I saw Rammal's smile come when he noticed the change. A smile of respect... no, of reverence. His muscles expanded in a pattern he knew well, and he mirrored my movement.
KA!
The dry sound echoed as our wooden swords collided hard. The vibration ran through my arms, and the impact made us retreat for a second.
He laughed, proud, amazed.
"Congratulations, young master" he said, his eyes shining. "You can speed up now... And then? Any feeling?"
The way he looked at me... It was as if he were in front of something sacred. As if he had witnessed the birth of a miracle. The other warriors, who had previously been restless, now looked at me with similar expressions. Adoration. Respect. Maybe fear.
"I feel pain in my joints... they're on fire" I mumbled, flexing my fingers with difficulty. Every movement seemed to ignite flames under my skin.
"That's normal" Rammal said, a half-smile that mixed pride and demand. "You have gone beyond your limit. When you fully dominate, you will no longer be injured while executing. Congratulations, young master. You are now a preparatory swordsman"
"So... so fast?" I asked, still surprised, panting.
"Yes" he replied without hesitation, his eyes shining with serene confidence. "Shall we continue?"
I slowly turned to my father. Pain throbbed all over my body, but when I looked at him and saw that silent, almost contained nod, as if he was trying to hide his own pride... Something inside me rekindled.
Smile. And for the first time, he smiles because he wanted to, not out of protocol or obligation.
"Of course" I replied.
The sword came back into my hands as a natural extension of my body. The training resumed with intensity, and I absorbed each teaching as if I were drinking water after a long desert. The sound of metal cutting through the air, Rillen's firm corrections, the mistakes, the successes — it was all part of a new, difficult, but liberating dance.
Seven days passed thus—long days, with no real rest. The pain was constant, but I knew it well. She had become a silent companion.
At the end of the seventh night, I noticed the change.
My movements were faster, more fluid. My body reacted before I even thought. It was as if the sword was already part of me.
In the second month, I no longer wielded a wooden sword. In my hand now was a steel blade—cold, alive, pulsing with energy every time it moved.
My feet glided lightly over the rocks of the training ground. Every step was precise, almost like a dance, as I swirled around the field, attacking and retreating. The sword cut through the air in perfect arcs, thrusting, turning, moving forward—and retreating when necessary. It was faster, cleaner, more... sharp. It was as if I was born for that.
The warriors who once seemed unreachable were now nothing more than echoes of what I was. They no longer represented either a threat or an impulse to my learning. All my attention was on him. My father.
We exchanged blows at high speed, in an almost animalistic synchrony. It was a fight of pure refined brutality. Each impact between our blades illuminated the field with the trail of vital energy. With each cut, with each deviation, traces of red light danced among us like strokes of blood on an invisible canvas.
My father's sword tore through the air violently. There was something about his movements that went beyond technique — something personal. He wasn't just testing me. He wanted to break me.
And I saw it in his eyes.
As we fought, I could feel the rage he was trying to contain, his clenched teeth, his glowing gaze. He smiled, but there was a disguised hatred in that smile. And when he charged forward with all his might, it wasn't just the steel that screamed—it was the pain inside him. The pain he carried since the day my mother died.
Her screams still echoed in his mind. I knew it. I saw it stamped on his face, in every desperate thrust, in every attempt to hit me as if he wanted me to disappear.
And yet, I kept fighting. Part of me wanted to beat him. Another part... I wanted to understand why he looked at me that way. I wanted to know if he hated me. Or if I trained myself to survive what the world still held.
It was only after the last change that I was able to breathe. My body was still vibrating with the tension of combat, my muscles asking for rest, but my mind was too agitated to listen. I could only look at him.
My father.
The man who trained me, molded me, hardened me. The same man who just tried to kill me.
And yet... He couldn't.
Not because there was a lack of strength. I saw it. I felt it. The blow he struck was with everything he had. It was the same blow he used to kill a murderer years ago, the same one he showed me quietly and proudly. And yet — even with all that — he failed.
I survived.
Not by luck. But because he hesitated. Because he didn't want to. Not really.
All around us, the warriors applauded. Some shouted, excited. Others simply clapped their hands in silence, with expressions of incredulity. But I couldn't hear anything right. I was focused only on him. In my father's eyes. In the confusion that formed there, between pride and guilt.
For a few seconds, he said nothing. He just stared at me as if he was trying to understand something inside himself. And then he took a deep breath. The tension in his shoulders melted away, and a smile crossed his lips—it wasn't a wide smile, but it was sincere. And full of a weight that I couldn't explain.
"Congratulations" he said, his voice hoarse. "There's not much I can teach you right now. Let's celebrate. I want a great party!"
I felt my chest tighten. Not from pain — but from something more difficult. That... That meant more than any compliment he had ever given me. It was a recognition. A surrender. A silent farewell to the role of master. And that hurt more than I wanted to admit.
I stepped forward and smiled.
"Thank you, Dad"
And then I hugged him.
It was strange. He was not a man of touch or affection, but at that moment... He reciprocated. And I allowed myself, for a moment, to rest in his arms.
Part of me wanted him to be a tyrant. That I remained cold and distant, that I refused to recognize my strength. It would be easier to deal with it. It would be easier for me to walk away if he was cruel. If he didn't love me.
But he loved me. His way. With steady hands, harsh words and watchful eyes.
And I loved him too.
It would be so much easier if I didn't admire him so much.
But, as he himself often says: "easy is for the dead"