The wooden floor felt cold against Rudura's back as he lay there, panting. His chest rose and fell sharply, lungs screaming for air. Sweat trickled down his forehead and slid into his eyes, stinging them until they blurred. He blinked furiously, but the burning didn't stop.
His wooden sword had rolled a short distance away, clattering once against the floorboards before stopping. It lay there, silent, just out of reach. To Rudura, it felt as if the sword was mocking him—mocking his weakness, mocking the fact that he couldn't even hold onto it when it mattered most.
He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. The frustration boiled inside him.
Damn it… I tried everything. Every move I knew. Every ounce of strength I had…
His chest tightened as his thoughts grew darker.
And he still didn't even fight me seriously. He was just… playing with me.
Malavatas stood in front of him, towering like an immovable wall. His expression was unreadable, calm as the deep ocean. His breathing was steady, smooth, not even slightly disturbed. Not once in the entire match had he looked strained. Not once had he even looked serious.
It was like swatting away a fly for him, while Rudura had been swinging with everything he had—burning his muscles, grinding his teeth, giving his very soul.
The difference between them was terrifying.
Yet… instead of laughing at his failure, instead of looking down on him, Malavatas bent down slowly. His large hand picked up the fallen wooden sword and, without a word, he placed it back into Rudura's small hands.
His voice, when he spoke, was deep and steady, like the weight of a mountain.
"Strength cannot be built in a single day, Rudura. You're pushing yourself well… but remember this—forcing your body without patience will only break it. True strength is built like a mountain. One stone at a time."
The words rang in the air.
Rudura gripped the wooden sword, his knuckles white. His chest burned, but it wasn't just from exhaustion. It was shame. Bitter shame that clawed at his insides. His lips trembled as if the words he wanted to say were trapped in his throat.
But he refused to cry.
No matter how much his eyes burned, no matter how heavy his chest felt, he wouldn't let tears come out. Not here. Not in front of Malavatas.
Slowly, he forced himself to sit up. His arms ached, his shoulders screamed, but he gritted his teeth and endured.
"I… I know I'm weak now…" Rudura's voice cracked a little, but he swallowed it down and pushed forward, his words sharp with determination. "But one day… one day, I'll stand on equal ground with you. I'll swing my sword, and you'll have to use all your strength to block me!"
Malavatas's brows rose slightly, and then his lips curved into a faint smile. There was no arrogance in Rudura's declaration. No empty pride. Only raw, unshakable determination.
He respected that.
"That's the spirit," Malavatas said quietly, his tone softer now. "But remember this, Rudura—power without control is nothing. A sword in weak hands is just wood. But a sword in disciplined hands… becomes destiny itself."
The words struck Rudura like a spark in dry grass. Something ignited inside him. His chest swelled, his heart pounded. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, breathing heavily, and then forced himself onto his feet. His legs shook violently, his knees nearly gave out, but he stood tall, chest pushed forward, back straight.
"Then…" Rudura lifted the wooden sword and pointed it at the floor, his young voice steady this time, "then teach me how to control it."
For the first time that day, Malavatas's eyes widened just a fraction. This boy… only a year old in this life, yet his fire burned like a warrior who had seen countless battlefields.
"Very well," Malavatas replied after a pause, his voice calm but carrying weight. "Tomorrow, we begin with patience. Not strength. Not speed. Patience."
Rudura nodded, his small hand tightening around the sword's grip.
The lesson was over. But the fire inside him was only beginning.
That night, the training hall stood empty. The others had gone to rest, the torches were dim, and silence wrapped around the wooden structure like a cloak.
But Rudura stayed.
The moonlight slipped through the high windows, streaking silver across the floor. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of sweat and wood.
He stood in the middle of the hall, wooden sword in hand, staring at the emptiness before him.
His body was sore. His arms felt like lead, his back stiff, his shoulders heavy. Every part of him screamed to rest.
But his heart… his heart refused to stop.
He raised the wooden sword. His grip trembled, but he clenched it harder.
I won't stop here. Not now. Not ever.
Thwack!
The blade smacked against the empty air, slicing through the silence. The sound echoed faintly in the vast hall.
Thwack! Thwack!
Again and again, he swung. His arms burned, his breathing grew ragged, but he didn't stop. Each swing carried his frustration, his shame, his vow.
Each swing was a promise to himself—that he would never feel so powerless again.
Shhhk—Thwack! Shhhk—Thwack!
The wooden sword whistled through the air, the sound becoming his rhythm. The beat of his determination. The pounding of his heart.
Sweat dripped from his chin, soaking into his clothes. His muscles ached, but his eyes never wavered.
Time passed slowly. The moon rose higher, its silver glow stretching across the floor. The hall was silent, save for the sharp whistle and the thud of his wooden blade cutting through the air.
Finally, his small body gave out. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor. His chest heaved, his arms trembled violently.
But this time… there was no frustration on his face. No bitterness.
Only a smile. A small, stubborn smile that refused to fade.
He turned his head, eyes landing on the wooden sword lying beside him. It looked simple. Ordinary. Just a piece of wood carved into the shape of a blade.
But to Rudura, it was everything. His companion. His vow. His future.
"One day…" he whispered, his voice barely louder than the night breeze, "one day, I'll carve my name into history. And when that day comes… I won't just conquer a match. I'll conquer empires."
The words hung in the air, carried away by the quiet night.
The moon watched silently, as if it had heard his vow.
And somewhere, far away in the darkness of the world, destiny stirred.
(Continued in Chapter 26)