The morning light crept through Rudura's window, painting faint streaks across the rough wooden walls. His body was stiff, arms aching from the countless swings he had forced out the night before. His palms burned, covered in fresh blisters, but his eyes opened with a fire that pain couldn't dim.
Today.
Today was different. Today Malavatas would place an iron sword in his hands.
Rudura rose from his bed, every joint protesting, and stepped outside. The dirt beneath his feet was cool with dew, uneven and scattered with pebbles. He clenched his fists tight, hissing at the sting.
Fuck it. Doesn't matter. I have to push through.
The training ground stretched wide, a flat expanse of beaten dirt. Wooden dummies stood in lines, weathered and scarred, their eyeless faces staring ahead like silent judges. The morning air carried the faint smell of old sweat and splintered wood.
At the center stood Malavatas.
He was waiting, calm and unreadable, a sheathed iron sword in his hand. His shadow stretched long across the dirt as the sun rose behind him.
Rudura's chest tightened at the sight of the blade. It looked ordinary—plain, without decoration—but the weight of it seemed to fill the space between them.
Malavatas's gaze met his, sharp and steady."So," he said, his voice carrying across the quiet field, "you came."
Rudura forced his legs to move forward until he stood before him. His throat was dry.
Malavatas drew the blade in one smooth motion. The hiss of steel against steel sliced through the air, sharp enough to silence even the birds.
The iron blade gleamed in the sunlight.
"Take it."
Rudura's hands reached out. The moment the hilt touched his palms, the world shifted.
It was heavy. Unbelievably heavy. His arms sagged instantly, shoulders screaming, fingers straining just to keep hold of it. He nearly dropped it the moment Malavatas let go.
Fuck—this… this isn't a sword, it's a mountain…
He tightened his grip, veins standing out along his forearms, and forced the blade upward with both hands. His breath hitched from the effort, but he refused to let it fall.
Malavatas's eyes narrowed slightly.Small… weak… but he refuses to yield. Good.
"Do not fight the weight," Malavatas said aloud. "The sword is no burden. It is your arm, extended. Flow with it—or be broken by it."
Malavatas pointed toward a scarred wooden dummy, its chest split with old cuts."Attack."
Rudura's throat went dry."W… what?"
"Cut it," Malavatas repeated, voice calm. "The enemy will not wait for your readiness."
Rudura gritted his teeth and staggered into position, the blade quivering in his hands. He sucked in a breath, raised the iron sword overhead, and brought it down.
Slow.
Not clumsy—he poured every drop of strength into it—but the sword crawled through the air like it weighed ten times more. By the time the blade reached the dummy's chest, Rudura's arms were already shaking, his grip slipping.
The sword struck with a dull thud. The edge bit into the wood barely an inch before stopping dead.
Rudura gasped, arms trembling, sweat rolling down his face.Fuck… is that all I can do?
He yanked the blade free and tried again. This time from the side, a horizontal strike. The sword whistled weakly, dragging his small frame with it. The blade connected but bounced off, leaving only a shallow dent.
Rudura's breath grew ragged, his teeth grinding."Fuck… come on… cut, damn it!"
Again.
He swung until his arms screamed, until the blisters on his palms split open. Each strike was slow, weak, pitiful compared to the towering wooden figure that didn't even flinch.
At last, his knees buckled and the sword slipped from his grasp, clattering against the dirt. Rudura collapsed beside it, chest heaving, sweat dripping into the soil.
The dummy stood untouched. Unshaken. Mocking.
Malavatas stepped forward, his face unreadable. He looked down at the boy, then at the dummy.
"Stand."
Rudura groaned, his arms trembling, but he forced himself back to his feet. He grabbed the sword again, ignoring the raw sting in his hands. His knees wobbled, but he stood.
Malavatas gave a single nod."Good."
Then he walked to the dummy, the iron sword balanced in his grip as if it were weightless. He inhaled once, deep and calm.
And then—he moved.
To Rudura's eyes, there was no swing. One instant the sword was at Malavatas's side. The next, the wooden dummy split cleanly down the middle. The top half slid off the bottom with a soft crack before hitting the dirt with a heavy thud.
Rudura's jaw clenched. His eyes went wide.
I didn't… I didn't even see it…
The cut was flawless, the strike faster than his sight could follow. The dummy had been nothing before that blade.
Malavatas turned, the sword still humming faintly from the force of the cut. His voice was calm, steady, merciless.
"This is the difference between carrying a sword… and commanding one."
The words cut deeper than the blade had. Shame burned Rudura's chest, but so did fire.
He lifted his sword again, ignoring the blood dripping from his torn palms. His voice was hoarse, but his eyes didn't waver.
"One day," he said, each word a vow, "I'll cut faster than that. Even if it breaks me."
For a heartbeat, silence hung. Then, faintly, almost imperceptibly, Malavatas's lips curved into the ghost of a smile.
By sunset, Rudura's body was wrecked. His arms hung like lead, his shoulders numb, his grip too weak to lift the sword more than a few inches. Malavatas left without another word, disappearing into the night.
But Rudura stayed.
The dirt ground was cold under the moonlight, littered with pebbles that dug into his knees. The wooden dummies loomed like silent shadows.
He picked up the iron sword again. His hands shook violently, blisters torn wide open, blood dripping onto the soil. His breath rattled, chest heaving.
Fuck the pain. Fuck the weakness.
My 10 years old body cannot stop me from conquering empires.
He raised the blade overhead.
The swing was slow, clumsy, pathetic. The sword barely scratched the dummy's surface.
Again.
And again.
Each strike cracked through the silence of the night. Each weak swing carved his vow into the dirt, into the air, into himself.
His body finally gave out. He collapsed face-first into the dirt, the sword slipping from his fingers. His arms refused to move, his vision blurred, but he was smiling.
Blood and sweat soaked the soil beneath him, and still he smiled.
One day… he thought, eyes fixed on the silver moon above, I'll split the world itself.
The vow echoed silently across the training ground, swallowed by the night.
(Continued in Chapter 30)