The Price of Standing
Chapter 4 — The Price of Standing
The corridors of Del Santiago Academy seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of them.
Rikuo walked beside Izuo and Latris, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone floor. Even after spending several days within the academy, he still hadn’t grown accustomed to its sheer scale. Every hallway felt larger than the last, every staircase opening into spaces that felt closer to plazas than corridors.
Massive columns rose toward distant ceilings, carved with ancient symbols and subtle enchantments embedded directly into the structure. Sunlight poured in through enormous windows, illuminating entire sections of the academy as if they were open courtyards rather than interior halls.
Rikuo observed everything in silence.
It was unlike any place he had ever known.
“Man…” Izuo muttered, staring around with wide eyes. “I’ve seen big cities before, but this?”
He let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “I’ve never seen a building this huge and spacious in my life.”
Latris smiled faintly at his reaction.
“It is impressive,” she agreed. “Even for people who grew up in larger places.”
Izuo shook his head, still looking upward. “My family would lose their minds if they saw this. Back in my hometown, the biggest building we have is the grain warehouse.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “If I told them I study in a place like this, they wouldn’t believe me.”
“Where are you from?” Latris asked, her tone curious but gentle.
“A small village,” Izuo replied. “Nothing famous. It’s far from the academy. Most people have probably never even heard of it.”
He shrugged. “But it’s peaceful. Everyone knows each other.”
Latris nodded. “I see.”
Then she added casually, “I’m from the imperial capital.”
Izuo almost stumbled mid-step. “The capital? Seriously?”
He laughed, half nervous, half amazed. “Then this place must feel normal to you.”
“Not exactly,” Latris answered. “The capital is large, but Del Santiago is… different. The scale isn’t the same.”
As they continued walking, Rikuo listened quietly. Students passed by them from all directions—some wearing simple clothing, others carrying themselves with the confidence of nobility. It felt like a place where entirely different worlds were forced to coexist.
Izuo glanced at Rikuo. “What about you?” he asked casually. “Where are you from?”
As Izuo’s question lingered in the air, Rikuo’s steps slowed almost imperceptibly.
Where are you from?
The words themselves were simple. Casual. Spoken without malice.
Yet the moment they reached him, something tightened deep in his chest.
Images surfaced against his will.
Narrow rooms with cracked walls. The faint smell of damp stone. Cold mornings where getting out of bed felt heavier than it should have. Faces he no longer remembered clearly—voices blurred by time, by distance, by pain.
A place where weakness was never forgiven.
Rikuo’s fingers curled slightly at his side.
He had learned early on that explaining his past never led anywhere good. Pity made him uncomfortable. Curiosity felt invasive. And silence… silence had always been safer.
Even now, surrounded by the grandeur of Del Santiago Academy, that instinct hadn’t disappeared.
This place is different, he thought.
But I’m still the same.
For a brief moment, he wondered what would happen if he told the truth. If he described where he came from honestly, without masking it or downplaying it.
The thought faded just as quickly.
Rikuo took a quiet breath, steadying himself.
Then—
Before any words could leave him, the corridor suddenly opened wide.
Ahead of them lay a massive field of reinforced stone, surrounded by towering pillars and scarred with deep marks left behind by countless training sessions.
The training grounds.
The conversation ended there.
Rikuo slowly closed his mouth, his gaze fixed on the vast space before them.
Some answers would have to wait
The training grounds of Del Santiago Academy were vast, brutal, and honest.
The stone beneath their feet was reinforced with layered sigils, cracked in countless places by years of impact and failure. Scorch marks stained the surface, grooves carved by blades, fists, and bodies thrown against the ground without mercy.
This was not a place for talent.
It was a place that exposed weakness.
Rikuo stood among the students of Class C, uniform already clinging slightly to his skin despite the exercise not yet having begun. His satchel rested near the benches, untouched. The dull pressure beneath his ribs was already there—quiet, patient, waiting.
Doran stepped forward.
“Physical Training,” he said, voice calm and sharp, “exists to show you the truth of your body.”
The murmurs died instantly.
“Not your mana. Not your sigils. Not your lineage.”
He turned slowly, gaze sweeping across the class.
“Your body.”
Several students shifted uncomfortably.
“You will be restricted,” Doran continued. “No mana reinforcement. No sigils. No external enhancement.”
A few groans slipped out before they could be stopped.
“You will run,” he said, pointing toward the outer edge of the field.
“Five laps.”
Someone cursed under their breath.
“That distance is approximately eight kilometers,” Doran added. “Maintain pace. Collapse, and you’re done.”
His eyes paused on Rikuo for a fraction of a second—long enough to be intentional.
“…Begin.”
The first lap was manageable.
Rikuo focused on rhythm, on placing his feet correctly, on breathing evenly. His body complained immediately—tightness in the chest, stiffness in his legs—but it was familiar discomfort.
He ignored it.
The second lap was worse.
His breathing sharpened, lungs burning as if scraped from the inside. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. His steps grew heavier, less precise.
His body was already begging.
Slow down.
Stop.
This is enough.
Rikuo clenched his teeth and kept moving.
By the third lap, the pain stopped being localized.
It spread.
His arms felt hollow. His legs trembled with each step. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, loud enough to drown out the sounds around him.
Someone fell behind him with a dull thud.
Another student staggered to the side before collapsing.
Rikuo didn’t look.
Looking meant thinking.
Thinking meant stopping.
By the fourth lap, his vision darkened at the edges.
Every breath was a struggle now, dragged forcibly into his lungs. His chest felt too tight, too small, like it might simply refuse to expand further.
Blood coated his tongue.
His body screamed—not metaphorically, but genuinely. Every nerve pleaded for release.
Please.
Just stop.
Rikuo’s steps faltered.
For a moment, the ground tilted.
Not yet.
He forced his legs forward, each step requiring a conscious command. His thoughts narrowed until there was nothing left but motion.
Step.
Breathe.
Don’t fall.
The fifth lap felt unreal.
The world blurred into streaks of stone and sky. Sound faded, replaced by the pounding in his skull. His balance wavered constantly, corrected only by stubborn reflex.
When he crossed the invisible line marking the end of the lap—
His legs gave out.
Rikuo collapsed forward, hitting the stone hard.
The impact barely registered.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
“…He finished?”
“…Barely.”
“…Is he breathing?”
“Yes.”
“Carry him.”
Rikuo awoke to the smell of antiseptic and clean sheets.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—smooth, white, faintly glowing with embedded sigils. His entire body ached, not sharply, but deeply, as if exhaustion had settled into his bones.
He tried to move.
Regretted it instantly.
A quiet groan escaped his lips.
“You’re awake.”
Rikuo turned his head slightly.
Doran stood beside the bed, arms crossed.
“…Instructor,” Rikuo murmured.
“You lost consciousness immediately after completing the exercise,” Doran said flatly. “You were out for several hours.”
Rikuo swallowed. “…I see.”
Doran studied him in silence for a moment.
“Your body is fragile,” the instructor said. “Excessively so.”
Rikuo didn’t argue.
“Any normal student with your condition would have collapsed before the third lap,” Doran continued. “Most would not have finished the fourth.”
A pause.
“You completed five.”
Rikuo stared at the ceiling, breathing shallowly.
“I’m not praising recklessness,” Doran said. “You pushed past safe limits.”
“…Yes, sir.”
“But,” Doran added, tone firm, “your mental discipline is exceptional.”
Rikuo turned his eyes toward him.
“You recognized your limits,” Doran continued, “and chose to endure anyway. That is not talent. That is control.”
He straightened.
“Rest,” Doran said. “You are excused from further physical training today.”
Without another word, he turned and left the infirmary.
The door slid open almost immediately after.
“Rikuo!”
Izuo entered first, relief clear on his face. “Damn, man, you scared us.”
Latris followed closely, holding a small bag. “You shouldn’t move too much,” she said gently. “The nurse said your body is completely drained.”
Rikuo managed a weak smile. “…Sorry.”
“You say that like it was nothing,” Izuo scoffed, pulling a chair closer. “You collapsed like you got hit by a carriage.”
Latris sat beside the bed. “Do you feel dizzy?”
“A little,” Rikuo admitted. “Mostly… tired.”
“You were out the entire period,” Latris said. “Every class after training ended.”
Rikuo blinked. “…All of them?”
She nodded.
At that moment, the academy bell rang—long and resonant, signaling the end of the day.
Rikuo exhaled slowly. “…Guess I slept through everything.”
Izuo grinned. “Free pass, huh?”
“…Doesn’t feel like it.”
Latris smiled faintly. “Still, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“So am I,” Rikuo said quietly.
Later, as they walked home under the fading light, the academy’s spires casting long shadows behind them, Izuo stretched his arms overhead.
“Hey,” he said casually. “Do you wanna train with me sometime after classes?”
Rikuo glanced at him. “…Train?”
“Yeah,” Izuo replied. “I usually stay late anyway. The training fields are mostly empty after hours.”
Rikuo hesitated.
“…I’ll think about it.”
Izuo grinned. “Cool.”
Neither of them noticed the lone figure still practicing in the distance, blade flashing under the evening sky.
But soon—
Rikuo would.
Ending of Chapter 4
