kinetic energy, how a bowstring launched an arrow. The transfer wasn't magical; it was a chain reaction of forces, one thing pushing another. My Regalia had to mimic that process.

"Start simple," I whispered to myself. I visualized a push—a basic, linear force that would launch the sword forward. Not with elegance, not with precision, but with motion. The blade hovered for a moment, trembling as if caught in indecision, before wobbling forward and clattering to the ground.

"Not enough," I muttered, frustration creeping in.

I tried again, this time thinking of energy in its purest form. Energy doesn't vanish—it transfers. From one state to another. Heat into motion, potential into kinetic. I closed my eyes and focused, imagining a pulse of energy surging into the base of the sword. My hand twitched, and the blade jerked forward, this time traveling a few feet before embedding itself weakly into the dirt.

Progress.

I allowed myself a small smile, despite the sweat now trickling down my temples. The mechanics were starting to make sense. The force didn't need to be complex—just consistent. If I could refine the process, if I could focus the energy better, I could achieve something closer to Jasper's demonstration.

My thoughts deepened as I considered other applications. Force isn't just linear. It's rotational, it's distributed. Could I create torque? Could I send an object spinning, or design a wave of energy that knocked opponents off balance? The possibilities felt limitless, but each one demanded an understanding I hadn't yet reached.

For now, I returned to the basics. Another sword, another attempt. This time, I imagined the force building like tension in a coiled spring. When I released it, the sword shot forward, faster and more stable than before, embedding itself firmly into the ground several yards away.

"Yes," I breathed, exhilarated. 

The wind continued to howl as darkness fell over the field, but I barely noticed.

•

The training field had grown quiet as the night settled in. The wind had mellowed into a faint breeze, and the earlier stinging sand was now just a memory. I stood at the edge of the field, the sky above deepening into a velvety black scattered with faint stars. My mind was still churning from the hour I'd spent refining ideas and testing my Regalia. Exhaustion tugged at my limbs.

That's when I noticed a figure walking toward the field, their silhouette sharp against the faint glow of the academy lights in the distance. As they stepped closer, the distinctive, purposeful stride made it clear—it was Takeshi.

He didn't seem to notice me as he approached one of the training dummies stationed near the center of the field. Without hesitation, he shed his jacket, revealing his lean, muscular frame, and began his regimen. His movements were precise, almost mechanical in their discipline, each strike calculated to perfection. Even from where I stood, I could feel the intensity radiating off him. I noticed right away that he wasn't using his Regalia. Instead, he was relying solely on his body, pushing it to its absolute limits through sheer will and effort. It was striking—the dedication to pushing himself beyond normal limits without the aid of his abilities. 

Takeshi started with punches, his fists slamming into the dummy with a rhythm that seemed almost too perfect, like a metronome ticking in time. But as the minutes passed, his pace quickened. Each punch became more forceful, more desperate. His knuckles struck the target with such ferocity that I half-expected the dummy to splinter under the force.

Then came the kicks. They were high and sharp, each one delivered with a snap that echoed across the empty field. Sweat glistened on his brow, his breaths growing heavier, but he didn't slow down. If anything, he pushed himself harder. It was as if he were fighting not just the dummy, but something invisible—something within himself.

I stepped closer, drawn in by the sheer intensity of it all. Takeshi didn't falter, even as his muscles trembled with exhaustion. His expression was unreadable, a mask of pure determination that bordered on pain. He threw a particularly brutal punch, and for a brief second, he paused, his shoulders rising and falling with deep, ragged breaths.

But he didn't stop. His fists flew again, each strike more powerful than the last. His movements weren't just a display of skill—they were a battle against his own limits. It showed just how far he was willing to go to become stronger. The dummy swayed violently under the onslaught, but Takeshi's precision never wavered. It was as if every strike carried the weight of something he couldn't say out loud.

The longer I watched, the more I realized just how far he was willing to push himself. This wasn't ordinary training. This was something else entirely. Takeshi was chasing something—something he believed was worth every ounce of pain he was enduring. His body screamed for rest, but his resolve kept him moving.

For a moment, I considered stepping forward, saying something. But what could I possibly say? This wasn't the kind of effort you interrupted. Takeshi wasn't just training his body; he was fighting a battle only he understood.

As the moon climbed higher into the sky, I turned away, leaving him to his silent war. Takeshi's relentless drive lingered in my thoughts as I made my way back to the dorms. I couldn't shake the image of him—his fists flying, his face set in grim determination. He was chasing something impossible, something that most people would never even dare to dream of.

And for the first time, I wondered if I could ever match that kind of resolve.