The morning sun spilled over the training ground, painting the dirt in streaks of gold and shadow. The air was cooler than usual, carrying a faint breeze that rustled through the banyan tree's hanging roots. Birds chirped in the distance, but inside this field, silence ruled—thick, heavy silence that only broke with the distant creak of wood dummies or the faint whistle of steel slicing air.
Rudura stood in the middle of the training ground, barefoot on the dirt, clutching his iron sword. His ten–year–old body still hadn't grown into the weight of the blade, but he held it anyway, knuckles white, arms trembling from yesterday's training. Sweat already streaked his forehead though the day had only begun.
Across from him stood Malavatas. Calm. Still. His iron sword rested easily in his grip, like it was a part of his arm rather than a weapon. His eyes studied Rudura with that sharp, unreadable expression that always made Rudura's chest tighten with both awe and frustration.
Today's lesson was different. Rudura knew it the moment Malavatas walked in with a strip of black cloth.
Malavatas tossed the cloth toward him.
"Put it on," he ordered, voice low, steady, carrying no room for argument.
Rudura caught it, staring. "The fuck is this for? You want me to fight blind?"
Malavatas didn't answer with words. Instead, he unsheathed his sword in a clean, precise motion. The sound—shrrring—cut through the morning stillness like thunder.
"Put it on," he repeated.
Rudura gritted his teeth. His pride screamed to throw the cloth aside, but he knew better. Malavatas never wasted time with pointless drills. Everything had meaning, even if it made no sense at first. With a frustrated growl under his breath, Rudura tied the blindfold around his eyes. Darkness swallowed him instantly.
His breathing quickened. The world felt bigger now, heavier. Every sound grew louder—the chirp of a bird, the rustle of leaves, the distant drip of water near the walls of the training ground. His grip tightened on the sword.
"Good," Malavatas's voice drifted closer. "Now listen. Stop relying on your eyes. You see too much and understand too little. Cut that weakness away."
Rudura's lips curled into a smirk, even if his chest pounded. "Tch. Fine. Then I'll cut you down blind, old man."
He lunged forward recklessly, swinging his iron sword in a wide arc. The blade whistled through empty air. Swish! Nothing.
Before he could recover, a sharp crack landed against the flat of his sword. Malavatas had deflected him effortlessly. Rudura staggered back, dirt scraping under his feet.
"Too slow," Malavatas said calmly. His footsteps barely made a sound as he circled. "You swing like a child throwing a tantrum. Feel the air. Feel the shift of weight. Stop chasing and start striking."
"Fuck that!" Rudura roared, lunging again. His sword carved through the dark, but again, it was met with a loud clang! Malavatas's counter drove him off balance.
Rudura stumbled, his breath ragged. Inside, frustration coiled like fire. Why can't I hit him? Even blind, I should've felt it. Why the fuck does this matter? I just want to cut and win!
But deep down—buried beneath the fury—something gnawed at him. He knew why. His swings were wild, fueled by rage, not precision. He didn't want to admit it, but Malavatas's words were right: impatience chained him. Every strike wasted, every breath burned too fast.
Still, he refused to stop.
"Try again," Malavatas's voice came, smooth as stone.
Rudura gripped his sword tighter, chest heaving. He spread his feet apart, dirt grinding beneath his toes. This time, he stayed still, breathing, listening. The world hummed in black silence. He felt his own pulse hammer in his ears. His palms slick with sweat.
A faint tap of dirt shifted somewhere in front of him. Instinct screamed. He slashed forward, pouring everything into the strike.
CLAAANG!
The collision rattled through his arms. Sparks burst where iron met iron. He had connected—but not struck. Malavatas had blocked him with one hand. Effortlessly.
"Better," Malavatas said, pushing him back with a twist. "But not enough."
Rudura growled, blood surging. "I'll cut you, blind or not!"
He charged, slashing again and again. Whsshh—CLANG! Whsshh—CLANG! Each blow was deflected, redirected, dismissed. Malavatas's movements were smooth, economical, like water flowing around stone. Rudura's, in comparison, were desperate, loud, messy.
Minutes bled into what felt like hours. Sweat soaked Rudura's blindfold, stinging his eyes beneath the cloth. His arms ached, his shoulders screamed, but he refused to stop. He swung, again and again, until his lungs burned like fire.
Then, in one reckless surge, he pivoted and attacked—not at random, but straight toward Malavatas's presence. He aimed high, blade slicing down in a brutal arc.
This time, Malavatas didn't block.
The strike stopped just an inch from Malavatas's shoulder. His sword had already been there, intercepting the blow with a stillness so absolute it was terrifying.
Silence fell. Only Rudura's ragged breaths filled the air.
"You almost had me," Malavatas said quietly. "Almost."
Rudura froze, his chest pounding. Almost. The word echoed in his skull like thunder. Almost wasn't enough, but it meant he was close. So damn close.
Malavatas pushed him back with a light shove. Rudura staggered, ripping off the blindfold. The sunlight stabbed his eyes, but he didn't care. He looked up at Malavatas, who hadn't broken a sweat.
"You fight like a beast," Malavatas said. "Wild, furious, reckless. That fire will burn you alive if you don't learn to control it. But…" His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. "It's also what makes you dangerous. Don't lose it. Just sharpen it."
Rudura spat onto the dirt, panting, a crooked grin splitting his sweat–soaked face. "Heh. Then I'll sharpen it until I cut even you."
Malavatas smirked faintly, turning away. "We'll see."
That night, the training ground was silent once again, bathed in pale moonlight. The wooden dummies stood like silent soldiers in the dark, their surfaces scarred from countless strikes.
Rudura returned, sword in hand. His body screamed with pain from the day's drills, but his mind was sharper than ever. He tightened his grip, closing his eyes—not blindfolded this time, but by choice.
He swung. Whsshh! The iron sword carved the air. Again. And again. He repeated the stances, the grips, the defences. Every mistake he had made earlier, he corrected now, alone in the moonlight. His breath steadied, his movements smoothed, his strikes began to cut deeper, cleaner.
Finally, he faced the dummy. He inhaled, raised the sword, and struck. CRAAACK! The wood split, uneven but broken. He struck another. CRAAACK! Then another. His body ached, his arms screamed, but he didn't stop.
Hours passed. Sweat drenched him, his hands blistered, but still he swung. Until at last, with one final breath, he brought his sword down in a perfect arc. SWWSSHH—CRACK!
The dummy split clean in half, falling silently to the dirt.
Rudura staggered, chest heaving, but a grin tugged at his lips. "Heh… I got to become better."
Unseen, from the window of his quarters, Malavatas watched. His eyes lingered on the boy's battered frame, on his relentless persistence.
Rudura dragged himself back to his bed, collapsing into the sheets. The iron sword rested by his side, its cold weight a promise. Sleep claimed him quickly, dreams filled not with rest, but with fire and steel.
(Continued in Chapter 38)