On the second day of Lumin, my true love gave to me!
* * *
Today I was woken up in my dorm by the sound of a knock. It's 8:12, meaning I overslept by 12 minutes.
I get out of bed and put a spare school uniform on, opening my dorm door. It's Gram, the thoughtful boy!
"Come on, we're late," He says, turning around and beginning a speed walk. I follow him down the hall. "You can't sit in the back today, okay?"
"What?"
"Arthur, I'm late because I needed to wake you up! Every day from now on that you're late, you're going to sit up front with us!" He doesn't let it sound like a choice, more like a command.
It seems he's switched gears from softly encouraging me to forcing me for my own good... what can you do? I stay silent for a bit, looking forward as we walk. I can't lie, I'm just a little bit salty.
"... Fine," I agree to it, but my tone is that sort of rebellious mumble you do when you speak under your breath.
"You'll get over it in no time, trust me," Gram says, attempting to get me out of the morning mood. I wanna go back to an open field and just lie there...
Wait, is what Clara teased about true? Dear god... next I'm going to want to own a garden and save the trees.
We arrive at the classroom door, opening it and entering class. It's currently a history class, the teacher paying us no mind. I go up the steps to our row of seating, attempting to walk straight past it and into the corner without being seen.
Gram grabs my shoulders and turns me, making me walk down the row. I sit down in the furthest seat available, next to the girl who solved the math problem the other day. She has an assortment of pencils and erasers and papers and pens on her workspace... while I have literally nothing.
She looks upon me with scorn before returning to minding her own business. From the name on her paper, I can infer her identity as Variel Liadon. Gram sits to my left, blocking my exit... damn you. I cross my arms as if I don't want to be here... because I don't want to be here.
Also to my left is: Pridwen, Valory and... Eden, in that order. I look to the front of the class, attempting to pay attention to the lecture. Is it my fault if my body craves for naps at every point in the day?
"Now everyone take a piece of paper and start taking notes when I point something specific out," The teacher says, directing the class. I pat my pockets like paper will magically show up.
Surprise surprise, it doesn't. I lean back in my chair, content with pretending to pay attention, until... Variel slides a piece of paper onto my desk with a frown.
Then she sees that I don't have a pen. That's when the frown really deepens. I wouldn't be particularly surprised if she slugged me right then. She painstakingly slides a pen over to me with the biggest frown I've ever seen, as if it was causing her physical pain to help me.
"Thanks... I guess..." I mutter, deciding to put the tools to use if I'm given it.
I reluctantly begin to take notes, gazing up at the teacher occasionally. Gram looks at me from the side as if he's awestruck, but returns to taking his own notes shortly after. I don't get it, it's not like I don't ever study, so why does he look surprised?
Either way, I keep taking notes. My handwriting is a lot sloppier than I remember... I see Variel frown about that as well. Why does this girl keep looking over at me??? Why does she keep judging me?!?
* * *
2 hours later, it's physical combat studies again. We all meet on the field again, only to be led inside a different school building this time. We're inside a large room with many different shelves of weapons, seemingly the school... armory, I guess?
"Hello again students!" Bran yells, ready to make sure another day of rigorous "teaching" happens. "Today you will be choosing a weapon! If you already possess a weapon, you may stand back and watch until called upon."
Well that's easy. I wait until we're dismissed to choose before moving, heading to a section with fairly simple swords.
You might be wondering "but Arthur, don't you already have a sword?" As it turns out, I melted that before I went into the coma... sorry, Dad. I walk through the aisle of swords, window shopping. There's a lot of European style swords, but those ones bore me.
I don't want to be cliche, but I think katana's are cool, so that's where I check first. There are maybe 7 or 8 of them on the shelves, most of them simple. The 2 I'm looking at the most are a decorative katana with a red sheath or a simple katana with a black sheath.
Remembering my own advice, I decide to stay simple and choose the black katana. I walk back to the line with my chosen weapon, waiting for instruction.
"Now raise your hand if you want to be personally taught," Bran says, surveying the line. A few people raise their hands, looking unconfident. "Cause it's too bad. All of you will be learning out of a manual assigned to you. You will practice these manuals in your dorms, in your free time and in training. I expect you to have mastered them by the end of the year."
I nod along with most of the line. Just like textbooks, we'll probably be sent the manuals later today in our dorm mailbox like everything else.
"You are dismissed. My assignment today is for you to go home and practice your manuals."
Wait... did this teacher just outsource all the work towards the manuals?
* * *
Walking back to my dorm later, I check the box outside of my specific room. Sure enough, there's a short 10 page pamphlet in the box. I take it inside my dorm and close the door behind me, looking at the manual in my hands.
"Ren style... what the heck is a Ren Style?" I ask myself, reading the pages of the book.
On the cover it has the words "D rank" and the name of the technique, Ren Style. I sit down on my bed and turn through a few pages, searching to see if there's any real meaning in the book.
Despite the described elegance of the technique, it's surprisingly brutal. You just channel as much mana as you can into one arm and then slice as fast as you can. There's not any information about parrying or blocking or stabbing or incorporating your magic, just... slashes.
This is just great...
* * *