In the world of *Saintess & Hero*, the methods of wielding mana are generally divided into two categories: Circles and Cores.
To start with Circles—the system primarily used by mages—their greatest drawback is that they are extraordinarily, absurdly, painfully difficult to master.
To form a Circle, one must first accept natural mana of any attribute into their heart and shape it into a ring. That alone already demands talent well above the ordinary.
So does it get easier once the Circle is formed?
Not even close.
A Circle is, at its core, a concentrated mass of elemental mana—and elemental mana has an inherent tendency to repel mana of other elements.
When those two factors collide, the result is a nightmarish difficulty curve.
The more Circles one accumulates, the more the existing ones push back, causing the difficulty to spike exponentially—and with it, the challenge of controlling mana at all.
So why bother with Circles, given all those drawbacks?
Because despite every disadvantage, once mastered, they make you strong fast.
And as more Circles are added, the practitioner gains access to a wider range of elements, making them adaptable across a variety of situations—versatility being another of the Circle's celebrated strengths.
So then, what are the advantages of a Core?
Simply put: an entry barrier that might as well not exist, compared to Circles.
Unlike a Circle, a Core doesn't require accumulating mana of any specific attribute. The structure is almost embarrassingly simple—just cram whatever mana you have into your heart and let it clump together.
Which meant that even someone with no particular talent could form a Core, as long as they had the effort and the stubbornness to see it through.
No need to agonize over elemental compatibility like with Circles. No need to nearly soil yourself wrestling with the violent backlash that came every time you tried to add a new ring. Just pack it together, and pack it together again. Brute force, nothing more.
But as with all things in this world, power that comes easily carries a steep price.
A Core is, in the end, nothing more than a physical organ for storing mana.
Which meant that to wield a Core effectively, there was no shortcut—only time and effort, poured into growing comfortable with its use.
And so the most efficient method for training a Core came down to this:
"Blood and sweat!"
Krasis declared it with gleaming eyes. For words coming out of a legendary knight's mouth, they were almost aggressively simple.
But not a single student raised an objection.
Because for those who aspired to knighthood, this was common knowledge.
While mages gathered mana and studied magical formulae, knights just needed to swing their swords one more time.
That was exactly why Krasis had told them to "kill each other."
Nothing trained the Core and built familiarity with it like actual combat.
"Well? What are you standing around gawking for! Figure out who's at your level and start beating each other senseless!"
Krasis's ferocious roar crashed through the training hall.
***
After Professor Krasis's thunderous command, the students who had been awkwardly sizing each other up soon found partners at their level and fell into sparring.
*Thud! Crack—!*
"Sparring" was a generous word for it. The wooden practice swords came in sharp and vicious, as if genuinely trying to kill.
Flesh split open with each impact, and red blood began spraying into the air from the bodies of those taking hits.
Just as it seemed like someone was going to end up seriously hurt—
*Shhhh.*
A moment passed, and then, as if time itself were rewinding, the torn flesh and scattered blood knit back together without a trace.
The near-miraculous restoration magic Rustil had demonstrated at the entrance ceremony.
A fragment of that same power was now woven through the training hall.
It wasn't quite on the level of bringing back the dead, as it had been then—but for ordinary wounds, it handled everything without issue.
The students who had initially hesitated to strike at each other in earnest quickly adapted after a few exchanges, and before long they were attacking without a moment's pause.
"Die!!"
"Gugh—!"
…Perhaps a bit too well adapted.
Regardless.
What, exactly, was Gladia doing amidst all that heated energy?
*…Bored.*
Absolutely nothing.
As if an invisible barrier had been erected around her, the space nearby was strangely, conspicuously empty.
It called to mind the sight of Aiolette at the entrance ceremony.
Apparently, servant and mistress really did take after each other in the strangest ways.
To be fair, the other students' perspective was understandable.
Every student in this training hall had witnessed Gladia cleave through the training dummy in Professor Elahim's class. They'd all taken a swing at that dummy themselves, which meant they knew better than anyone just how absurd what she'd done actually was.
So their instinct to steer clear of her was, in a way, entirely reasonable.
Even if injuries healed in the training hall, no one wanted to voluntarily throw themselves at someone so far out of their league just to get beaten into the floor.
"Hah… should've grabbed 65 before he bolted."
For the record, 65 had made his escape the moment Krasis finished speaking.
He was someone who appreciated talent—not a masochist who enjoyed getting hit.
A truly imperial sense of self-preservation.
With 65 gone and the surrounding students quietly putting distance between themselves and her, Gladia found herself isolated in short order.
It felt, she thought, rather like being the one kid left without a partner when the gym teacher told everyone to pair up. Not that there was much she could do about it.
She could hardly force people to spar with her if they didn't want to.
*It's not like I'm the young mistress.*
Aiolette would have simply started hitting whoever was nearest and sorted out the details later.
That was when it happened.
"?"
A large shadow fell across Gladia's back.
Its owner was a woman.
Despite being female, she stood head and shoulders above most men, with a physique to match—and draped over that powerfully built frame, set off against chocolate-dark skin, was a garment of beast hide.
The twelfth daughter of the Grand Chieftain who ruled all the tribes of the Great Plains, Cradle.
Sela.
Sela approached Gladia, who had been standing there in a daze, and spoke.
"I. Challenge. You."
Her Imperial was halting, but the meaning came through clearly enough. Gladia asked:
"Me?"
"You. Strong. Strongest here. I. Fight. Strong opponents."
It was exactly the kind of thing you'd expect from someone of Cradle's bloodline—raised in a harsh land where strength was the only currency that mattered.
To them, the strong were worthy of respect and, simultaneously, worthy of challenge.
Sela had decided this was her chance to throw herself against the wall that was Gladia.
Gladia considered for a moment, then answered.
"Sure, why not. I had something I wanted to test anyway. Let's go."
***
Sela stood across from Gladia, steadying her breathing.
She knew exactly how wide the gap between them was.
Life on the vast, unforgiving plains of the continent's northern reaches was nothing short of a daily struggle for survival.
Having grown up in that land, Sela trusted her ability to read an opponent's strength more than almost anything else about herself.
And in her eyes, that maid was—
*A genuine monster.*
She still hadn't forgotten the moment Gladia had cut through the training dummy.
*It was like looking at Father.*
The absolute ruler of the Great Plains. The Grand Chieftain of Cradle, who had brought countless tribes to their knees through strength alone. The figure in Sela's memory who stood as the largest, most untouchable symbol of force she had ever known—and she had glimpsed that same presence in a single swing of a sword.
Running from a strong opponent was never something to be ashamed of.
If she'd encountered Gladia out on the plains, she would have turned and fled without a second thought.
But the magic woven through the training hall had changed her mind.
How often would she get a chance to fight someone of that caliber without the risk of dying for it?
She was of Cradle's blood—raised rolling through the wild alongside monsters.
Faced with the prospect of fighting a warrior of that level, the feral instinct sleeping in her veins surged to life.
In sharp contrast to Sela's blazing intensity, Gladia's presence was utterly, almost unnervingly quiet.
She simply stood there in a natural stance, one hand resting on her cane.
Sela frowned at the sight.
"Not drawing. Sword?"
"Oh, this?"
Gladia gave the cane a light, casual wave.
"There's something I want to test. So don't mind it and just—"
She let the sentence trail off, then brought the tip of the cane down hard against the training hall floor.
*Thoom—!*
It was just a cane striking stone—but the dull crack of impact sent an invisible shockwave rolling through the air, washing heavily over Sela's entire body.
Gladia kept her eyes firmly shut and murmured softly.
"Come."
The moment the word left her lips, an immense pressure crashed down on Sela.
The suffocating weight of a great beast of the plains standing right in front of her.
Under that pressure, Sela stopped hesitating and launched herself at Gladia.