Chapter 78: The Grind

Chapter 78: Chapter 78: The Grind

Dropping into a grounded cross-legged stance onto the cold black-iron tiles, Eric tuned out the deafening cacophony of whistling practice arrows, clattering polearms, and barking assistant instructors echoing across the colosseum floor.

He unsealed the thin parchment folio of *Crescent Slash*, studying the inked anatomical diagrams with absolute concentration.

On paper, the martial art appeared deceptively straightforward: draw mana from the core, drive it smoothly through the forearm meridians, coat the weapon’s primary cutting edge, and compress the aura at the split-second of kinetic acceleration to project a pressurized, crescent-shaped wave through the air.

Yet the real bottleneck lay in the physical transition. Converting internal liquid mana into a self-sustaining, airborne cutting plane demanded microscopic fluidity and absolute control.

*Skill Comprehension,* Eric commanded inwardly.

Within moments, the precise sequence etched itself into his consciousness. Rising smoothly to his feet, Eric shifted his footing into a wide, balanced lunge. He raised the blunted practice blade, drew a measured breath, and channeled his starlight-refined mana into the steel.

*SWOOSH!*

Eric whipped the blade horizontally in a violent, whistling arc.

A dull, pale-blue ripple of displaced air fluttered from the tip, drifting forward barely two feet before dispersing harmlessly into a warm, ineffective breeze.

"Tch... Mediocre," Eric muttered, lowering the weapon with a furrowed brow.

He had dumped entirely too much raw volume into the initial swing, yet the structural cohesion was practically nonexistent. It was a sloppy, inefficient mana leak. A true *Crescent Slash* needed to be compressed until the projected energy turned razor-thin, dense enough to sever heavy timber shields and fracture solid stone boulders on impact.

"Again," Eric grunted.

He reset his footing, adjusted the fluid pressure through his right wrist, and swung once more.

Around him, the cavernous training center had devolved into an absolute crucible of physical torment. Major General Harlan Holt’s ten assistant instructors prowled the columns like hungry wolves. Whenever a freshman lagged on their swings, wavered in their horse stance, or let their focus drift, the sharp crack of an instructor’s stave across their ribs and an immediate order for fifty weighted knuckle-pushups followed without mercy. Under that suffocating pressure, no one dared to slack.

Minutes bled into hours. The black-iron floor grew slick with sweat, the air turning heavy with the scents of hot metal and burning muscle.

For six unbroken, merciless hours, the drill ground churned without a single minute of recess.

Eric swung his blade hundreds of times. His forearms burned with deep lactic fire, the calloused skin of his palms grew raw, and his starlight mana was repeatedly drained and replenished under the passive, soothing pulse of the *Ring of Tranquility*. Even with his Major masteries in swordsmanship and footwork, coaxing mana to detach from the physical steel as an independent, slicing wave proved stubbornly elusive.

*TWEET—!*

The sharp, ear-splitting screech of Major General Holt’s silver whistle cracked across the hall like a thunderclap, finally arresting all kinetic motion.

Holt strode to the center of the staging platform, his massive arms crossed behind his back as his slate-gray eyes swept over the panting, sweat-drenched youths with cold indifference.

"That concludes today’s foundational class," Holt’s gravelly roar echoed off the steel rafters.

"You have until our next scheduled rotation to etch your techniques into bone and muscle memory. By next Thursday, I expect every student on this floor to execute their designated art cleanly on command. Anyone who fails the practical benchmark will run the perimeter trenches in full weighted plate until sundown. Class dismissed!"

The moment Holt turned his back and exited the arena, the disciplined ranks shattered completely.

*THUD! FLOP!*

Hundreds of exhausted freshmen collapsed directly onto the black-iron floor like sacks of wet grain, chests heaving in ragged, desperate gasps.

"Finally... sweet heavens... the nightmare is over..." a bruised noble youth groaned into the tiles, completely uncaring that his cheek was resting in a puddle of sweat.

Eric slowly lowered his practice sword, his breath coming in steady, controlled exhalations. Even with the *Ring of Tranquility* mitigating his cellular stamina burn, six hours of continuous, full-force swings had left his shoulder joints aching with deep fatigue.

*Still didn’t crack the compression threshold,* Eric thought, wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes with his forearm. *I’ll have to grind it out in private later. But right now...*

His stomach let out an aggressive, hollow growl that echoed loudly across their quiet corner of the arena.

"Man, I am completely starving," Eric said, turning toward his circle. "Guys, let’s get out of here and raid the cafeteria."

A few paces away, Jim leaned heavily on his long spear like a crutch, a tired grin spreading across his rugged face. "You stole the words right out of my mouth, Eric. I could eat an entire horned ox right now. Come on, you two, stop lying there like beaten dogs! Up on your feet, let’s go eat!"

On the floor, Jenna was splayed out in a wide star shape, her shortbow abandoned beside her knees. "Give me... five minutes..." she wheezed into the floorboards. "My arms refuse to acknowledge my commands..."

Beside her, Edward was lying flat on his back, staring blankly at the iron ceiling with his daggers still clutched in numb, trembling fingers. "Yeah, man... I am completely spent. Just let me sleep here for an hour..."

Eric and Jim exchanged an amused, exasperated glance.

"Sigh," Eric chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Looks like we’re hauling cargo."

"Yup. Grab the tsundere, I’ve got the archer," Jim grinned.

Before Edward could even register what was happening, Eric hooked his arms beneath his shoulders, hoisting the complaining boy effortlessly over his pauldron in a clean fireman’s carry. Jim stepped over, scooped Jenna up into an easy bridal carry despite her weak, tired squawks, and the two of them strolled out of the arena like they were carrying sacks of grain.

"Put me down, bastard!" Edward hissed weakly, his pale face flushing bright crimson as passing upperclassmen stared and chuckled. "I have legs! I can walk!"

"Right, sure you can," Eric deadpanned, shifting him into a firmer grip. "Your knees were trembling like newborn fawn legs two seconds ago. Save your breath for chewing."

At the central dining pavilion, the four of them piled their wooden trays high with roasted meats, garlic-rubbed hearth bread, and flagons of chilled herbal cider. For the next two hours, the day’s brutal exhaustion melted into lively banter. They laughed over Jim nearly driving his spearhead through his own boot, teased Jenna’s overly dramatic archery poses, and debated the optimal return vectors for Edward’s wind daggers.

"Ahh, look at the clock," Jenna sighed, glancing up at the pavilion’s glowing runic clock. "It’s past nine already. We need to head back to our dorm."

"Yeah, see you guys tomorrow," Eric said, offering a casual wave as they split off into their respective residential wings.

Returning to Room 401, Eric kicked off his boots, shed his damp scholar uniform, and collapsed face-first onto his plush mattress with a muffled groan of pure luxury.

For the first time since enrolling at the Central Research Institution, the relentless urge to cultivate was utterly overwhelmed by the primitive, heavy craving for sheer, unadulterated sleep. His eyelids felt like iron plates.

"Forget the seven-star cycles for tonight," Eric muttered into his pillow, letting out a massive, jaw-cracking yawn. "I am taking a full eight hours of pure, uninterrupted sleep..."

He paused, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

With a flick of his wrist, he pulsed his soul tether.

*FLASH.*

Coal materialized atop the brass coat rack, shaking out his glossy obsidian feathers and tilting his head curiously at Eric.

Eric pointed a lazy, heavy finger toward the low stool where a fresh pile of crystalline Soldier-rank mana stones rested.

"You don’t get to slack off, Coal. Keep grinding that core. I need more passive mana gains."

Coal stared at the snoring boy, his dark, bead-like eyes widening in pure betrayal as his bone-white beak parted in an indignant, high-pitched squawk.

*Caww! Caw! Cawww?!*

"No use protesting, buddy," Eric mumbled, pulling the thick woolen quilt over his ears with a contented sigh. "Papa’s officially off the clock. Goodnight, world."