The training ground lay silent under the silver glow of the moon. The wooden dummies stood in rows, tall and eerie, their shadows stretching across the dirt floor like watchful soldiers frozen in time. The night air carried a stillness that could almost suffocate, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves from the old banyan tree nearby.
Rudura stepped barefoot into the dirt, iron sword in hand. His breathing was heavy before he had even begun. The blade felt heavier than it had in the day, its weight pressing down on his ten-year-old arms like chains. But his eyes—sharp, restless, unyielding—were alive with fire.
He planted himself in front of the first dummy. The moonlight gleamed off the iron, flashing cold white as he raised the sword above his shoulder. His grip trembled, but his determination didn't.
"Haaaah!"
The sword came down with all the force his small body could muster.
CLANG—!
The sound rang out harsh and unclean. The blade sank shallowly into the dummy's surface before bouncing back, sending a jolt of pain up his arms. Rudura stumbled back, cursing.
"Fuck!" His voice cracked in the empty field. "Too heavy… too damn heavy!"
But he didn't stop. He raised the sword again, arms quivering. Sweat already trickled down his temples. He swung again.
Thwack!Another failed cut. The dummy stood mocking him, scarred but whole.
He growled through gritted teeth and tried again. Thwack! Again. Thwack! Again. Each failed strike echoed louder in the quiet night. His palms burned, blisters tearing open, but he refused to loosen his grip.
His breath grew ragged. His arms shook as though they belonged to someone too weak to hold the weapon. And in truth—they did. He was only ten years old. His body wasn't built for iron. Every swing felt like dragging a mountain through the air.
But still… he kept going.
"Fuck… fuck this…" he muttered between swings, voice cracking with pain and fury. "I'll cut you… I'll fucking cut you!"
The dummies stood silent, absorbing his rage like lifeless guardians.
His shoulders screamed. His vision blurred with sweat dripping into his eyes. Still, he swung. Over and over. Until his body felt hollow. Until his knees buckled and he crashed into the dirt, gasping for breath.
For a moment, he lay there, chest heaving, sword fallen beside him. The stars above blurred, the moon swam in his vision. He felt like vomiting.
And then Malavatas's words rang in his head.
"Power without control is nothing. A sword in weak hands is just wood. But a sword in disciplined hands… becomes destiny itself."
Rudura clenched his teeth. He sat up slowly, gripping the sword with bloodied hands. His breathing steadied—not calm, not relaxed, but controlled. He forced it. Forced himself.
He stood again before the dummy. This time he didn't scream. Didn't curse. Didn't throw all his strength blindly. He closed his eyes, inhaled. Felt the weight of the sword. Let his muscles find balance.
And then—he swung.
WHHHHK—SHHHK!
The sound was sharp. Clean. Bone-chilling.
The dummy split into two halves, the cut so precise it looked as though it had been carved by a master. The halves toppled into the dirt with a heavy thud.
Rudura's eyes widened. He froze, chest pumping, staring at what he had just done. For a second, he couldn't believe it. Then a grin—small, shaky, but real—spread across his face.
"…I did it," he whispered.
The grin twisted into a laugh. A breathless, trembling laugh. "I fucking did it!"
Fueled by that triumph, he charged at the next dummy. His swings weren't perfect, not clean, but some cuts began to land deeper. Some began to split. One by one, the wooden soldiers fell before him. Each thud of collapsing wood echoed like drums in his chest.
Sweat drenched his body. His arms trembled violently, threatening to give way. His palms stung raw with every grip. But he didn't stop.
Finally, he reached the last dummy. The toughest. The one that loomed over him like a final test.
He raised the iron sword. Every muscle screamed. Every bone begged him to drop it. But he roared inside his own chest, pouring everything into one final strike.
He thought of every humiliation, every failure, every mocking defeat. He thought of Malavatas standing so effortlessly above him. He thought of the empire he had sworn to crush.
"RRRRAAAHHHH!"
WHHHHK—THUMP!
The cut was perfect. The dummy split cleanly, halves falling apart in the silence of the night. The sound echoed long after the strike.
Rudura dropped to his knees, sword slipping from his blistered hands. He was drenched in sweat, every breath like fire in his chest. But this time—there was no frustration. No anger.
Only pride. A small, stubborn smile crept onto his exhausted face.
"One day…" he whispered to the broken wood, his voice hoarse. "One day I'll surpass even you, Malavatas."
His head dropped forward. Sleep claimed him right there in the dirt, surrounded by fallen dummies and shards of wood, sword resting beside him like a loyal companion.
From his chamber, Malavatas stood by the window, eyes fixed on the boy below. He had watched everything. Every strike, every curse, every collapse, every rise.
The faint light of the moon painted Rudura's small, fragile frame in silver. Malavatas's face remained calm, but his thoughts churned.
"So, he bled through the night again…" Malavatas murmured to himself, voice low. His lips curved faintly—not quite a smile, not quite disapproval. "Reckless fool. But perhaps… this recklessness will forge him into something greater than I imagined."
He lingered at the window for a moment longer, eyes sharp as a hawk, before finally stepping back into the darkness of his room.
Outside, the boy slept. The broken dummies lay as silent witnesses to his vow. And the night carried that vow quietly into the unknown future.
(Continued in Chapter 32)