Forged By Falcrest

Atlas sat in his cabin, staring at the crackling fire as it cast flickering shadows across the stone walls. The warmth was a welcome relief from the icy wind howling outside. Snow fell thick and fast, blanketing the mountain city of Falcrest in a cold, unyielding embrace. He couldn't help but be thankful that the training hall was indoors. The thought of enduring today's grueling exercises out in the snow made him shudder.

His body ached in ways he hadn't thought possible. Every muscle screamed in protest as he shifted in his chair, the day's training having pushed him far beyond his limits. He had just returned from a much-needed bath after dinner, his skin still tingling from the warm water. The communal baths weren't something he had been looking forward to, but the heat had been worth the discomfort of being around so many people.

Dinner had been another solitary affair. He had chosen a quiet corner, his tray of food balanced precariously on the edge of the table. No one had approached him, and he hadn't gone out of his way to engage anyone either. After the events of the day—Aaron's taunts, Rea's awkward attempts to make amends, and Torren's relentless assessments—Atlas was more than content to eat in silence. He was learning quickly that fitting in here wasn't going to be easy, not with how people looked at him.

The bath, however, had been unavoidable. The first-year boys were all herded into the communal space after dinner, their chatter and laughter filling the air as they scrubbed away the day's grime. Atlas had kept to himself as much as possible, choosing a corner where he could wash in peace. The sheer number of boys had surprised him—there were far more first-years than he'd expected. His class wasn't the only one, and the realization made him groan inwardly. Out of all the students, how had he ended up in the same class as Aaron?

Aaron had been there, of course, laughing loudly with a group of boys who seemed to hang on his every word. Atlas had done his best to ignore them, focusing instead on rinsing off the mud and sweat that clung to his skin. His auburn hair had darkened to a deep rust color, the water running down his back as he worked out the knots in his shoulders. He was hyper-aware of the way some of the other boys glanced at him, their curiosity—or was it suspicion?—unmistakable. He didn't belong here, and they all seemed to know it.

Now, back in his cabin, he let out a long sigh. The fire crackled softly, its warmth soothing his aching body. He stretched out on the small cot, pulling the thick blanket up to his chin. His ribs still ached faintly, a reminder of his fight with Aaron and the punishing laps Torren had made them run. Even the bath hadn't fully eased the sting of his old wounds, though the heat had helped somewhat.

The night slipped by slowly. The wind outside howled like a restless beast, but inside, the cabin was quiet and still. Atlas stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting as the firelight danced on the wooden beams. He thought of the obstacle course, the sparring matches, and the way Torren had tested each of them. The man was impossibly strong, his presence a constant reminder of how far Atlas still had to go.

His mind wandered to Ren, his only friend from Midtown. The image of Ren lying bloodied on the ground flashed in his mind, and he clenched his fists beneath the blanket. He had felt so helpless that night, so weak. That memory had been his fuel today, the reason he had kept pushing even when his body had screamed at him to stop. He wouldn't feel that helpless again. He couldn't.

Atlas's eyes grew heavy, the warmth of the fire and the day's exhaustion finally catching up to him. His body sank into the mattress, every ache and pain pulling him deeper into sleep. As his breathing slowed, the world outside faded away, leaving only the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of the cabin's wooden frame.

For the first time in a long while, Atlas didn't dream of cold streets or looming guards. Instead, his mind was filled with the sound of rushing wind and the feeling of freedom, fleeting and distant but somehow within reach.

***

The next couple of months fell into a steady routine. Atlas would wake early, grab breakfast in the dining hall—usually alone—and then head to class. After that came the grueling hours of training, both physical and mental. He pushed himself harder than he ever had before, catching up to his classmates bit by bit, but it was never enough. There was a fire burning inside him, a relentless hunger for strength that he couldn't fully explain. It consumed him, driving him to train even after class hours when most of the others had long since gone to rest.

Torren had evaluated the entire class early on, and for those who didn't already know a martial form, he had issued copies of the Falcrest Blade Manual—a standard guide that taught the basics of hand-to-hand combat and swordsmanship. It was practical and straightforward, but to Atlas, it might as well have been written in a foreign language. His inability to read held him back in a way he hadn't anticipated, turning even the simplest of instructions into a monumental struggle.

The manual, thankfully, included detailed diagrams of the forms, and that became his saving grace. He poured over the pictures, mimicking the stances and movements as best as he could, practicing late into the night when everyone else had gone to bed. At first, his attempts were clumsy and awkward, his limbs not quite following the flow shown in the drawings. But slowly, with time and repetition, his movements began to smooth out. He could feel himself improving, inch by inch.

Still, his illiteracy didn't go unnoticed. When the other students discovered he couldn't read, it only deepened the divide between him and the rest of the class. The whispers and stares became more frequent, more pointed. Some of the students openly laughed at him, their mockery cutting deeper than he cared to admit. The fact that he struggled to understand even the basic instructions of the academy made him feel like an outsider all over again.

But Atlas was learning—slowly, painstakingly, but surely. He was taught to recognize the letters and their shapes, piecing together words like he was solving a puzzle. He'd never had the chance to learn in Midtown, where survival always came first, but here, the challenge of reading was just one more obstacle to overcome. And he was determined to conquer it.

The Falcrest Blade Manual, as it turned out, was only a D-rank guide—a beginner's text. But for Atlas, it was more than enough. He'd never had anything like it before, never been taught in a structured way. Even the basic forms and techniques felt like a treasure, a glimpse into a world he'd never had access to.

Through the weeks, Atlas began to piece together more about the students around him. Most of them came from Uppertown, the wealthier and more powerful part of Falcrest. Their polished uniforms, refined manners, and sheer confidence were a stark contrast to the scrappy, streetwise survival that had defined Atlas's life in Midtown. Many of them were members of larger clans, families known for their bloodline abilities and contributions to the nation. It made sense now, the way they carried themselves with an air of superiority.

Atlas, of course, didn't belong to a clan. He had no family name to boast of, no bloodline ability to call his own—at least none that he knew of. And his differences were glaringly obvious to everyone. His auburn hair and golden eyes marked him as an outsider, assumed to be of Ramelion descent, and that alone set him apart from the darker features and noble backgrounds of most of his classmates. It wasn't just Aaron who looked at him with disdain—many of the others seemed to view him as someone who didn't belong.

But Atlas didn't care what they thought. Or at least, he told himself he didn't. Their whispered remarks and smug glances fueled the fire inside him, driving him to push harder, train longer, and prove them wrong. He might not have their polished techniques or years of private tutoring, but he had something they didn't: grit. He knew how to fight for what he wanted, how to claw his way forward no matter the odds.

And so, day after day, he trained. He fell into the routine, letting the rhythm of it drown out the noise of the world around him. For the first time in his life, he had a direction, a purpose. It didn't matter how far behind he started. He was determined to make it to the top, no matter how long it took or how hard it was.

Because for Atlas, this wasn't just about becoming a Blade. It was about survival. It was about proving to himself—and everyone else—that he wasn't just some orphan from Midtown, some forgotten nobody. He was more than that. And he would show them all.

***

Atlas stepped out of his cabin, his boots crunching against the packed snow as the sharp, cold air bit at his face. His training gear hugged his form snugly, designed for both mobility and warmth in the harsh Falcrest winter. The outfit was a mix of practicality and subtle elegance, clearly inspired by the uniforms of the academy but adapted to the biting cold of the mountain city.

His thick, dark tunic was made of a heavy, insulated material that retained warmth while allowing freedom of movement. A high collar wrapped around his neck, shielding him from the icy wind, while a sleeveless black vest with reinforced stitching added an extra layer of protection to his torso. Beneath the tunic, he wore a thin but durable undershirt made of a fabric that wicked away sweat, ensuring he stayed dry during long training sessions.

His trousers were slightly loose but tapered at the ankles, tucked into sturdy boots that provided grip on the slippery ground. The fabric was tough but flexible, allowing for quick movements and high kicks without restriction. Around his waist was a simple belt, tied to secure the tunic and hold a few small pouches for training essentials.

A thick, fingerless glove covered each hand, padded at the knuckles for sparring but leaving his fingers free for grip and dexterity. His forearms were wrapped in tightly bound cloth strips for added support and to shield against the cold.

A dark scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck, its ends fluttering in the breeze as he moved. The scarf doubled as a mask he could pull up over his nose and mouth when the wind grew particularly fierce, leaving only his sharp golden eyes visible. His auburn hair, normally a wild mess, was tied back tightly to keep it from falling into his face during training.

The outfit was simple, functional, and unassuming, blending perfectly with the snowy backdrop of Falcrest. But there was something about the way Atlas carried himself in it—a quiet determination, a simmering fire beneath the layers—that made him stand out, even in the cold monotony of winter.

Today was the day they would be heading up into the mountains for their first outdoor training session. Winter had finally passed, but the snow remained thick on the ground, crunching underfoot and glittering beneath the pale morning sun. The air carried a crisp sharpness, a reminder that the mountains wouldn't be any kinder than the instructors back at the academy.

Atlas tightened the strap on his sheath and slid his sword into place on his back. The blade was sleek and curved, resembling the katana-like weapons from old tales of warriors. Its hilt was wrapped in dark leather, practical yet sturdy, and the crossguard bore subtle etched patterns resembling intertwining leaves. It wasn't anything fancy, but it felt right in his grip—balanced, reliable, ready for use.

He stepped out of his cabin and pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, the cold biting at his exposed skin. The snow-covered path stretched out before him, quiet and untouched. He adjusted his gear and started walking. Over the past few months, he'd come to enjoy these solitary treks. The stillness gave him a moment of peace before the chaos of training began.

The academy courtyard was bustling with activity when he arrived. Students milled about in small groups, their voices muffled by the cold air. Atlas leaned against a wall, waiting quietly as the others gathered. Some were adjusting their gear; others were simply talking to pass the time. Torren hadn't arrived yet, but his absence did little to ease the tension in the air.

By the time the last of the students showed up, Torren appeared at the front of the courtyard. His boots crunched against the snow, and his sharp gaze swept over the class, silencing them without a word.

"Listen up," he said, his voice steady and commanding. "Today, we're heading into the mountains. This won't be like the controlled environment of the training yard. Out there, you'll be facing the elements. The snow, the cold, the terrain—they don't care how strong or skilled you think you are."

The group fell silent, a mix of nerves and excitement in their expressions. Torren continued, "You'll be tested in ways you haven't been before. This isn't just about your strength—it's about your endurance, your adaptability. Out there, everything can turn into an enemy if you're not careful."

With that, he turned sharply and began leading the group out of the academy grounds. The students followed, their boots crunching rhythmically in the snow as they moved through the gates and onto the trail leading into the mountains.

The path was narrow and uneven, winding upward into the jagged peaks. The air grew colder with every step, the snow deeper and more treacherous. Towering pines lined the trail, their branches heavy with frost, and the distant sound of the wind whistling through the mountains filled the silence.

Atlas adjusted his scarf, keeping pace with the group. The climb was steady but grueling, Torren's pace unrelenting. The snow beneath their boots made every step heavier, and the icy air burned in their lungs. Atlas focused on his footing, his sword shifting slightly on his back with each step. He could feel the cold through his gear, but it wasn't unbearable—just another challenge to overcome.

The academy slowly disappeared behind them, swallowed by the rising peaks and dense forest. The further they climbed, the more isolated the group felt. The conversations that had started at the base of the trail dwindled into silence, each student focused on conserving energy and pushing forward.

Torren led without faltering, his sharp eyes scanning the trail ahead. The mountains loomed larger with every step, their jagged ridges casting long shadows in the morning light. The cold bit deeper the higher they went, and the path grew steeper, forcing them to move slower.

Atlas took a deep breath, his muscles starting to burn from the effort. The crisp air stung his lungs, but he kept moving, placing one foot in front of the other. Around him, the group trudged on in silence, their breaths visible in the cold air. The snow crunched underfoot, the only constant sound in the otherwise quiet landscape.

This wasn't like training in the yard. The mountains felt alive, untamed, and utterly indifferent to their presence. And Atlas couldn't help but feel a flicker of anticipation for what lay ahead.