The sunlight trickled through the cracks in the shutters, spilling golden stripes across the floor. Rudura blinked awake slowly, his entire body stiff, as if it had been welded together overnight. His palms throbbed beneath the bandages wrapped around them. They were dry and crusted with dark patches of blood.
He groaned, turning his head toward the small side table. His wooden sword lay neatly across it, as though someone had carefully placed it there after carrying him home.
He hissed between his teeth. Fuck… again. I blacked out again.
Sitting up was like dragging chains off his chest. His back cracked, his arms hung heavy at his sides, but his eyes blazed awake as soon as he remembered what day it was.
Malavatas had promised him something. Not patience. Not another lecture. A real task.
Rudura swung his legs over the side of the bed, nearly collapsing as his knees buckled. His hands shook as he fumbled with his tunic. His breath came ragged but steady with determination.
Today, the wooden toy wasn't enough. Today, the fire in his chest had to meet steel.
The training field was still cloaked in morning mist, the grass damp but not soaked. Malavatas stood alone in the open ground, arms folded, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun crept upward like a slow-burning ember.
His sharp eyes softened slightly as he recalled last night. He had found the boy collapsed, fingers still clutching at the wooden sword even while unconscious. His knuckles had been raw, his breath shallow, and yet—even in sleep—the boy's jaw had been set, clenched in stubborn defiance against his own weakness.
Malavatas had carried him back to his bed himself.
So, he bled through the night… reckless fool, Malavatas thought, his lips curving into the faintest trace of a smile. But this recklessness may forge him into something greater.
He heard footsteps—light, hurried, but uneven. Rudura emerged through the mist, hair messy, shirt clinging with sweat that had already broken out from the effort of simply walking.
Still, the boy's eyes burned.
Malavatas's voice was steady, almost quiet, but it carried like steel slicing through the morning air.
"Rudura, every night you bleed yourself dry, and every morning you wake in your bed. Most men would surrender to weakness, but you… you drag yourself back here. Reckless. Dangerous. But perhaps that fire will forge you into something greater."
He turned, drawing a long object from the rack. The metallic whisper of steel sang as he unsheathed a real iron sword. Its surface caught the sunlight, sharp and unforgiving.
Rudura's chest tightened. The wooden sword in his memory suddenly felt like a toy, a stick in comparison. This was the weapon of conquerors. This was history in his hands waiting to be written.
Malavatas held the sword before him and spoke:
"Two tasks today. First—cut a falling leaf before it touches the earth. If your strike wavers, the world will see you as nothing more than a boy swinging metal."
He walked toward the edge of the field, where a great banyan tree spread its roots like claws. He plucked a leaf and held it between his fingers.
"Second—split the wooden dummy in half with one strike. If you fail, remember this: a half-cut enemy lives long enough to kill you later."
Rudura swallowed. His throat was dry. His palms ached even before gripping the hilt. But he stepped forward.
Malavatas released the leaf.
Time slowed. The leaf spun lazily in the air, catching the light. Rudura raised the iron sword. It felt heavier than stone, its weight dragging against his shoulders. He swung.
Swish—clink!
The blade hissed through the air, but the leaf drifted untouched, landing silently on the ground.
"Fuck!" Rudura growled. His shoulders shook.
Another leaf fell. He tried again. Swish—swish! The blade missed by inches. His wrists buckled under the recoil of his own strength.
The air filled with the metallic whistle of missed strikes. Leaves piled at his feet. Sweat blurred his vision.
"Fucking leaf! Hold still!" Rudura shouted, swinging wildly, the iron blade ringing as it sliced nothing but air. His breathing turned ragged. His palms split open again beneath the bandages, blood seeping through.
Malavatas's arms remained crossed. His face betrayed nothing.
"Enough," Malavatas said, his voice final. He gestured toward the wooden dummy standing in the center of the field, thick and solid, scarred from years of training.
"One strike. If you cannot cut it through, do not swing at all."
Rudura stepped forward. The iron sword dragged slightly in his grip. He exhaled, steadied himself, then roared as he swung down.
THUD!
The blade cracked into the dummy's torso. Wood splintered, the dummy shook, but it did not split. Rudura's arms trembled. His teeth ground together as blood smeared across the hilt.
Again, he lifted it. THWACK! A deeper crack, but still no split. His vision swam, his shoulders screamed. He screamed with them.
"Split! Fucking split already!"
His third strike tore halfway through, leaving the dummy scarred but standing. The sword slipped from his bloody palms, clattering against the dirt. Rudura fell to his knees, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin.
Malavatas stepped closer, his shadow falling over Rudura. He did not scold, nor did he praise. His tone was calm, yet sharp enough to cut through the boy's despair.
"Two tasks. Two failures. Good."
Rudura lifted his head, stunned.
"Failure is the hammer that tempers reckless fire into steel. Each strike, each wound, each curse you spit—they are all shaping you. Tomorrow, I will show you what it means to wield the iron sword—not as a toy, but as destiny."
His words echoed in the field, leaving silence in their wake. Malavatas turned and walked away, his cloak whispering across the grass.
Rudura remained on his knees, gripping the dirt, his blood staining the earth.
That night, Rudura returned to the training field. The moonlight bathed the ground in pale silver, the shadows of the banyan tree stretching like claws.
He dragged the iron sword behind him, the blade leaving a faint groove in the dirt. His body screamed with pain, but his mind screamed louder.
Another leaf fell. Swish! Miss. Swish! Miss.
He snarled, striking again and again. His curses echoed across the empty field. His palms tore wider, blood dripping onto the blade, staining it.
He turned on the dummy. His strike landed. CRACK! The wood groaned. Again. THWACK! Splinters burst outward, the dummy scarred deeper. Again. Again. Until his arms gave way.
He collapsed against the dummy, forehead pressed to its splintered surface. His blood and sweat soaked into it. His lips curled into a broken grin.
"Tomorrow, I'll split you clean in two. And one day… I'll split empires the same way."
The field was silent except for the whisper of the night wind. But in that silence, his vow carved itself into the darkness, carried forward by fate.
(Continued in Chapter 29)