Thunk, thunk!
Sounds of wooden swords colliding against the wooden training dummies echoed across the camp. The knights who were slacking a few moments ago now trained with almost manic obsession.
Under the supervision of a senior knight, the four cadets were also doing their own thing.
Thunk, thwap!
In that busy camp, no one looked like a neophyte— or at least, except the young lord himself.
Fwoosh!
Seven's wooden sword slashed the air.
"...That marks the hundredth. Damn it, nine-hundred more to go."
A thousand strikes, that was the number Heinrich had given him. It was an unreasonable amount, but repetition was the fastest way to grow familiarity with the weight and balance of the sword.
"Your grip is tightening again, young lord. A sword is not meant to fight its knight's wrist."
"Yes."
Fwoosh, fwoosh!
Truth be told, Heinrich did not need to correct much.
The young lord already seemed familiar with proper form, like the position of the elbows, the direction of the feet, and the angle of the swing, requiring only small adjustments here and there.
Fwoosh!
"Do not rush. Channel your conviction in every strike. A thousand with poor form are worth less than ten proper ones."
Heinrich also expected the young lord to give up pretty much soon, but that expectation was shattered after a whole hour had passed.
The look on the young lord's eye never wavered.
"Five hundredth strike. I feel like I could die. Huff…"
Breathing heavily, countless droplets of sweat kept on falling from Seven's chin, melting the snow beneath him. His soaked long sleeve was almost see-through, revealing the pattern of his ribs.
His strikes were getting slower and slower, limbs feeling like it would detach from his body any time soon.
"Huff…!"
Some of the knights are already taking a break, forming a circle to watch the young lord train— some even placing a bet. A thousand strikes with that kind of physique just seemed impossible.
The four cadets under a senior knight, however, did not stop as they had duels to fight the day after.
Fwoosh, fwoosh!
"Huff…! Seven hundred seventy-seven…"
He could feel his smooth palms being split open with every strike, the handle of the wooden sword painted with a light red hue.
Fwoosh!
Fwoosh!
…
…
"…Nine hundred ninety-nine."
His arms trembled violently, vision blurring around the edges but he still forced one last swing.
Fwoosh!
It took roughly two hours, but the wooden sword cut through the air one final time before he collapsed backward into the snow.
A flake fell onto his face.
"Huff-hnh…! I did it…"
The snowfall has grown lighter now.
Earlier it looked like a snowstorm might arrive, but the clouds had thinned, leaving only gentle flakes drifting lazily down, typical of that as the second day of winter.
Thanks to the scorching hot potato stew and the warmth of Iria's magic wrapping around his skin, the cold never crept into his bones.
But…
"Fudge. I… I can't feel my arms. Do I even still have them?"
If he had not mimicked swinging a sword inside his room back in South Korea for two years even with a terrible form, he would never have survived this.
Back then, he did it a hundred times a day.
Heinrich placed his hand against his chin, quietly observing the young lord lying in the snow. Even when he collapsed from tiredness, he still held the wooden sword.
Heinrich then exhaled. Perhaps he had pushed him too hard.
"Let us proceed in baby steps, young lord."
"Again."
Heinrich paused.
Seven slowly forced himself upright.
His legs were shaking violently as he stood, and his movements were stiff and sluggish. He genuinely looked more like a corpse dragged back to life than a young lord.
"I apologize, but driving your body to its limits too often brings little benefit. We should—"
"Again."
Seven tightened his grip on the wooden sword.
Just then, a girl appeared a few steps behind Heinrich.
Her hair was tied in twin ponytails that swayed gently in the winter breeze, thin strands dancing across her cheeks as snowflakes settled lightly upon them.
She then suddenly grew radiant angelic wings, shimmering faintly beneath the pale winter sky along with each feather that glowed as if touched by sunlight.
Tiny butterflies appeared around her, circled her shoulders then danced around her hair. It was a breathtaking sight.
Except…
None of it was real.
Seven's mind had begun to drift somewhere between reality and dream due to fatigue. Blinking, the radiant wings dissolved and the butterflies scattered into nothingness.
Only the girl remained.
He shook his head and forced his gaze back toward Heinrich.
"Agai—"
Before he could finish the word, the world suddenly tilted sideways and his body began to fall forward.
Step.
Heinrich closed the distance in a single stride and caught the young lord by the shoulder before his body collapsed into the snow.
At the same moment, the girl rushed forward and a soft green glow bloomed from her palms.
That gentle light spread slowly across the young lord's exhausted body, and the tension in his trembling arms eased little by little as the faint radiance wrapped around him.
"…I told you not to push yourself too much, my lord. You really are a stubborn one."
- – – 777 – – -
3rd day of Bruma, Year 769.
The knights had lined up in the training ground, forming a wide square space in the middle.
Seven arrived shortly after, walking behind Heinrich.
He had just finished running several laps around the manor's yard, so his hair was messy and damp with sweat.
Iria tried to stop him from going out again after he fainted yesterday, but sigh… even she couldn't do much against his stubbornness.
Seven glanced around.
"It's… quite a heavy atmosphere. Is something going on?"
"The cadets will be having a sparring session, young lord."
Heinrich replied calmly.
"It is a small ritual that takes place at the start of every month, a chance for them to showcase what they have learned during the past weeks of training."
"Oh."
Looking at the square again, the four cadets were standing inside that formation. The way they glared at one another made it seem as if they could devour each other on the spot.
"Putting it that way, it's interesting. But is there a reward for the winner?"
"Yes. There are roughly 2 silver cito pooled from the pockets of all knights, and 10 bronze for the rest ."
"...That's oddly specific."
By the time they reached the training ground, the surrounding knights immediately parted to give them space, almost as if offering the young lord a privileged front seat.
However, the young lord refused.
He climbed onto a stack of wooden crates beside one of the cabins and sat there, giving him a better position to watch the spar.
Heinrich stood below the crates. The ground there was slightly elevated, so he could still observe the square without any trouble.
Step, step.
A senior knight walked into the center of the square, and the murmuring among the knights slowly died down.
"For the next four days, the training of the cadets will, again, take the form of a sparring tournament. I, Thierry Brissac, will still be the one to facilitate the tournament."
At Thierry's words, a ripple of excitement spread among the watching knights.
"The rules remain the same. Each of the cadets will fight using wooden practice swords. A duel ends the moment one cadet is disarmed, knocked down, or yields."
Thierry then raised two fingers.
"As usual, this will be a two-loss elimination sparring. In other words, the moment a cadet accumulates two defeats, they will no longer be allowed to continue in the tournament."
After, Thierry's gaze swept across the four cadets standing before him.
"That means one loss does not end your chances, but a second does. However…"
A brief silence settled over the square.
"Unlike before, the last cadet who remains standing at the end of this tournament… will not be declared the victor just yet. For the true final match—"
Thierry coughed.
By some strange thread of fate, Thierry suddenly pointed toward the stack of crates, specifically to the person sitting casually atop it.
"—will be against the young lord himself."
A few of the surrounding knights turned toward him with amused grins.
Seven blinked.
"...The fudge?!"