"To wield a weapon," Sergeant Rex began, his voice carrying the weight of experience, "you must first confirm your purpose. Anchor it deep within your heart. Strengthen your resolve. Have a reason—a real reason—for gripping that weapon, for raising it, for using it... and for executing your enemies, no matter who they may be."
A tense silence followed as his words sank in like stone through still water.
"Now," he continued, snapping the moment with a sharp clap, "split yourselves according to the weapons you've chosen. Keep space between each other."
He paced slowly before adding, "Dual wielders—this is your last chance to reconsider. I won't stop you if you don't, but know this: having a free hand can be invaluable. In some situations, it lets you strike harder, channel more strength into one weapon instead of dividing it between two."
Some of the dual wielders hesitated. A few exchanged uncertain glances. Rex's words, though calmly spoken, struck their mark. Several quietly switched their loadouts, either opting for a different weapon altogether or discarding one of the pair they'd originally chosen.
I didn't budge.
A lightly curved saber and a handgun—this combination was far more useful to me than a free hand could ever be. The elegance of the saber's arc, coupled with the raw precision of a firearm... it was balance, reach, and lethality all in one. No reason to change what already felt good enough.
"Nothing is perfect," Sergeant Rex declared, his voice steady and instructional. "Every weapon you wield comes with its own flaws. Your job is to understand those weaknesses—and work around them if you want to survive the battles ahead."
He gestured to the assortment of weapons nearby as he elaborated.
"A sword is a fine starting point for beginners, but it lacks the reach of a spear or a halberd. On the other hand, those long weapons fall short of the raw destructive power that a claymore or greatsword can unleash. Likewise, a handgun is reliable, but it lacks the piercing range of a sniper rifle or the suppressive firepower of a standard assault rifle. As for staves… they help channel your mana more efficiently, yes—but in close quarters against a skilled melee fighter, they quickly become a burden."
He paused, scanning our expressions to make sure his point had landed.
"Now then," he continued with renewed authority, "since all of you have chosen your weapons, assume your stances."
We obeyed in unison, spreading out across the field. Sergeant Rex moved among us, adjusting the grips and footing of several students with practiced ease—shifting postures, straightening spines, and correcting angles with firm but precise guidance.
"Spellcasters—start channeling your mana. Gun users—take aim. Melee fighters—brace yourselves to strike forward!"
BOOM!
A thunderous sound erupted all at once as we struck. The collective force of our attacks reverberated through the training field, shaking the ground beneath our feet. It sounded like an explosion—sharp, overwhelming, primal.
But that wasn't all. Something else was happening.
Strange... This never happened when Father trained us...
It was subtle at first—a sensation deep beneath the skin, something neither physical nor entirely magical. A warmth. A pull. A hum.
We could feel it.
It wasn't just about wielding a weapon anymore. It felt like our weapons were responding—calling out to us, attempting to merge with us on a level far beyond technique. They weren't tools anymore. They were trying to become extensions of ourselves.
"That feeling you just experienced," Sergeant Rex said, his voice cutting through the lingering echoes of our strike, "was Resonance."
He stepped forward, the grey smoke from his cigar curling like a spirit around his head.
"It's what happens when your weapon recognizes your intent and responds. That moment—when you struck your invisible opponent—your heart aligned with your weapon. I triggered the sensation by stimulating your pulse and senses during the previous drills. Then I resonated with my own weapon… to make sure you could feel it too."
He took a slow drag from his cigar and exhaled again.
"No matter what weapon you wield, if your heart wills it… you can resonate with it."
A student from among the spellcasters raised their voice. "But Sergeant—where's your weapon?"
Sergeant Rex chuckled lowly, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Heh… A weapon shouldn't be confined to what you can imagine."
He let the cigar drop from his hand and crushed it under his boot, smoke still drifting in the air.
"You'll understand someday. When you reach higher stages, you'll see just how meaningless form really is."
"Then what's the point of using a weapon?" another student called out from the gun-user section.
Sergeant Rex didn't hesitate.
"When you are weak—feeble, even—and you find yourself facing someone far stronger than you, a weapon becomes more than just steel or lead. It becomes your courage. It makes you feel... safer. As if, with it in hand, you might just have the strength to overcome the adversity ahead."
He stepped forward, cigar now extinguished, his gaze sharp and unwavering.
"And a person skilled in wielding a weapon—any weapon—often holds the upper hand over someone unarmed. In more ways than one."
He let the words sink in before delivering the final blow.
"At the end of the day, it doesn't matter whether you wield a weapon or become the weapon yourself. As long as your purpose remains unchanged, your heart will carry you forward—no matter which path you choose to walk."
A brief silence followed, filled only by the wind brushing across the sandy field.
"Well then," Sergeant Rex continued, clapping once to recapture our focus. "Since all your questions seem to be answered, it's time to get moving."
He began pacing along the line of students.
"Adjust your grip. Feel your weapons. When you strike, step forward—don't stay rooted. Don't lose your balance. Know where you're stepping."
He knelt down and ran his fingers across the sand.
"This ground will record your every move. Your footprints will remain visible. Use them. Don't step outside the marks you make—study them. Learn from them."
His tone dropped, just a little, as he gave one last warning.
"If even one of you fails to correctly analyze what's wrong with your own form… you'll stay here until you do. Sleep can wait. Understanding comes first."
He stood back up, his eyes narrowing.
"This is the last class. And I can keep you here as long as I need to."
We followed his commands, stepping forward with each strike, just as instructed. It wasn't long before some of us—myself and Moriarty included—began to notice what was off about our movements.
We were using our arms too much.
The power wasn't meant to come from the shoulders alone. The true force of the blow had to rise from the legs—rooted in the ground, drawn up through the body, guided by intent. The mana, too, had to follow this path: rising from the soles, gathering in the core, and then released through the strike.
That was the foundation.
"You there!" Sergeant Rex barked suddenly, his voice sharp as a whip. "Are you an anteater?! Why the hell are you T-posing like an idiot?! Use your staff correctly!"
He stormed over to the student in question and adjusted their form without ceremony, arms snapping into place under his grip.
Rex had little patience for sloppy execution. He would single out those who were doing it all wrong, break down their mistakes, and force them to understand every fundamental—from the first principle to the last detail.
"In my opinion," he said once, half-growling the words under his breath, "even a bird brain can turn into a human brain… if you put the effort in."
But he didn't stop there.
"If a person doesn't want to change," he added, more quietly this time, "then no amount of teaching, shouting, or correcting will make a difference."
Watching him walk toward someone was an experience in itself—equal parts terrifying and awe-inspiring. Just the sight of him approaching made your breath catch. His sheer physical presence was immense, casting a long shadow with every step.
And the craziest part? He wasn't even a giant.
Once we had all finished pointing out our respective mistakes, Sergeant Rex finally let us go. He made sure to review each of our performances, going over every minute detail with clinical precision. No flaw escaped his eye. No misstep went unjudged.
If anyone misread their own mistake, they weren't let off the hook.
He'd keep them back—sometimes for minutes, sometimes longer—and walk them through their errors step by step. Only once he was certain they couldn't figure it out on their own would he personally explain the problem. And when he did… it was thorough. Brutally so.
By the end of it, we were all dismissed.
But no one walked out smiling.
Not a single soul wore a light expression. Faces were blank, strained, or quietly fuming. That class—it drained us. Mind, body, and pride.
Without question, it was the most stressful session we'd had since arriving here.