The dirt crunched softly beneath Rudura's bare feet as he stepped into the training ground. Morning light painted the sky in shades of pale orange and gold, stretching long shadows across the wooden dummies lined up before him. The air was crisp, carrying the faint smell of earth and dew-soaked leaves, but Rudura's body was already hot, his palms sweating against the rough grip of the iron sword.
He tightened his fingers around the hilt. The weapon still felt heavy, too heavy for his ten-year-old body, but he refused to let it weigh down his spirit. His breath came sharp and quick. His chest rose and fell as he whispered to himself.
Today… today I'll push further.
The training ground was silent except for the occasional rustle of leaves from the banyan tree nearby. Malavatas Didn't stood beside him this time. No voice of guidance, no patient watchful eyes. It was just him, his sword, and the wooden dummies waiting like lifeless enemies.
He lowered his stance, gripping the iron sword with both hands. The blade shimmered faintly under the morning sun, and for a moment, Rudura imagined it slicing through armies, through shields, through history itself. His heart pounded in rhythm with his thoughts.
"Let's do this." His voice cracked but carried a fire beyond his years.
The First Strike
He inhaled deeply. Then—
Shhhk—THWACK!
The sound echoed across the dirt field as his sword cleaved through the first dummy. Splinters scattered into the air, the smell of fresh-cut wood mixing with the morning breeze. Rudura staggered back a step, panting. His arms already ached from the weight, but his lips curled into a small smile.
"One…" he muttered.
He raised the sword again.
The Rhythm of Blades
Second dummy.Shhhk—THWACK!"Two."
Third dummy.The blade bit deeper than before, almost too deep, and he had to wrench it free from the crack of wood. Sweat dripped down his temple, burning his eyes."Three…"
Fourth dummy.The strike came slower. His arms trembled, but he forced the blade down with a grunt."Four…"
Fifth dummy.CRACK! The sword sliced clean, and he stumbled forward, nearly falling. He caught himself with one knee in the dirt, breath tearing from his chest."Five."
Each number was not just a count. It was a vow, a reminder, a chain that kept him standing.
Sixth dummy.THWACK!"Six…" His voice shook with the effort.
Seventh dummy.The sword grew heavier. His fingers burned as if the iron itself was searing into his skin."Seven…" His whisper came more like a gasp.
Eighth dummy.The strike missed center, landing off to the side, but still the wood split apart."Eight!" He shouted, forcing courage into the dirt-filled air.
Ninth dummy.His chest screamed, his shoulders howled, but his determination didn't break."Fuck… nine…" His curse burst out, raw, angry, desperate.
Tenth dummy.He dug deep, dragging every shred of strength from his tired arms. He swung.SHHHK—CRASH!The wood shattered in half, pieces scattering across the ground.
He fell to his knees immediately after, sword buried in the dirt, chest heaving like a bellows. Sweat poured off his face, soaking his shirt. His arms shook so violently he could barely hold the sword anymore.
But his lips curled upward."Ten…"
Rudura tried to rise for the eleventh dummy. He pushed against the dirt, wobbling onto his feet, but his arms felt like stone. His vision blurred, spots of black dancing at the edges.
He raised the sword with a guttural yell—And the blade barely lifted past his waist.
"Damn it… come on!" he growled, forcing his body. His arms trembled, his knees buckled, and with one last desperate attempt, he swung.
Clunk.
The sword bounced harmlessly off the wooden surface, leaving nothing but a shallow dent. Rudura's eyes widened in rage, his breath tearing from his throat.
"Fuck! Why?!" he roared, striking again.Clunk!Another failure.
Again.Clunk!
Again.Clunk!
Each sound stabbed at his pride more than the weight stabbed at his arms. His chest heaved. His throat burned raw from shouting. The iron sword slipped from his grasp and fell into the dirt with a heavy thud.
He collapsed beside it, sweat dripping into the ground, soaking the soil beneath him. His body refused to move. His muscles screamed louder than his voice ever could.
The boy was only ten. His body, though burning with ambition, could only take so much. Yet within those gasps of breath, within the tears that refused to fall, there was fire. A fire that did not care about limits.
But fire could not burn forever without fuel.
Rudura's Thoughts
I split ten… but that's it. Only ten.His teeth clenched so hard his jaw hurt.When my stamina fades, I'm nothing. My sword becomes nothing.
His fists dug into the dirt. His nails scraped the earth until they broke and stung. His eyes glared at the wooden dummies still standing tall, mocking him with their unbroken forms.
"I… have to become better…" he whispered.
The words weren't loud, but they were sharp, carried with the same weight as the iron sword lying in the dirt beside him.
That night, when the stars hung low and the moonlight poured silver onto the training ground, Rudura returned. His body was sore, his arms screamed with every movement, but his eyes burned with determination.
The dirt was cool beneath his feet now. The training ground, empty and quiet, felt like a sacred place. Only the sound of crickets in the grass and the distant rustle of leaves accompanied him.
He picked up the sword. Its weight almost dragged him to the ground, but he held it steady.
One by one, he revised everything.The stance—feet firm in the dirt.The grip—tight, steady, unyielding.The strikes—slow, but sharp.The defenses—raising the blade, blocking invisible attacks.The cuts—repeated, over and over.
Each attempt was slower, clumsier, but he kept going. His arms ached, his shoulders burned, yet he swung.
Shhhk—thwack!Shhhk—thwack!
The sound became a rhythm in the night, echoing like a heartbeat through the silence.
Finally, with a trembling scream, he swung one last time.
CRRRRACK!
The wooden dummy split cleanly in two, falling apart perfectly under the moonlight.
Rudura fell back, collapsing into the dirt, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the broken pieces. His lips curved into a faint, stubborn smile.
"I've… got to become better," he whispered again, voice soft but sharp as a blade.
The stars bore witness to his vow. The night carried it away, storing it for the future.
From his window, Malavatas watched still. The old master's eyes softened as he witnessed the boy strike even after exhaustion, even after failure.
"He doesn't stop. Even when his body breaks, his will refuses," Malavatas said under his breath.
He folded his arms, watching the boy fall asleep in the dirt beside the broken dummy, sword still clutched in his small hands.
"You are special, Rudura," he whispered, his voice lost in the night. "Perhaps the most dangerous kind of special… the kind that refuses to surrender."
The stars overhead bore silent witness to both student and master, one burning with effort, the other with recognition.
And thus, the vow of persistence carved itself deeper into the night.
(Continued in Chapter 35)