In the sprawling courtyard of the Silverhart estate, bathed in the golden hue of an afternoon sun, Calien Silverhart stood alone, save for a dozen poorly aimed kitchen knives embedded in the earth or clattering off the stone walls.
The family training yard—usually filled with the clash of swords and thundering hooves—was quiet, serene, save for the repetitive clink and thud of Calien's failing practice.
He stood ten meters from a worn training dummy, a simple sack of hay wrapped in chainmail and painted with crude red circles to simulate infection weak points.
Calien gritted his teeth as he held the last knife in his hand, eyeing the dummy with unyielding concentration.
"Throw it like teacher Nolan did," he whispered to himself, sweat dripping down his temple. "Teacher didn't even aim… it was like the knife just knew where to go."
He adjusted his stance again—feet shoulder-width apart, one forward, hand at ear level, mana coiling in his palm like a volatile whisper.
He hurled it.
The knife spun beautifully in the air, carried with a twist of mana—then veered hard left and buried itself in a wooden post with a dull thunk.
"Damn it!" he shouted, the frustration in his chest boiling over.
Again and again, he replayed the scene in his mind.
That precise, casual flick of Nolan's wrist in the lecture hall.
One moment Nolan had been lounging like a lazy fox, the next, his knife was whistling through the air with surgical grace, pinning a fly-sized infection mark right in the forehead of the dummy.
Calien remembered how quiet the room went. How the other students froze. How even their lazy instructor did it with such ease. That throw hadn't been showy. It was clean. Efficient. Deadly.
Enough to pierce through the head of tough infected beings.
And now?
Calien bent down, gathering more of the knives—simple kitchen blades he had pilfered from the estate's lesser-used kitchens.
They were dull, unbalanced, and technically not meant for throwing.
So, Calien knew it wasn't just about the special pathogen knife; his teacher, Nolan, used a surgical blade from the hospital building he had visited last time, and it went exactly the same way.
It was about technique, and Calien wanted to learn it.
So he kept his Pathogen Knife hidden.
If he could replicate the throw using these and not the Pathogen Knife, then he was making progress.
He took a breath, prepared, and stilled himself.
Mana again crawls into his limbs—unstable, angry, raw. He threw another.
Clang—the blade ricocheted off the dummy's shoulder plate.
Another—thud, missing the torso by nearly half a meter.
Another—whizz, completely missed.
He let out a groan of defeat and ran a hand through his sweat-slick hair. "How the hell did he do it? What did I miss?"
Over and over again, his mind attempted to reconstruct Nolan's form: the lazy stance, the unbothered look, the way he leaned slightly back but let the knife fly forward with almost no motion.
There was something unnatural about it.
A detachment.
As if the knife was thrown not by strength, but by some instinct Calien couldn't grasp.
He hurled three more—each one with increasing desperation. One stuck weakly into the dummy's thigh, but it was shallow. Useless. A failure.
Panting, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve, his white shirt now stained at the collar. His fingers ached, the edges of his nails dirty from scrabbling in the gravel. His mana circuits tingled from overuse.
"Trying to kill a dummy or yourself?"
A smooth voice laced with mirth cut through the silence.
Calien didn't turn, but his body tensed slightly. He recognized the voice immediately.
Cain Silverhart.
His older brother by barely a year. The family's golden boy.
Trained with the knights since he could hold a blade. Ranked top in their generation. And, worst of all, born with a natural attunement to elemental reinforcement magic, making his potential as a Magic Knight high, something Calien always struggled with.
Cain stepped into view with his arms folded across his chest, a silver practice sword hanging lazily from one hand. He raised a single elegant brow.
"What's with the peasant knives?" Cain asked, smirking. "You trying to learn cooking?"
Calien didn't respond. He simply retrieved another knife and squared his shoulders toward the dummy.
Cain watched as Calien threw again—only for the blade to strike the ground and stick there pathetically.
"I'm serious," Cain continued, striding closer with the relaxed, confident gait of someone who had never lost a sparring match in his life. "Why waste your time with those? Throwing knives are a last resort. You're supposed to cut through your opponent, not flick at them like you're shooing birds."
Calien said nothing.
He just picked up another knife and hurled it.
It hit the dummy's knee—barely. Too weak to do damage.
Cain gave a short, mocking chuckle. "Let me guess. You're trying to copy some outsider? Something you learned at the Silver Blade Academy along with your loser friends."
Still, Calien remained quiet, the fire in his eyes growing, not fading.
"Really, Calien?" Cain leaned against the wooden railing that circled the training yard. "Is this about your classroom stunt? Is he using some kind of knife trick? You could pierce the dummy as long as you reinforce your kitchen knives with mana—"
"No," Calien cut him off, his voice tight. "He didn't use anything… I am only using it because I can't copy his technique."
Cain tilted his head. "Oh? Are you really training knife tricks just because someone showed you these useless techniques?"
Calien threw again. Missed again. Groaned again.
"It's not useless… I am training this for tomorrow's assessment…"
Cain scoffed. "Heh! Assessment? You're gonna join that stupid-ass Academy? And worse of all, a knife? Have you ever seen a mana Knight use a kitchen knife before? I'm telling you again, that doesn't do real harm in a real fight. A knife is just for decoration and medical use!"
Still ignored.
Cain's expression darkened slightly. "You think throwing little blades around will help you show something to your mother and father that you're good at something that I am not good at, is that it?"
Calien's hand froze for a moment.
That struck something deeper than Cain intended—or maybe it was intentional all along.
Cain's smirk returned, subtle and sharp. "You know you're never going to catch up if you keep dancing around with knives like a circus performer. Maybe that's why Father doesn't—"
The knife Calien had been gripping launched forward. Not at Cain—at the dummy again. Hard. Mana coursed through it with more clarity than before.
Still missed the mark.
He groaned.
Cain laughed again, now with a little more bite. "Face it, little brother. You're looking for a shortcut. Because no matter how hard you train, you know I'll always—"
Another knife. Another throw.
Still off.
Cain's brow twitched, the smirk thinning.
Calien threw again. Harder.
And again.
And again.
He didn't care that his hands were burning. That his fingers were cramping. That his control was slipping.
Cain stepped off the rail now, his patience beginning to fray. The unspoken tension between them stretched with each throw.
"Are you even listening to me?" Cain snapped.
No response.
Calien's next knife hit the edge of the dummy's wooden base and bounced off with a sharp clink.
Cain stepped forward, the leather of his boots crunching on the gravel. "Hey—"
Still nothing.
Another throw.
Cain's nostrils flared.
Then, just as Calien pulled back another kitchen knife, Cain moved. His sword slashed horizontally with expert precision, and with a loud clang, deflected the knife mid-flight.
It spun into the dirt, useless.
Calien's eyes widened, and his brows snapped together in fury.
The tension in the air was now thick, like thunderclouds about to burst.
Cain stepped forward, his voice rising. "I am talking to you!" he barked.
Calien turned, his glare sharp, his breath shallow, his frustration finally spilling over—but controlled himself and he asked, "What do you want?"