Steel and Mana

Chapter 229 – Polo’s Summer Camp

As Polo walked with his comrades, the sun was barely peeking above the horizon, casting long shadows across the jagged, sharpened landscape. They were all bracing themselves for another brutal day of training in their summer camp, vying to be the first to get their own machines. The ground beneath his naked feet was coarse, made up of hard rocks, sticking out from under the ground as they were nearing their target. They were mercilessly grinding against the warriors' feet with every step, cutting their skin whenever they stepped way too hard onto them. He could feel the weight of fatigue pulling at his muscles, his arms trembling from the last set of drills and from the fact that they were up for 48 hours by now, but there was no room for weakness here.

This wasn't just any military training—it was the last physical trial, a rite of passage only the future Knights were subjugated to, where physical strength and willpower finally melded together. To survive, you had to be more than a regular soldier of Avalon. Their trainers, towering figures clad in their blackened monster-scaled armors, demanded it. No… Their Sovereign decreed it. The relentless instructors who overlooked their training wielded batons and whips, ensuring that their future Knights were tested on every possible front—strength, endurance, and ignoring the pain of their bodies.

Polo's breath was ragged as he adjusted the weight of the heavy vat filled with water strapped to his back—a test of fortitude and balance. While marching, if too much water splashed out, the recruit had to run back to the river, refill it, and start over their trek. The pounding in his head was an all-too-familiar sensation now. He had barely managed to shield his mind from it, relying on the small reservoir of willpower he had left in him. It felt like each step needed to be required to force his body to reach for a drop of stamina still lingering somewhere within him, weakening him physically. Even then, there was no time to focus on the pain it brought with itself. Not when survival was at stake.

Ahead, he could hear the rush of their man-made river, the end of their current, and the start of their next challenge as they were marching from one end of Avalon to the next. Its deep, crystal-blue waters hid a purposefully submerged magic formation that was aimed at their minds—whispers of voices swirled in its depths, trying to suggest to the pilots to give up. The instructors had said nothing of what lay beneath the surface, only that the recruits would have to cross the river. Even with summer heating up the air, the water was coming from the mountains, and it was as cold as freshly melted ice. Just by dipping their feet into it, they felt pain rushing through their exhausted, overheated bodies. Still, Polo clenched his jaw, his heart racing as they reached the river's edge, determined to finish first.

"Move!" Playing the lead instructor role, Oleg shouted, his voice echoing unnaturally loud in the crisp morning air. There was no hesitation, no time to think. Polo carefully put down the vat he was carrying, knowing that if he just dropped it, the instructors would surely send him back to start over. As exhausted as he was, he knew that one mistake would mean losing hope of becoming the first Knight of Avalon. He began running the last few meters with renewed drive, and with a loud shout, he didn't stop at the river bank. After diving headfirst into the icy waters, he was the first to start the last task, but at that moment, he couldn't have known that.

The cold hit him like a wall, knocking the air from his lungs as he struggled to adjust. He could feel the whispers of magic in the water, tugging at him, testing his control, telling him to just… stop moving and let the instructors pull him out. The currents were looking rougher now than standing at the bank, a sign of his confusion caused by the magic at work. To Polo's eyes, they were shifting unnaturally, forcing him to physically and mentally navigate the river that suddenly turned into a massive, bottomless ocean. His limbs were heavy, fighting the cold and the rapid loss of his stamina. Each stroke felt like a battle against an invisible enemy, and it was unclear who would win this desperate bout.

As his head bobbed above the surface, he caught sight of the shore—the other side, so close yet impossibly far. Then, the currents shifted again, and he felt something brush past his leg, an icy tendril of water trying to drag him down. Or at least, it was what his mind told him. Panic surged in his chest for a moment, but he shoved it aside, tapping into the last reserves of his mental fortitude, hardening his thoughts and ignoring the hallucinations. His hand shot forward and continued swimming, paddling with his feet, leaving a bloodied trail from the cuts that covered the bottom of it.

The shore grew nearer with every stroke, and with a final burst of strength, Polo hauled himself out of the river, collapsing onto the muddy, much softer other side. His chest heaved as he gulped in the air, his entire body screaming in protest, wanting to just shut off for a well-deserved rest. But even as he was lying there, spent and soaked, he knew... He made it.

"Want to sleep?" asked a deep voice. Soon, Oleg's towering figure stood above Polo's wet, shivering body, plunging the day into night with his shadow.

“N-no, G-g-general O-o-oleg!” He yelled, forcing his eyes open as he began moving once again.

Polo pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaking but his eyes burning with defiance. He wouldn't give up. Not here. Not ever. He signed up for this. He wanted this. He will make it his own! Everyone can achieve their dreams in Avalon; they just have to really want it!

…

….

……

The air inside the training hall was thick with silence. The windowless stone walls loomed over Polo and the other candidates, like uncaring sentinels, lit only by the dim glow of newly developed lamps he had never seen before. They were put up and set at intervals along the perimeter, glowing in a sharp, bright light. They all sat cross-legged in the center of the cold floor, trying to ignore the stiffness in their legs, the dull ache from hours of physical drills still thrumming through their muscles. The only sound was the faint crackle of the burning gas and their own breath, steady, just like Oleg had taught them.

"Clear your mind, clear your body!" The General, their primary instructor, had declared firmly before leaving them alone. He had led the group through the physical drills, pushing them until their bodies screamed for rest, yet they kept denying it. This, though, was different. This was the second half of their summer camp, mental training—the final step before they'd let them climb into the cockpit of a real mech... A newly built one, the same machine that one of them would be able to call their own. Even name it!

Polo had longed for this moment for years. Yet, here he was, sitting in a silent room, facing nothing but his own thoughts.

"The mind must be as sharp as the blade, as steady as the mountain. Only then will your machine answer your thoughts." He closed his eyes, drawing in a long, slow breath. His mind buzzed with impatience. The weight of his ambition, of everything that had led him here, pressed on him like a physical force.

"Stay calm." he reminded himself. He was not a boy anymore. He had passed the endurance trials and combat drills. This was supposed to be the easy part, but mastering the mind was proving more difficult than any physical challenge.

As he focused on his breath, the thoughts pressed harder. "What if I fail? What if I freeze in battle? What if the machine rejects me? It works with magic… maybe it can feel that if its pilot is unworthy… They are god-like machines anyway… I heard others whisper that they are the avatars of the six Gods, and our Sovereign is their Prophet!"

As his mind began racing, he suddenly remembered something that Pion had told him before leaving home: "A chaotic mind will never control a machine of war. Looking in, outsiders can only see that war is a chaotic mess. But… for us, for Soldiers of Avalon, it is art. We follow our orders, and we work as a machine, as one. Piloting one has to be the same! We are the Order within the Chaos."

Polo squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to banish the unnecessary thoughts, but they clung to him like shadows. His heart quickened, and he felt the tight coil of frustration begin to build in his chest. He forced himself to exhale slowly, counting the length of his breath, feeling the tension leave with it.

Another breath. Then another. Slowly, he began to feel the weight of his own mind melting away, the useless thoughts receding like ripples fading on the surface of a disturbed pond, returning to calmness. In the distance, he could hear the faint hum of the training facility beyond the walls—the murmur of others in the training yards, the low grind of gears that were spinning within his future mech. All these sounds, conjured by his mind, became a distant but constant background noise to the rhythm of his breathing.

"You are not the machine, but you must become one with it." He heard Kalash's lesson resurface within his mind. The day before this exact mental test, he had introduced them to the feeling of piloting such an incredible machine. "Let go of yourself to perceive the world as the machine sees and feels it."

Polo tried to envision his future mech towering over him like it always had in his dreams. A machine of steel and mana, its power is undeniable. He imagined himself seated within it, the controls beneath his hands. But something was still wrong. In his mind, the mech moved awkwardly, sluggishly, resisting him. His frustration flared again, his pulse rising. "Why can't I make it work?"

He exhaled sharply, his hands flexing into fists.

Then, like a guiding light, Kalash's words rang out again: "You are not fighting the machine. You are fighting yourself, your muscle memory, and your habits. The machine does what it can do, but you must understand its limits. You no longer control your body; you control another's!"

Polo breathed again, slower this time. He imagined the mech once more, but now, instead of forcing it to move, he let it exist beside him. His mech was not just a machine. It was alive in a way, an extension of himself, but not something he could control through willpower alone. He had to release control and trust it.

In his mind, the mech took a step, fluid, like a second skin. Polo felt the tension in his body unravel as if the weight of the mech had become part of him, not a burden, but an ally. He no longer tried to force his thoughts into control. Instead, he allowed them to drift like the breath that flowed in and out of him, calm and steady.

The air in the room felt lighter now, the silence no longer oppressive. Polo's awareness of the world around him softened, narrowing to just his breathing and the beat of his heart. For the first time, he felt it—that connection Kalash had spoken of—not control, not dominance, but unity. His mind quieted, and his pulse slowed. He could feel the space within him clear, like the eye of a storm.

A soft chime rang out, cutting through the stillness. The allocated hour had passed.

As Polo opened his eyes, the room around him was the same, with stone walls and flickering lights, but something inside him had changed. He rose slowly, testing the strength in his legs. The ache of the physical training was still there but distant now, a dull hum beneath a sharper clarity.

General Oleg stood by the door, watching him below the rim of his General's hat. The man's face remained unreadable, but there was a subtle shift in his gaze—a glint of approval.

"Well done," he said, his voice low but firm, speaking to every pilot in the room. You're ready."

They all swallowed, feeling the weight of those words settle over them. They had done it. The final test was still ahead—the actual deed, piloting the machine itself. But for the first time, he truly felt prepared.

As he followed Oleg out of the hall, he felt a quiet certainty blooming within him. The machine would not fight him. It would move with him. Because now, he understood.

The battle was not against anybody or anything.

It was always with himself. And after this day… he knew he had won.