Ryan sat on the worn mat by his hearth, moonlight filtering through the broken window to cast a pale glow across his face. His breath steadied, guided by the meditation method he'd pieced together from the Void Dimension's lessons. It was a disciplined practice, rooted in self-control, breathe deeply, clear the mind, and attune the senses to mana particles floating like faint sparks in the air.
He could feel them now, tingling against his skin as he focused, but urging his body to absorb them to align with mana's harmony was a distant goal. The voice had said it would take years, a slow forging of affinity that could perfect any art through unity with mana. For now, sensing the particles was a small victory.
He closed his eyes, letting his mind slip inward. The Void Dimension, as he called it, was no longer a fleeting dream. With a focused thought, he entered its formless expanse, the world fading to silence.
The old man's voice emerged, clear and deliberate. "The sword art I teach is the Foundation Blade. It begins with a slow-moving stance called Iron Wall, enough to guide fluid strikes and deflections. It's a root, nothing more. You must shape it to your strengths."
A child's voice broke in, eager but uncertain. "How do we make it ours, Master?"
"Through practice," the old man replied, his tone patient but firm. "Feel your body, your rhythm. The blade follows you, not the other way around."
Ryan listened, silent and still, absorbing the lesson. He understood the need for experience to refine the art, but experience was scarce. The Cipher Woods, even though they mostly housed beginner-level beasts, were still a death trap for someone inexperienced. Tutors were a luxury, their fees far beyond his savings for the Academy. He was trapped, practising alone with a splintered wooden sword, his progress stunted by solitude.
Frustration welled up, sharp and heavy. The Academy felt like a fading hope, and the weight of his isolation pressed down—a reminder of a world that cared only for itself.
Then, a thought cut through—raw, unfiltered, almost primal. "I want to fight." Not for glory or coin, but to test himself, to feel the blade's weight against something real. The intention burned, pure and fierce.
The Void Dimension quivered. A tightening gripped Ryan's chest, like a rope pulling taut. His stomach lurched, and the darkness split apart. He landed hard on cracked stone, the air thick and stale under a starless sky. Nausea surged, and he retched, doubling over as his body shook. Wiping his mouth, he staggered upright, heart racing.
A figure stood before him—not a man, but a flickering outline, its form shifting like smoke caught in a breeze. It had no face, no eyes, but its presence weighed on the air like thunder before a storm—ancient, cold, watching.
Ryan's breath hitched. His body wanted to move, to back away, but his legs wouldn't answer. His voice came out thin. "Who… are you?"
The figure didn't move. Its voice unfurled in the silence, low and absolute. "Disciple 1111. Chosen by the Grimoire—that which remembers all."
Ryan's eyes widened. "The book… from the street?" he managed to say, half in disbelief.
A chill crept down Ryan's spine. His thoughts were scattered. "Wait—what do you mean disciple? What even is this place? None of this makes sense."
But the figure pressed on, words as sharp as a chisel cutting stone.
"The Grimoire holds the echoes of those who came before—skills, memories, entire lives—across countless dimensions. Warriors, magicians, scholars, killers. All who once bore the mark. You may access their paths… in time."
Ryan stared. His mind struggled to catch up. Other dimensions? People from parallel realities passing down their knowledge? It was impossible. Absurd.
And yet, the wind brushed his skin. The stone, the silence, the weight of gravity—real. The arena wasn't an illusion. This was happening.
The figure's voice did not soften. "You are in the training sector. As you wished: a place to fight. To grow. You have unlimited access. One day here equals one hour in your world. You may alter everything—opponent species, physical strength, reflexes, intelligence, weapon, and terrain. Every variable can be shaped."
Ryan opened his mouth to ask something, but the voice pushed forward.
"Death does not exist here. Pain does. You will feel every wound. But your body will recover each time, no matter how brutal. However—" The tone darkened, like stone locking into place. "You can only stay for six days at a time. If you exceed that, the return may shatter your body, soul, and mind."
The last words struck like a blade to the gut. Not metaphorical. Literal.
"Control your greed," the figure warned.
Then, like smoke dispersed by wind, the figure vanished.
He stood motionless, trying to breathe. His thoughts swirled—fear, awe, and a strange hunger for what this place could offer. If everything was real—if he could train here, improve at a pace no human ever could—then this could be everything he'd ever wanted. The strength. The mastery. The edge he needed.
This was his chance to grow.
And he would completely utilise it.
Curious, he tested something. He closed his eyes and pictured a steak—perfectly grilled, marbled fat, a crisp sear. When he opened his eyes, the plate was there. Sizzling. Juicy. Mouthwatering.
He blinked. Then laughed under his breath. "So I can eat here, too?"
He sat cross-legged and devoured it. The meat was tender, bursting with flavour—better than anything he could afford back in Aurelia.
When he finished, he leaned back, wondering about the mechanics of it all. He focused on leaving, willing himself to return.
The arena shimmered. The grey vastness dissolved.
And suddenly, he was back in his room. The air was still. The moonlight poured in through the open window. No steak. No plate. Just the aftertaste on his tongue.
Frowning, he repeated the process. Reentered the Void. Ate again. Left. Same result. He did it a third time, just to be sure.
Nothing could be brought back. No food. No weapons. Only the experience. Only the growth.
It was a boundary the place had set—a rule.
And strangely, he didn't mind.
...
He closed his eyes, picturing his first opponent. Human, five-foot-six, lean, quick. No magic, beginner skill. Flat terrain.
The air shimmered, and a white, featureless dummy materialised ten paces away, its form smooth and humanoid, matching his specs. A rack of weapons appeared beside it—wooden longswords, spears, a curved dagger, even a mace. Ryan stuck with his longsword, its balance familiar. He thought of a padded vest to build endurance, and it appeared at his feet, sturdy canvas with leather straps. He pulled it on, the weight settling across his shoulders like a challenge.
"Let's make it tough," he said, voice rough with anticipation. He set the dummy's intelligence to mimic a novice swordsman with a spark of cunning—someone who'd feint or switch angles mid-strike. His heart thudded. This was real now, or as real as it got without dying.
Ryan sank into Iron Wall, the slow-moving defensive stance the old man had taught. Knees bent, sword angled low, ready to parry. It wasn't flashy, but it was solid, built for survival. "Begin," he said.
The dummy lunged, wooden blade slicing toward his chest with a hiss of air. Ryan deflected, the thud vibrating up his arms and into his shoulders. Dust scattered underfoot as he shifted. It feinted left, then struck right—fast and low, the wooden tip grazing his ribs like a whip.
"Shit!" he spat, twisting to parry. The dummy's attacks were sharp, not rote swings but calculated, forcing him to read its movements. Pain flared when a blow grazed his arm, hot and sharp, but the skin knitted shut instantly, leaving a faint sting.
He grinned, sweat beading on his forehead. This was the edge he'd craved. Each clash taught him something about how to shift his weight, how to spot a feint. The dummy reset after each bout, letting him tweak its settings. He dialled up its strength, making its strikes heavier. His muscles burned, but the arena's magic kept him whole. The rack offered more—weighted bracers for his wrists, a shield for defence, but he stuck to the sword, focusing on Iron Wall's rhythm.
Hours blurred into days, time slipping in the arena's grey haze. Ryan lost himself in Iron Wall, parrying and dodging until his movements smoothed out. He tested variations, widening his stance to brace harder, angling his blade to deflect cleaner. On the second day, he set the dummy taller—six feet, more muscle—and swapped his longsword for a shorter wooden arming sword. The lighter blade moved faster, but its shorter reach threw him off. He stumbled, cursing—"Fucking hell!"—but a bruised shin healed before he could blink.
By the third day, he tried a shield, thinking it'd bolster Iron Wall. It didn't. The weight dragged his arm, wrecked his balance. He lost ten bouts in a row, barely landing a hit. But in the eleventh, a parry flowed into a sidestep, clean and instinctive. It felt like a spark igniting.
On the fourth day, he dialled the dummy's speed higher, its feints trickier. He fell for them, again and again, but each failure sharpened his eyes. By the fifth, he was quieter, less prone to cursing. His focus narrowed: breath, stance, blade. A clean block felt like a victory, a dodged feint like a goddamn miracle.
The sixth day was brutal. His body ached, a deep buzz in his skull warning him he was nearing the limit.
He stepped back, panting, and lowered his sword. "Enough," he said. The dummy froze, the rack vanished, and the arena stilled.
He closed his eyes, and the arena dissolved. He awoke on the worn mat in his room, moonlight pouring through the broken window. Six hour had passed.