The Extra's Rise

Thankfully, the next class was just theory, which, after nearly breaking my body and brain over spellcasting, felt like a welcome relief.

Since I was primarily a Body aspect user, but still wanted to keep my Mind aspect classes, my schedule was balanced—three days of Aura Mechanics, two days of Spellcasting II.

The rest? A collection of theory-based classes like world history, geography, and magical politics—all of which were fascinating in the way dry toast was fascinating.

Once classes ended, I found myself hanging out with Rose again, an easy habit that had formed without much thought. The conversation was light, effortless, and for a brief moment, I almost forgot I had an absurd amount of training to do.

Almost.

By the time evening rolled around, I was already back in the training hall, alone with my thoughts and a near-impossible workload ahead of me.

I had too much to work on.

First, I needed to increase my mana rank—the insane method of breaking my body over and over again to force my circuits to absorb and refine mana at unnatural speeds.

Second, I needed to master the Tempest Dance Technique—my new Grade 5 sword art, the only real weapon skill I had that could keep me from being humiliated in a duel.

Third, spellcasting.

There wasn't enough time in the day to practice everything individually, which meant I had to be smarter about how I trained. Aura Mechanics? I had to master whatever Nero taught within the class itself—no extra time spent outside of it.

Which left me here.

I pulled out the black box from my spatial ring and placed my hand against it, letting my mana signature activate the lock.

The box pulsed with light, and in the next instant, knowledge flooded into my mind.

I blinked. Then blinked again.

"This is seriously amazing," I muttered.

The Tempest Dance Technique was… beautiful.

Not just in the way it was structured, but in its entire philosophy.

Most sword arts were about strength, speed, efficiency—but this?

This was about momentum.

Each movement built upon the last, compounding not just in speed but in power, like a storm gathering strength with every passing second. The longer the dance continued, the stronger the aura reinforcement on the blade would grow—until every strike carried far more force than it should have.

This wasn't about winning with a single, perfect strike.

This was about setting the tempo—controlling the fight, weaving a rhythm of blows that would turn an opponent's own defenses against them.

I grinned.

This was it.

This was a true Grade 5 Art.

Time to make it mine.

I took my stance, feeling the weight of the knowledge settling into my muscles, and began the first movement.

It started simple.

A step forward, blade slicing through the air in a smooth, unbroken arc.

The technique wasn't about power yet. Not immediately.

It was about flow.

My next step built on the first, momentum carrying me into the second strike before my muscles even finished the first motion. Faster. Another step, a pivot, a swing—

I felt it.

Not just movement, but something clicking into place. The flow of aura around the blade, the way the technique fed into itself.

Strike. Build. Strike. Accelerate.

The blade felt lighter now, not because I was moving slower, but because the technique was carrying itself forward.

I kept going, faster, sharper, forcing my body to keep up with the rhythm.

And then I made a mistake.

Too fast.

Too early.

The moment my footing slipped, the entire sequence collapsed. My balance shifted wrong, my aura misaligned, and in an instant, the momentum that had been building perfectly snapped apart like a dropped plate.

The blade jarred in my grip, the force of my own failed strike rebounding through my wrists.

I exhaled slowly, stopping where I stood.

"Alright," I muttered to myself. "Got it. No rushing."

Again.

The second attempt was better.

The third was smoother.

The fifth had barely any errors.

And by the tenth repetition, I could feel it—

The beginning of mastery.

Not perfection. Not even close.

But I could feel the storm beginning to build.

As expected of a Grade 5 Art, this was going to take time. A lot of it.

I scratched the back of my head, staring at the training dummy that had somehow survived my incompetence.

To use an Art in actual battle, I needed at least Novice realm mastery.

I was nowhere close.

Months away.

But...

I still smiled.

Because for the first time since arriving in this world, training felt good.

There was something refreshing about it—about failing, adjusting, and gradually improving. Unlike spellcasting, where I had to wrestle with math, logic, and the sheer betrayal of my own brain, swordsmanship was direct. Honest. If you got something wrong, the blade told you immediately.

Still, plateauing was inevitable. I could feel my movements losing that sharpness, my form becoming less precise.

That meant it was time to switch gears.

I sheathed my blade and shifted my focus back to mana circuit training.

I needed to reach mid Silver-rank soon—no shortcuts, no excuses.

The familiar burn crept through my veins, my circuits pushing against their own limits as I forced them to absorb and refine mana at an unnatural pace.

The pain was constant, but it wasn't unbearable. It was almost... routine.

Two hours passed.

I exhaled, finally stopping before I burned myself out completely.

I checked the time. 8:30 PM.

"Enough time for some spell training," I muttered, stretching my sore limbs.

__________________________________________________________________________________

As expected of a Grade 5 Art, this was going to take time. A lot of it.

I scratched the back of my head, staring at the training dummy that had somehow survived my incompetence.

To use an Art in actual battle, I needed at least Novice realm mastery.

I was nowhere close.

Months away.

But...

I still smiled.

Because for the first time since arriving in this world, training felt good.

There was something refreshing about it—about failing, adjusting, and gradually improving. Unlike spellcasting, where I had to wrestle with math, logic, and the sheer betrayal of my own brain, swordsmanship was direct. Honest. If you got something wrong, the blade told you immediately.

Still, plateauing was inevitable. I could feel my movements losing that sharpness, my form becoming less precise.

That meant it was time to switch gears.

I sheathed my blade and shifted my focus back to mana circuit training.

I needed to reach mid Silver-rank soon—no shortcuts, no excuses.

The familiar burn crept through my veins, my circuits pushing against their own limits as I forced them to absorb and refine mana at an unnatural pace.

The pain was constant, but it wasn't unbearable. It was almost... routine.

Two hours passed.

I exhaled, finally stopping before I burned myself out completely.

I checked the time. 8:30 PM.

"Enough time for some spell training," I muttered, stretching my sore limbs.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Rachel was lounging on the sofa, scrolling through her phone with the ease of someone who was not about to collapse from exhaustion.

Yet her sapphire eyes kept flicking to the time in the top right corner of her screen.

'10:10.'

The elevator dinged.

Arthur stepped out, sweating from training, clearly drained, but somehow still standing.

Rachel lifted her gaze, a small smile forming. "You trained again."

Arthur smiled back, rubbing the back of his head. "Yeah, I was working on my Art and my spell."

Rachel nodded, though her thoughts were elsewhere.

She had never seen this kind of dedication before.

It had only been three days since classes started, but from what she had observed—

Arthur had trained for at least twenty hours.

Twenty.

Rachel considered herself a hard worker, but this? This was something else entirely.

Arthur yawned. "I'm tired, so I'm gonna sleep. Good night, Rachel."

"Good night, Arthur," she replied.

She watched as he disappeared down the hall, then leaned back into the sofa, her mind still lingering on him.

'Why is he trying so hard?'

She understood that Class A was full of monsters, that the pressure must have been immense.

But this?

This was beyond pressure.

This was obsession.