“Every week on Thirdday,” said Instructor DeLark, “we will test our skills against each other in…a controlled but less rigid manner.” He was a tall, muscular man, who spoke with a slight accent as he walked down the center of the gym. His long hair had been tied up in a bun, and an ornament poked out of it.

  Sparring mats formed two rows down the gym floor, and on each mat stood two students. The others took well-practiced, formal military poses—straight backs, legs spaced apart, hands behind their backs.

  Wulf stood as he usually did: hands tucked into his gym shorts’ pockets, slightly slouched, and feet wherever he pleased. Like the other students, he still wore his leather bracer, but his potions and haversack were in a locker outside.

  He wouldn’t need potions for this class.

  DeLark might not like Wulf’s stance, but he didn’t have to. Wulf wasn’t military like the others. He was more used to being a member of a ragtag resistance that didn’t have time for decorum. In the future, there were too many demons to kill and not enough time to worry about how you were standing.

  The other boy on his sparring mat, a sickly pale near-human with ram horns poking out the side of his head, regarded him with disdain, and that was all the better. The more they underestimated him, the easier it would be.

  “Starting today,” DeLark continued, “every Thirdday will be devoted to sparring with your peers. You will spar for five minutes, or until your opponent yields. There will be injuries, but you are not to purposely injure your opponents, and if they yield, you must respect it. My teaching assistants will be roaming the hall to ensure compliance.”

  Wulf remembered this. Not this specific experience, but the weekly brawls. An excellent way to blow off some steam, but back in his old Academy days, when he wasn’t the best fighter, nor was he the strongest, it often turned into a beating session.

  DeLark finally added, “Remember: we practice fighting techniques to hone our minds and will. The Field will not help you with every aspect of the arcane, and if you are unable to assert your will on it, or unable to control your mana, you will fail. Willpower requires personal drive. The best way to understand your personal drive is to engage in combat. True, unfiltered combat.”

  DeLark reached the end of the room, then spun around. His white robe fluttered with him as he spun, and his long gray hair fluttered. His pin marked him as a Middle-Iron tier Ascendant, which, with how many Marks he had to have, must’ve contributed greatly to his physical strength.

  DeLark concluded: “And, above all, the best way to drive yourself to advance a tier, to provide your mana the resonance it needs, is combat. The thrill and pressure of a fight is a force unlike any other. Face your partner, and you may begin. Once the five minutes have passed, the victors will pair up, and the others will find another partner as well. If you have not forced your opponent to yield, neither will be considered victorious.”

  Wulf turned to face the ramling on his mat, then bowed his head. He didn’t know the other boy, and though everyone in the sparring class was a first year, he didn’t need to make any more enemies.

  But also…this wasn’t the entirety of their year. Ján and Brin were nowhere to be seen. If he ruffled a few feathers, he wouldn’t be too upset.

  “Good afternoon,” the ramling said with a fake, haughty accent that he’d probably been forced to adopt in his childhood. “I’m Nem. Who do I have the pleasure of defeating?”

  “Wulf.”

  “You may begin!” DeLark called.

  Nem took a wide stance. Wulf didn’t take his hands out of his pockets.

  With a grimace, Nem said, “Are you sure you—”

  “Yeah.”

  Don’t worry, Wulf thought, I won’t hurt you.

  He did need to get back into practice with pure hand-to-hand combat, though. Not that he hadn’t practiced, but he’d gotten used to fighting with his hammer—inside a golem or outside.

  Nem hopped forward a few paces, his hair bobbing behind him, then threw a few punches. Wulf leaned away from them just in time. A kick forced him to turn sideways and raise his shin, and one more punch at his shoulder forced him to take a hand out of his pocket and block it.

  Wulf planted his foot down and stepped behind Nem’s knee, stopping him from moving backward. Then he punched Nem in the chest.

  The boy tripped over Wulf’s leg and sprawled backward. Though Wulf’s strength potion had long since worn off, he had better technique. He knew how to hit hard. And maybe, given how his new Class worked…he might just be able to become stronger than he ever was in his past life.

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  Wulf pounced and grabbed Nem’s arm, controlling the other boy. He twisted and pushed down just enough that it’d be a little painful, and that Nem’s face would press into the mat, but not enough to hurt him.

  After a few seconds, Nem exclaimed, “Alright, alright, I give up!” The accent dropped from his voice, and he spoke in a regular tone.

  Wulf released him immediately. “Are you alright?”

  Nem rolled over, then pushed himself up. He rubbed his chest. “Yeah. I’ll be fine—physically. That was…fast. And we didn’t get taught any of that.”

  Wulf sighed. It had only been a week for most of them. “Sorry. I just…have experience.”

  “I’ll say. You’re that Hrothen dude, right? The beast from Carolaign?”

  His name was starting to get around. Still, Wulf nodded.

  But, immediately after, Nem shrank away. He didn’t wear a Fletcher’s pin, but he did have a second pin beneath his Low-Wood chit. It looked like a bundle of wheat in a circle.

  The Fletchers weren’t the only guild that wanted their members to mark their identity, apparently.

  “Right now, I only have problems with the Fletchers,” Wulf said. “Not…”

  “The Threshers.”

  “Threshers. Right.”

  After a few more minutes of awkward silence, DeMark announced that the first round was over, and the students shifted around the room. Wulf walked over to the other side of the room, where the victors were gathering, and a soft-spoken teaching assistant organized them into new pairs.

  The process repeated all throughout the afternoon. Wulf moved between sparring mats, defeating other students and moving steadily to the edge of the room with an increasingly smaller crowd of students. He practiced his throws and holds, or simply let his opponents tire themselves out by blocking their strikes, before taking them down.

  He took a few hits of his own, too. Sometimes, he did it so others wouldn’t get suspicious of him, but sometimes it was a genuine mistake. He was used to being the strongest one in the room physically, but now, although he might have been at least an inch taller than all his opponents, he wasn’t the bulkiest anymore. Sometimes, he tried to block a strike he shouldn’t have, and it was his own arm that buckled, getting pushed into the side of his head and jarring him for a few seconds.

  But he always recovered.

  When he reached the top twenty, he was the only Low-Wood left. The rest of the students all wore a wooden badge on their gym shirts, but theirs had two lines. Middle-Wood.

  It wasn’t impossible. Most Ascendants awakened their Classes when they turned eighteen. When magic objects started calling to them, when enchanted paper started responding to their touch.

  In Wulf’s village, there had only been an ancient magic hoe, which had a weak enchantment, but he was the first one in a hundred years who could use it. They’d immediately hunted for the wandering Artificer and had him test Wulf, and sure enough, Wulf had been a pilot.

  Usually, though, it took about a year for academy applications to go through. In that time, the Ascendants from powerful guilds often had chances to gain mana and advance to Middle-Wood. Whether they had Marks or not, some of them might have had Skills to strengthen themselves.

  Wulf faced a Middle-Wood girl with bronze skin, curly black hair, and jade earrings—and another guild pin on her sleeveless shirt, which Wulf couldn’t identify easily. A circle with a bird inside it.

  Without introducing herself, she leapt forward and threw a punch that someone of her size and build should never have been able to throw. When Wulf blocked, he had to raise both arms, and even then, he skidded back.

  “Hi,” Wulf said, spinning around and circling to the other side. “I’m…Wulf? Nice to meet you?”

  “Iryl,” she huffed, then turned back to face him.

  “Guild?”

  “Threnia Hawker’s Guild,” she answered.

  Wulf didn’t recognize it, save for knowing that Threnia was a small nation-state in the south of the confederacy.

  It didn’t matter. She wasn’t too talkative, and he was starting to get out of breath, too. This body didn’t have nearly as much endurance as he was used to. It wasn’t bad, considering he’d grown up on a farm, but he couldn’t maintain the power he used to.

  For a few minutes, they exchanged blows. She enhanced her strength either with a Skill, or since it wasn’t fading, it was more likely a Mark. Whenever she charged headfirst into combat, her blows strengthened. That was an ability suited to a Pilot.

  Problem was, it didn’t help her when she missed and ran past him, and he had decades of experience reading other brawlers. He could see exactly when she was going to charge, and ducked out of the way, before pummelling her in the back.

  She might have been strong, but she wasn’t heavy, and her stance wasn’t perfect. While she staggered, Wulf grabbed her arm and flipped her onto her back. She stared up at the roof, gasping.

  After a few more fights, facing Middle-Wood Ascendants with strength-enhancing abilities or Marks (mostly Pilots) he came face to face with the pangian girl he’d bumped into earlier that morning.

  She was a Middle-Wood, too, but the way she stood reeked of experience. The way her head was angled, the way she held her hands—fists closed in just the right way that her claws wouldn’t bite into the palm of her hand. Gym shirt tucked into her shorts, black hair tied back in a practical braid.

  She knew exactly what she was doing, but more importantly, she was the only Middle-Wood without a guild badge.

  “Hey…” Wulf said. “You’re the—”

  “Sorry,” she muttered. Her expression—completely blank—didn’t change once as she spoke. “Didn’t mean to bump into you.”

  “I’m Wulf.”

  She met his gaze, then, suspiciously, said, “Kalee.” It wasn’t casual, just…guarded, in a way that didn’t want to give away any more than necessary.

  By now, a crowd had gathered around, and Instructor DeMark focussed solely on them. Wulf glanced side-to-side. Why…

  Oh. We’re the only ones left who haven’t lost a fight.

  “Last sparring match of the day,” DeMark said. “And then you are all dismissed. Let us see how our two victors of the week fare against each other, hm?”

  Wulf couldn’t help but take that as a challenge.