The morning sun spilled its golden light over the vast training ground, chasing away the cool mist that clung stubbornly to the dirt. Birds cawed somewhere high above, but the air down below was heavy, thick with the silence that always seemed to settle when Rudura stepped into this place.
The boy's small hands wrapped tightly around the iron sword. Even though he had been using it for days now, its weight never got lighter. His muscles screamed each time he lifted it, veins standing out on his thin arms, but he didn't care. Pain had become a permanent companion.
Malavatas stood in front of him, arms crossed, watching without expression. His dark eyes followed every twitch, every swing, every slip of Rudura's stance. He wasn't here to praise. He wasn't here to encourage. He was here to carve reality into the boy's bones.
"Begin," Malavatas said simply.
Rudura gritted his teeth and nodded. He drew in a deep breath, then swung the sword at the nearest wooden dummy. The blade connected with a dull thunk instead of a clean slice. Splinters scattered, but the dummy stood tall, barely scratched.
"Too slow," Malavatas said flatly.
"I know," Rudura muttered under his breath, sweat already dripping down his forehead. He adjusted his grip, feet digging into the dirt, and attacked again. This time he tried to put all of his strength behind the cut. The sword bit deeper into the wood, but it was still far from a clean split.
"You think strength is enough?" Malavatas's voice was sharp. "It is not. You need precision. You need timing. Stop rushing. Stop being impatient."
Rudura bit down on his frustration. Easy for you to say. You're a monster. I'm just a fucking ten-year-old kid.
But he didn't dare say it out loud.
Instead, he swung again. And again. Each strike left him panting harder. His body was trembling after only a dozen cuts, the iron sword pulling at his shoulders like a chain meant to drag him down.
Malavatas sighed, stepping forward. He didn't speak, didn't lecture. Instead, he lifted his own sword. For a moment, the air itself seemed to grow sharper around him. He raised the blade, and with one smooth motion—so fast Rudura almost didn't see it—he sliced the dummy cleanly in half. The two pieces slid apart, falling into the dirt with a hollow thud.
Rudura's mouth went dry.
"You see the difference?" Malavatas asked.
The boy swallowed. "Yeah… I see it."
"You are not ready. But you will be. If you bleed enough. If you sweat enough. If you endure." Malavatas stepped back. "Again."
Rudura obeyed. He kept swinging until his arms gave out, until his legs wobbled and he dropped to his knees, gasping like a fish pulled out of water. His palms were raw, blistered from the rough hilt, and his back screamed with every movement.
Finally, Malavatas called it. "Enough for today. Go. Rest. Tomorrow, we continue."
Rudura wanted to collapse right there, but he forced himself up, dragging his feet toward his bed. He collapsed onto it the moment he reached his small room. His body begged him to stay down, to close his eyes and not move until morning.
But his mind… his mind refused.
Night fell, and the moon cast a pale glow over the training ground. The dummies stood in eerie silence, shadows stretching long across the dirt. It was a place that should've felt empty at this hour. Yet to Rudura, it felt alive.
He stood there again, iron sword in hand, sweat drying on his skin from the day's training. His arms were sore, his legs weak, but his eyes burned with something else entirely: determination.
He had wrapped a strip of cloth tightly around his eyes. A blindfold.
"Alright… let's fucking do this," he whispered to himself.
The world went black. He couldn't see the dummies, couldn't see the dirt beneath his feet. All he had left were the sounds—the whistle of the night wind, the creak of wood shifting slightly, his own ragged breaths.
He raised the sword and swung.
The blade missed the dummy completely, cutting only through the air with a disappointing whoosh.
"Shit," he muttered, readjusting. He forced his feet wider apart, tried to steady his grip, then swung again. This time he clipped the edge of the dummy, leaving a small scratch. Not good enough.
"Again."
He whispered the word to himself like a mantra. Every failed swing was answered by another attempt. Miss. Scratch. Too shallow. Too wide. His shoulders ached, his wrists screamed, but he kept going. The sound of metal meeting wood echoed through the night again and again.
And slowly, ever so slowly, something began to change.
He started listening—not to the noise outside, but to the rhythm inside his own body. The way his breath rose and fell. The way his feet pressed into the dirt. The subtle vibration that ran through the sword when it was angled just right.
Hours passed.
He didn't count them. He didn't care.
Finally, he felt it—the moment where everything aligned. His stance was steady. His grip was firm. His breath was calm. He swung.
CRACK!
The dummy split into two neat halves, the pieces falling away as cleanly as when Malavatas had done it.
Rudura ripped off the blindfold, staring at the broken dummy in disbelief. Then a grin spread across his sweat-soaked face.
"I fucking did it…" he whispered. His chest rose and fell rapidly, heart pounding against his ribs. He looked at his hands, trembling but steady enough to hold the sword upright. "I fucking did it."
He staggered back toward his room. His body felt like it would collapse with every step, but his mind was clearer than it had ever been.
Dropping onto his bed, he whispered into the darkness:
"I gotta become better… no matter what."
And with that vow still hot on his lips, sleep finally claimed him.
(Continued in Chapter 39)