SSS Rank: Spellcraft Sovereign-Chapter 148: Conflict

Drill Five was Reaction Gunmetal

They resumed with an object thrown.

A practice steel can, small, shot forward like a projectile.

Lucen had to slash it out of flight with one clean arc.

Three attempts.

First, he missed. Can spins past his elbow.

Second, slash too late. clang.

Third, sweat stung his eyes. He swung with focus. Saw a moment of spark, metal grazed. The can wobbled and dropped.

Varik nodded.

"You’re picking up timing."

Lucen flexed the cut across his forearm where the can scraped him. Crimson bloom faint.

"I finally caught something."

—

Final Round was Sparring Integration

No rules. Just spar. All drills integrated. Rhythm broken. Framing zones. Feint. Displacement. Blind starts. Projectile reaction.

They circled one another.

Varik attacked first, fast sequence.

Lucen parried two. Backed, pivoted.

He stepped in, displacement sweep, grazed Varik’s side.

Varik reeled, pushed back.

Lucen didn’t press.

Blade tapped ground.

Silence.

Varik breathed inward.

"Stand with your feet grounded. Don’t follow. Hold."

Lucen steadied. Blade at the ready.

Varik lunged again.

Lucen sidestepped, feinted riposte. Varik blocked.

Both attacked again.

Their blades met mid-air. Sparked steel.

Lucen twisted. Disengaged. Slashed upward into the morning light.

Varik pivoted.

Block.

But both stepped back.

Bodies humming.

Tense.

Varik nodded slowly.

Heathing his blade.

Lucen exhaled, grip relaxing.

—

The sky brightened. Lucen’s breath was loud. Body quivered. Every muscle burned. Feet ground dusty red lines across concrete.

Varik cleaned the dust off his blade with his jacket sleeve.

"That was productive."

Lucen stood shaky. "Want to keep going?"

Varik studied him a moment.

"You’ve got the better part of it down. But now you need endurance and decision thresholds."

Lucen nodded.

He lifted his sword handle half-heartedly.

"Rest for fifteen."

Varik turned to walk toward the stairwell.

Lucen followed.

—

Morning light in the Guild HQ cafeteria was brighter than Lucen expected. Tiles shone, trays clattered, conversation hummed like low static. A few early-arrivers drank coffee, read logs.

Lucen walked through with a latte from the guild station, boots tapping lightly, hoodie slung over his shoulder. He nodded at Gabe, who smiled briefly before talking to someone off-screen.

Halfway through the hall, he passed two A-rank guys arguing, loud enough for the staff to turn their heads. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

They wore combat uniforms, sleeves rolled, systems blinking faintly: strength, endurance, agility. One pointed aggressively at the window, another at his device’s screen.

"I’m telling you," one barked, voice sharp, voice volume flagged by his system, "you misreported the mana levels. That’s why our squad flagged the break."

The other sneered. "You’re lying. Admit it. Admit that you can’t gauge drift density."

People stopped, whispers rippled. A woman at the nearby locker rubbed coffee-stained hands across her system panel. A tank A-ranker with a broken brow surveyed before replying: "This is petty."

Lucen slowed. Not interested in gossip. But in a guild environment, small flare-ups caused in-fighting persisted. He smelled cheap coffee, men’s aftershave, the faint vapor of spell gas from filters as background ozone.

Then the finger rose. Blam! A fist slammed into the table. Clatter. Everyone recoiled. The arguing pair squared off. One balled his fist. Expecting the spark of an instant fight.

Before the room settled, Lucen stepped forward.

He said softly: "Hey."

Silence sharpened.

Lucen nodded at the guy about to strike. "One of you needs to step back."

Nobody moved. The tension hummed louder. Whispers doubled.

He sighed.

Then in a single motion, no flourish, no wind-up, Lucen grabbed the puncher’s arm, pivoted, and shoved with both hands into his chest.

The force sent the guy pivoting mid-air, elbows flailing, landing face-first into a plastic chair across the hall. One second of flight. Then impact. Twisted metal. Guy unconscious.

Whole cafeteria froze. Forks clattered. Coffee spat. The man stayed motionless.

People gaped.

Lucen exhaled. ’That was... not supposed to feel like that.’

He held himself steady. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t move the gaze.

People recovered. Gasps turned to murmurs.

The other man froze.

One of the older A-ranks, sword user, placed a hand on the loser’s shoulder, voice low: "Don’t. Don’t move him. Let the medics."

Staff rushed in.

Gabe pushed through, system overlay streaming above her panel: "We good?"

Lucen rubbed his arm. "Subdued. Single hit."

Gabe’s eyes widened. She blinked. "Lucen, you okay?"

He shrugged. "Guess it needed a shove."

Gabe nodded at the man on the floor. "That... that quieted the room."

Chief looked in. Frown. "What happened?"

Lucen scooped up his latte and dropped it into its holder, no tremor. "Calmed him."

Chief gazed. "You... intentionally or reflex?"

Lucen paused a second too long ("Reflex," he thought), then said calmly: "He was about to strike. I knocked him out."

The chief swallowed. Looked at the unconscious guy. Then looked at Lucen’s empty hand.

"You used something," the chief said.

Lucen met his eyes. "I used momentum. Timing."

The chief exhaled sharply. "Alright." He nodded. "No tags. No escalation. Everyone relax."

The cafeteria flooded with relieved exhalation.

People cleared enough pathway to carry the man to med bay.

Lucen stood where he was.

He caught Gabe off to the side. She whisper-tweeted: "That sawdust thud—who sends someone flying with a push?"

Lucen half-smiled. "Guess that guy did."

She shook her head. "You gotta learn subtle etiquette."

Lucen raised an eyebrow. "Punching etiquette?"

Gabe laughed quietly. "Maybe not. But don’t announce you knocked him out immediately after."

He shrugged again. "It’s forgotten already."

People shifted back to trays, whispering. The hum returned, slower.

Lucen sipped his latte now lukewarm. Coffee petals scratched at his tongue. He exhaled.

’If that was my strength... I didn’t even feel it.’

Gabe watched him, curiosity mixed with respect. "You okay?"

Lucen nodded. "Yeah. Just... didn’t expect my arm to hit that hard."

She shrugged, lowered voice: "We keep that quiet."

He drained the cup, set the empty vessel in a bin. Then left the hall.

—

Back at his desk, the nameplate still read Ghostweave (Ivara). Training logs hovered on the screen. Drift assignments blinking.

Gen approached quietly, handing him a pad with buffered data. "You see what’s up?"

Lucen looked up. "Gabe flagged me. Said that guy’s a bruiser."

Gen smirked. "He’s gonna get up by tomorrow and claim we knocked him over the finer point of finish, not force."

Lucen typed: "Understood. Cover story in progress."

He turned the pad around to Gen: "Seriously."

Gen smiled wider. "Seriously. They’re writing that you deflected the blow and he fainted from arrogance."