The sun was already sinking when Ozvold and Kandaki came back through the garden path. Toki caught sight of them from where he leaned on the haft of his axe. Their figures emerged out of the amber dusk, shoulders squared, something like satisfaction playing faintly across both their faces.
Toki tilted his head, studying them. "Well? How did it go?" His voice cut across the quiet, steady but expectant.
Kandaki was the first to burst out, brimming with energy. "It was amazing! Master, you wouldn't believe—everyone was practically crying for you. They kept saying it wasn't the same without you, that they—"
Before the boy could finish, Ozvold's hand clamped down smoothly across his mouth. Kandaki muffled a furious sound of protest, his eyes glaring upward at his taller comrade.
Ozvold's expression remained neutral, almost bored. "It was a day like any other," he said smoothly. "Nothing of note. Tell me, Commander—how was your day off?"
Toki arched a brow. The way Ozvold stressed the phrase made it sound like a mockery. He gave a low grunt, pushing a hand through his damp hair. "Monotonous," he admitted. "I think I've had my fill of 'rest.' Truth be told, I can't wait to get back to my men tomorrow."
Kandaki finally freed himself from Ozvold's grip and inhaled sharply, ready to argue. But Toki's gaze shifted toward him, sharp and searching.
"Ozvold," Toki asked, tone calm but serious. "How did the boy perform?"
There was a pause. Ozvold didn't answer immediately—he looked at Kandaki first, then back at Toki, as if measuring the weight of his words.
"At first glance," Ozvold said at last, "he's got strength. He's got heart. No one can deny that. But heart and muscle are not enough. He wastes energy before a fight even begins. His movements are too broad, too obvious. Without strategy, he will tire before ever reaching the true clash."
Kandaki's cheeks burned crimson. His fists clenched. "That's not—!"
But Toki raised a hand, silencing him. "No. He's right."
Kandaki froze. His lips trembled with the urge to protest, but the words stuck in his throat as Toki's gaze bore into him.
"This is my failure," Toki said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that left no room for argument. "I took you as my apprentice, Kandaki, but I've done nothing to train you properly. Not once. I've thrown you into battles and expected you to keep up, without giving you the foundation you deserve."
The boy's eyes widened. He had never heard his master speak with such open guilt.
Toki turned fully to face him now. The fading light caught the sharp angles of his face, the scars that marked his body. "It may be late, but… will you train with me, Kandaki? Right now."
The boy's throat tightened. His breath caught on the edge of disbelief. "M-Master… you mean…?" His voice cracked with excitement.
Before he could spill over into hysteria, Ozvold's dry voice cut in. "Commander, it's your day off. Surely this can wait until tomorrow. The boy won't vanish overnight."
Toki's eyes narrowed. "If I treat his training as something to be delayed, it will always be delayed. And then one day, I will look back and realize I never guided him at all. That… I won't allow."
For a moment the two men locked eyes—Ozvold's shadowed calm against Toki's iron determination. Then Ozvold exhaled softly through his nose, raising his hands in a show of surrender.
"Very well. But don't keep him out too long. Night comes quickly in these woods." He adjusted the strap of his violin case and started toward the manor. "Try not to break him."
Kandaki bristled. "I won't break!"
Ozvold smirked faintly but said nothing more as he disappeared toward the lights of the conac.
Silence lingered for a beat. Toki shifted his gaze back to Kandaki, who looked as if he might vibrate out of his own skin with anticipation.
"Your training begins now," Toki said simply.
The boy nodded furiously. "Yes, Master!"
They walked into the forest together. The air grew cooler under the canopy, shadows deepening with each step. Kandaki tried to keep pace, but the silence pressed at him, and the gloom between the trees made his chest tighten. He wanted to ask where they were going, but pride sealed his lips. He would not show fear. Not in front of Toki.
At last the trees broke into a clearing. It was as if nature itself had carved out a hidden arena: a ring of stumps where old trunks had been cut, a floor of grass damp with evening mist, and at the edge—a river crashing down from a high fall, its roar echoing against stone. The dying sun burned low on the horizon, gilding the world in amber. They had, at most, two hours before the forest surrendered to full night.
Toki stopped at the center of the clearing. Without a word, he stripped off his shirt. His chest and arms were a map of muscle honed by battle, marred by scars that told stories no words ever could. Old wounds crisscrossed his back and stomach—each one a memory etched into flesh.
"Take yours off too," he ordered.
Kandaki blinked. "Wh—what? Why?"
"Because," Toki said evenly, "this training won't hide behind comfort. You and I will meet each other as we are. No armor. No excuses."
The boy hesitated, then obeyed. His frame was lean, wiry from years of survival, but lacking the fullness of proper nourishment. Where Toki's scars spoke of campaigns and duels, Kandaki's bore the sharp, desperate edges of alley fights, of hunger, of defending his sister from the cruelty of strangers.
Toki's eyes lingered on them, and in them he saw a reflection of himself—years ago, when he too had been young and raw, carrying scars carved by a world that had never been kind.
He bent down, snapped a branch from a fallen limb, and tossed it to Kandaki. "Your weapon."
Kandaki frowned at the crude stick. "A branch? Master, why not give me a sword? I can handle one."
Toki's gaze was sharp. "A sword is not a toy. I will put one in your hand the day you prove you know how to wield it. Not before."
The boy's jaw set stubbornly. He tightened his grip on the branch, frustration burning in his eyes. "Fine. Then I'll show you."
He lunged. His strikes were wild—large arcs meant to impress, not to kill. His stance was loose, his steps uneven. Each swing consumed more energy than it earned.
Toki moved like water. Each blow slipped past him, his body swaying with ghostlike grace. He didn't even raise his own branch at first. He let the boy swing, let him burn through his strength. Three minutes passed, then four. Kandaki's breath grew ragged, sweat dripping from his brow, his arms trembling with effort.
At last, Toki struck. His branch flicked forward, striking Kandaki's with a single sharp crack. The boy's stick split clean in two, leaving only a jagged shard clutched in his sweating hand.
He stared at it, stunned.
Toki stopped and pointed toward a large, weathered boulder resting near the edge of the path.
"Hit that stone," he said calmly, his finger steady. "With all your strength."
Kandaki blinked, certain he had misheard. "You're joking, right?" He forced a laugh, expecting Toki's lips to curve, but the older boy's expression was unyielding, eyes sharp with seriousness.
The laughter died in Kandaki's throat. With a reluctant sigh, he stepped before the boulder. His fists trembled slightly, but pride stiffened his back. He drew in a breath, clenched his hand, and swung with all the force he could summon.
The sound was dull, a heavy thud against unyielding stone. The boulder stood untouched, unmoved. Kandaki staggered back, cradling his fist. Blood welled from torn skin across his knuckles.
"It's… it's not fair," he muttered through clenched teeth, his voice shaking between anger and humiliation. "If that had been someone's body, they would've felt it. I'm not weak."
"Then strike me."
The words were so calm, so absolute, that the boy blinked. He thought he had misheard.
But Toki stepped back, lifted his arms, and spread them wide, baring his stomach. His voice was steel. "Hit me. Here. With everything you have."
Kandaki's mouth opened. "Master… are you serious?"
"Do it."
The boy swallowed hard. His pride screamed that he could not back down. Not now. Not when his master demanded it.
He steadied himself, took three deep breaths, and drew back his fist. Then he drove it forward with all the force his body could muster.
The impact cracked the air.
Pain seared up Kandaki's arm. He screamed. His knuckles bent at unnatural angles, skin splitting, blood spraying. It was like striking an iron wall—the muscles of Toki's abdomen did not even flinch.
The boy staggered back, clutching his ruined hand, eyes wide with shock.
Toki's tone was almost casual. "I told you. You don't know how to hold a fist."
He sat down on a fallen log as if nothing had happened. His branch clattered to the ground. With a gesture he beckoned the boy. "Sit."
Kandaki's pride screamed at him to refuse, but his body was shaking, his fingers a mess of pain. He obeyed, lowering himself stiffly beside his master.
Without a word, Toki took his hand. He began to set the boy's fingers back into place, one by one. Each adjustment drew a hiss of agony, Kandaki biting down on his lip until it bled.
"Patience," Toki murmured. "Pain is the first teacher. It teaches faster than comfort ever will."
When the last finger was aligned, Toki tore a strip of cloth from his own shirt, dipped it in the river, and wrapped it tight around Kandaki's hand to stem the bleeding.
The boy sat silent, frustration burning in his chest. His eyes darted toward his master, searching, desperate.
Toki saw it. He let the silence hang a moment longer, then finally spoke.
"Let's take a break. Talk. You need to understand something before we continue."
Kandaki nodded faintly, still clutching his bound hand.
Toki leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the rushing water of the river. His voice, when it came, was low and steady
"Tell me," Toki began, tilting his head slightly, "why do you think I keep my fists raised?"
Kandaki's eyes flickered upward. He hesitated. "Because… you're a hero," he said, his voice small but confident, as if stating a truth he had long believed.
Toki's lips curved in the faintest, almost imperceptible smile. Then, with a swift, light tap to the top of Kandaki's head, he interrupted the boy's certainty. "Wrong."
Kandaki winced and rubbed the spot, looking up at Toki with confusion. "Wrong… why?"
"Because I am a man," Toki said simply, his voice low, deliberate, carrying the weight of lived experience. "A man does not need to be a hero to protect what he loves. Do you understand the difference, Kandaki?"
The boy blinked, swallowing hard. "I… I think so?"
"Think?" Toki's eyes narrowed slightly. He stepped closer, the shadows of the trees falling across his face in sharp angles. "A man knows. A man acts. A hero appears, sacrifices himself with a smile, and disappears. He leaves only grief behind, traces of hope turned to ash. That is all a hero can ever be."
Kandaki's fists clenched at his sides. "But… isn't that noble?" he whispered.
Toki shook his head, his hair falling across his forehead. "Noble? Perhaps to those who observe from afar. But I do not seek admiration or fleeting praise. I seek to endure. To remain. To stand beside those I love, not for a day, not for a moment, but for every day I breathe. I fight to guard those who cannot guard themselves. I fight for their right to live, to laugh, to find joy, to hope. That is my path. That is what it means to be a man."
Kandaki's eyes widened. He had never heard words like these before, not from anyone. His chest tightened. "I… I don't know if I can do that," he admitted, voice trembling.
Toki stepped back and extended his arms, palms open, as if to show the boy the breadth of the world itself. "Then listen carefully. You cannot give up. Not now. There are still countless things waiting in the dark—forces you cannot yet overcome. And if you do not fight, who will?"
He paused, letting the silence stretch. Kandaki stared at him, rapt, hanging on every word. The wind rustled the leaves above, but the clearing felt suspended in time, as if the world itself had stopped to witness the lesson.
"Strength without thought, without heart, is meaningless," Toki continued, his voice firm, resonant. "What use is being the strongest if there is nothing to protect? Life is like a river, Kandaki. Currents toss you against rocks, drag you where you do not wish to go. But you must swim against the current. Only by swimming against fate—by fighting for love, for hope—do you have a chance."
Kandaki's fists twitched. "And if I fail?" he asked quietly.
"You will not fail," Toki said sharply, "unless you choose to stand still. Failure is born of inaction, not of mistakes. Every step you take against the current strengthens you. Every time you rise after falling, you become more than you were."
The boy's gaze dropped to the stone again. Its rough surface was scratched, chipped, and unyielding. Yet it now seemed smaller somehow, less daunting, a tangible reminder of the lesson he had learned moments ago.
"Look around you," Toki said, his voice softening, almost to a whisper. "No candle is ever truly extinguished by lighting another. If you stumble, if you doubt yourself, see those who believe in you. Let their faith be your guide. We were all weak once. All of us. But weakness does not define us. It teaches us. It reminds us that standing still is a choice, and giving up is a betrayal of the very life we have been given."
Kandaki swallowed, his throat tight, his fingers brushing against the rough bark of the tree he leaned on. "But… it's so hard," he admitted, almost inaudibly. "It feels… impossible sometimes."
Toki's gaze softened. He knelt slightly, lowering himself to the boy's level. His voice, though steady, carried the weight of every scar, every battle, every sleepless night he had endured. "Yes, it is hard. That is why it matters. You use your mind, your body, your heart. You fight with every ounce of yourself. And in doing so, you become a light in the darkness. You become a star shining brightest when the night is at its Darkest. That is what I ask of you. That is what it means to be a man."
Kandaki's chest heaved. Tears threatened, but he did not allow them to fall. Instead, he drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked up at Toki, eyes bright with determination and awe.
"I… I will try," he said, voice quivering but strong.
Toki stood, placing a hand firmly on the boy's shoulder. "Try? No. You will. Because now you know why. Now you know what it means. There is no other choice. The world does not pause for doubt. The river does not wait for hesitation. You move forward, or you are swept away."
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the clearing. Kandaki felt the weight of Toki's words settle into his chest, heavy but grounding, like the firm, unyielding stone he had faced. He nodded once, sharply, fists unclenching.
Toki stepped back and crossed his arms, satisfied. "Good. You understand. Now, rest. But remember this—tomorrow, when the sun rises, the current will still be there. The river will still try to throw you against the rocks. But you will swim. And you will shine."
Kandaki's lips quivered, and a small, resolute smile formed. "I… I will, Master Toki."
Toki allowed himself a rare, genuine smile, the kind that reached his eyes. "That's enough for today. Remember, a man endures. A man protects. A man fights—not for glory, not for fleeting admiration, but because he chooses to. And every day, that choice must be renewed."
The boy stood taller now, the lesson engraved into his heart. The stone, once a towering wall, now seemed a mere stepping stone—a challenge to meet, not a barrier to fear. Kandaki's gaze drifted to Toki, admiration and determination mingling in equal measure.
"I… I understand, Master. I understand now," he whispered.
Toki nodded, a sense of quiet pride settling in his chest. "Then let us go. Tomorrow, we swim against the current again. But tonight… rest. You've earned it."
The clearing grew dimmer as night crept in, shadows stretching long across the earth. Kandaki felt the weight of Toki's lesson pressing on him, not as a burden, but as a promise—a guide to follow, a fire to carry. And in the fading light, the boy took his first true step toward becoming more than he had ever dreamed possible.
Finally, they reached the estate gates. The lights of the manor promised warmth, food, and the comfort of familiar faces.
The heavy wooden doors of the manor swung open with a soft groan, and the scent of cooked meat, herbs, and fresh bread enveloped them immediately. Warm light spilled across the polished floors, glinting off brass candle holders and the silverware neatly arranged on the long dining table. Laughter and chatter rippled through the room, but it quieted slightly as eyes turned toward the two newcomers.
Toki led Kandaki by the shoulder through the doorway. The boy's steps were careful, but his chest was puffed out slightly, a spark of pride in his tired eyes.
"Back already?" came a cheerful voice from the far end of the table. Utsuki's silver hair caught the lamplight as she rose from her seat, her smile gentle and approving. "You two took your time in the forest, I see."
Kandaki grinned, almost bouncing with the excitement that surged through him despite the exhaustion. "We trained… Master Toki's way," he said, chest heaving. "It was… amazing."
Toki gave a faint nod, his expression calm, though his mind was already calculating fatigue levels, tomorrow's plans, and what he would need to adjust in Kandaki's regimen. "We went through endurance and focus drills," he said simply, letting his gaze sweep across the familiar faces at the table. "Nothing fancy."
Ozvold, who had been quietly observing from the side, leaned forward, violin case resting against his chair. "And yet I can see it on him," he said, nodding toward Kandaki. "The boy's energy isn't just from physical exertion. Something else… motivation, I think."
Kandaki's face lit up, pride and embarrassment mingling. He opened his mouth to reply, but Ozvold's hand shot out, covering his mouth mid-sentence. The boy groaned in mild frustration, cheeks flushing.
"Be quiet, Kandaki," Ozvold said softly, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. "You'll get your turn to speak."
Toki let a faint smile creep onto his own face at the interaction. The dynamics of this small group never failed to amuse him. He pulled out a chair and sat beside Kandaki, who practically sank into the seat from sheer exhaustion.
The table was laden with steaming dishes: roasted vegetables, thick slices of bread, a hearty stew bubbling in a large pot, and platters of roasted meats. The smells alone were enough to make Kandaki's stomach growl audibly.
"Dinner looks… incredible," the boy murmured, already reaching for a piece of bread.
Toki allowed himself a small chuckle. "Eat slowly. You've still got training left in you tomorrow, and I don't want to be dragging you through it while your stomach aches."
As they began eating, Ozvold leaned toward Toki, lowering his voice. "Gerald sent a word earlier," he murmured, sliding a folded letter across the table. "He has… instructions."
Toki arched an eyebrow, taking the paper carefully. "Gerald?" His mind immediately ran through possibilities. Messages from Lord Smith were rarely casual. Every word, every request, always carried an unspoken expectation—or a trap.
Ozvold shrugged, his expression unreadable. "It's regarding some events he's planning. Nothing alarming, but it seems to involve you, Kandaki, and Tora directly."
Toki glanced toward Tora, who was leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded in a display of deliberate boredom. "Directly? That usually means trouble. Or inconvenience."
Ozvold's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "He's organizing a series of contests for children. Prizes are monetary, which I think is meant to entice the family members into participation. Tora is already registered for a 2,400-meter speed race, and Kandaki… for the junior boxing championship."
Toki paused mid-bite, the spoon hovering above his stew. He looked at the boy beside him, whose wide eyes gleamed with both excitement and nervous energy. "Junior boxing championship, huh?" he said. He allowed himself a teasing tone, though a careful calculation ran beneath it. "Do you feel ready for that, Kandaki?"
The boy nodded eagerly, determination set on his face. "I… I want to try. I can do it."
Toki turned toward Tora, whose gaze was still fixed on him with feigned disinterest. "And you, little sprinter," he said with mock severity, "are you going to show me your skills, or just stare at the ceiling all day?"
Tora's lips quirked, her tone equally mocking. "As long as I don't have to run against anyone faster than me, I think I'll manage."
Toki chuckled, shaking his head. "You'll manage just fine. And the prize money won't hurt either, will it?" His eyes gleamed with a hint of humor, though part of him weighed the motives behind Lord Smith's arrangements.
Ozvold cleared his throat, bringing Toki back to the present. "There's more. As part of this… favor, you three—Toki, Kandaki, and Tora—will participate in a training camp. You, Commander, will oversee the children directly. Kandaki and Tora will be under your supervision. Smith suggested that the details can be discussed tomorrow."
Toki's jaw tightened imperceptibly. A training camp under Smith's guidance sounded innocent enough, but he knew better than to trust appearances. There was always a layer beneath, a motive hidden behind the polite tone of Smith's words.
He glanced at Utsuki, who sat quietly across the table, observing him with gentle concern. Her silver hair caught the lamplight, and her eyes softened as she smiled faintly. "It's a good opportunity," she said softly. "For the children to bond with you. For Kandaki to learn, and Tora to grow. They'll carry these lessons with them."
Toki returned her smile, though it was measured. "Yes, it's an opportunity… though I can't shake the feeling that Smith isn't telling us everything." His gaze drifted back to the letter, scanning it again. "Still… if this is how I guide them, I'll make sure they're prepared for whatever comes. That's my responsibility."