Chapter 76: Free Skill I

Chapter 76: Chapter 76: Free Skill I

The morning dawned crisp and immaculate over the spires of Sena, but Eric felt no illusion of leisurely academia.

Today was Thursday. On the institutional docket sat the minor elective course that every pragmatic awakened dreaded and craved in equal measure: *Martial Arts and Weapon Mastery*.

After devouring a hearty breakfast of roasted horned-ox cutlets and mana-infused grain porridge at the central dining commons, Eric untethered a campus scooter and navigated across the southern grounds to Research Building 7.

RB-7 bore little resemblance to a lecture hall. It was an enormous, open-air colosseum complex surrounded by reinforced granite bulwarks, crushed-limestone sand pits, and sprawling alloy-floored indoor dojos.

"Eric! Over here!"

Jenna’s energetic voice cut effortlessly through the morning clamor of the courtyard. She was waving both arms frantically from near the western entrance portico, flanked by Jim and Edward.

Eric jogged over with an easy grin. "Morning, everyone."

Of all their scheduled electives, this was the solitary class where their four-person circle overlapped completely. And they were far from the only ones.

Stepping through the arched bronze entry into the primary drill ground, Eric was greeted by a roaring sea of bodies. Well over five hundred freshmen were gathered across the black-iron sparring floor, more than half the entire incoming freshman class of Central Research Institution.

No matter how brilliant a scholar might be in an alchemical lab, an evolution greenhouse, or an arcane engineering bay, the world beyond the border fortresses was crawling with abyssal beasts. At CRI, neglect of one’s personal combat prowess was simply an invitation to an early, unmarked grave.

*STOMP.*

A single, thunderous footfall slammed down against the raised staging platform.

The impact resonated like a siege ram striking an iron portcullis, sending a sharp shockwave through the floor that instantly knocked the chatter clean out of five hundred students.

From the far end of the staging area, an elderly man walked forward with rigid, spine-straight military precision. He had cropped steel-gray hair, a weathered face etched with deep, jagged scars, and shoulders as wide as a granite boulder. He wore no soft scholar’s robe; instead, a battered crimson officer’s coat was buttoned tight to his throat, adorned with faded campaign ribbons from the demonic border wars.

The ambient pressure rolling off his broad frame was suffocating—a heavy, iron-scented presence forged through decades of relentless slaughter.

"Attention, recruits!"

The old veteran’s voice boomed like rolling thunder, rattling the crystal light fixtures suspended fifty feet overhead.

"I am Major General Harlan Holt. You may address me as Professor Holt, should your delicate civilian tongues prefer the academic pretense. For the next five academic cycles, I am your combat instructor."

His cold, slate-gray eyes swept across the five hundred youths like twin executioner’s scythes.

"Let one principle be burned into your skulls from this second forth: I demand absolute, unquestioning obedience. In the field, an insubordinate researcher does not merely get himself butchered; he drags his entire vanguard cohort down into the mud with him. I despise unruly soldiers above all vermin in this kingdom. Disobey my commands, slack on your physical conditioning, or show insolence on this floor, and I will personally break your bones and toss your carcass through the main gates."

General Holt leaned forward over the iron railing, his bloody aura flaring with terrifying, heavyweight density.

"AM I CLEAR?!"

"YES, SIR!"

All five hundred freshmen roared in unison, their voices echoing off the iron rafters in raw, startled instinct.

"Good," Holt grunted, his scarred expression entirely unimpressed. "Now we establish your foundational baseline: Weapon Mastery. We begin from the absolute ground up. Every recruit will approach the perimeter racks and select a training weapon suited to their liking. Move, move, move! QUICK!"

The neat formation instantly shattered as hundreds of students scrambled toward the massive iron weapon racks lining the perimeter walls.

Eric moved with practiced, unhurried calm, bypassing the heavy poleaxes, morningstars, and halberds to select a balanced, straight-bladed blunted arming sword whose center of gravity perfectly matched the profile of the Wavecaller.

Beside him, Edward fluidly plucked a pair of balanced practice trench daggers from the rack, spinning the alloy hilts through his fingers with familiar ease.

Then Eric glanced over at the siblings and blinked in sheer disbelief.

Jim was awkwardly wrestling with a heavy, two-meter ironwood spear across his shoulder, nearly taking out the eye of a student behind him, while Jenna was eagerly testing the drawstring of an ornate recurve shortbow, giggling as the wood creaked.

Eric squinted at them, bewildered.

"Edward I understand, he lived and died by fighting with daggers in the proving grounds. But why on earth didn’t you two pull out a spear and a recurve bow during the entrance trials?"

Jim and Jenna exchanged a sheepish, awkward glance.

"Well..." Jim scratched his cheek with the blunt butt of the spear. "We don’t actually know how to use them yet."

"What?!" Eric almost choked on his breath. "You don’t know how to use them, yet you picked a spear and a bow today? Do you have any earthly idea how brutally difficult archery draw-weight and polearm distance spacing are to master?!"

Jenna offered a cheerful, completely unrepentant peace sign, winking brightly. "They just looked super fun and heroic to use! Hehe!"

Eric brought his palm against his forehead with a sharp, despairing slap.

"Sweet heavens above."

"Form ranks!" Major General Holt’s bellow cracked like a whip across the hall, forcing the scrambled crowd back into tight, symmetrical columns within seconds.

Holt raised a thick, calloused finger, gesturing toward the massive runic projection suspended above the center arena.

"Now, login to the institutional tactical registry," Holt commanded. "Every recruit is granted authorized military clearance to download one foundational skill manual from the institutional tactical registry.

"Those who have never swung a weapon in their lives will select a Weapon Mastery skill to establish proper form. Those who already possess verified foundational weapon mastery may select an active attack technique instead."

He crossed his massive, tree-trunk arms behind his back.

"Every technique listed is a High-Mortal Grade, Rank-D Skills, provided entirely free of charge by the institutional armory grant. But consider this your formal warning: your mid-term and semester combat evaluations will hinge entirely on the mastery depth of this specific skill. Choose with utmost care."

The arena instantly erupted into hushed, ecstatic murmurs among the commoner students.

"A High-Mortal Grade manual for free?!"

"A genuine Rank-D technique! In the private guilds and merchant houses, a verified Rank-D manual costs at least two hundred thousand credits!"

Near the front rows, however, several scions from prominent capital noble houses sneered, their arms crossed in blatant disgust.

"Look at these peasants losing their minds over common scraps," a blond youth whispered loudly to his peers. "All the foundational arts in my family vault are Rank B and higher. Why should elite bloodlines waste our precious cultivation time on a pathetic Rank-D toy?"

"SILENCE!"

General Holt’s roar detonated like an artillery shell, sending a violent shockwave through the black-iron tiles that rattled the bones in their legs.

The blond noble flinched violently, every drop of color draining from his face as Holt’s terrifying, slate-gray gaze locked directly onto his throat.

"For those spoiled brats whining that Rank-D arts are beneath their royal dignity," Holt said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, guttural growl that made the air turn icy, "every single manual on that terminal was handpicked by frontier veterans. They are battle-tested core techniques, combat masteries, and vital kinetic supports that have kept soldiers alive in the deepest demonic trenches."

He stepped off the platform, pacing slowly before the trembling ranks of freshmen.

"I am not explaining this to persuade your delicate sensibilities. I do not give a damn about your family prestige, nor do I care how high-and-mighty you think your bloodline is. Your institutional evaluation this semester rests solely on how deeply you comprehend and execute this ’mere’ Rank-D skill.

"So unless you pampered runts want a flat zero on your permanent academic record and a summary expulsion notice by winter, you will drill it until your palms bleed."

Holt glared at the five hundred frozen faces.

"Now open your terminals and make your selection. FAST!"