Atop a lonely hill, the house stood sentinel over the forest below. Its walls of stone and timber rose as if they had always been there, weathered but unyielding. Moss clung stubbornly to the lower stones, and the thatched roof bore the marks of countless seasons. The narrow, winding road slithered up the hill, half-lost in the morning mist.
Inside, the air smelled of smoke and damp wood. The hall stretched long and shadowed, silence pressing against the walls like a living thing. Against one wall, a carved lion of stone stared with unyielding judgment. Even lifeless, its wide-open jaws and fixed gaze seemed to weigh the room like a burden.
Two boys knelt on the floor. Ivan, red-haired, trembled, knuckles white, lips bitten raw, each breath shallow with lingering fear. The black-haired boy—Yuhan—sat perfectly still, his form blending into shadows. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest betrayed life.
At the far end of the hall, Master Tormond sat in his heavy chair, one leg crossed, broad shoulders leaning into the wood. His gaze was sharp, unwavering, his silence heavier than words. Beside him lounged Mikayle, arms crossed, grin daring the world to erase it.
Without warning, Tormond's arm shot out, shoving Mikayle hard. He staggered, nearly falling, then steadied himself on the chair's edge. Puffing out his chest, he crossed his arms again, pretending to obey—but that grin never left his face.
Tormond pointed at the red-haired boy.
"Name."
Ivan flinched.
"I—Ivan Smith."
Tormond's gaze turned to Yuhan.
"And you?"
Silence.
Yuhan remained unmoving, only the faint rise and fall of his chest betraying life.
A sudden clatter echoed from the kitchen. Marco, hair tousled, eyes wide, froze, then bolted back silently.
Mikayle tilted his head.
"Seriously… has he even blinked once?" he muttered. Then, mock solemnly:
"Boss, maybe he's been mute since birth."
Tormond's sideways glance silenced him.
"I didn't drag you out of chains to coddle you," the Master said. "Pull your weight—or walk out that door."
Mikayle knew better. Harsh words were Tormond's way of lifting broken people back onto their feet.
As the Master rose, Mikayle muttered aloud:
"People often seek slavery over freedom."
The words cut through the hall like iron striking stone. For the first time, Yuhan lifted his head, eyes glinting faintly in dim light.
Mikayle blinked. Great. Now I sound like some old hag spouting wisdom.
Tormond paused at the doorway.
"I'm Tormond. You'll call me Master," he said without turning.
Mikayle frowned.
"Wait—so Master isn't your name? I called you 'Boss' out of respect—"
"Idiot," muttered Tormond, vanishing down the hall.
Marco's voice echoed from the kitchen:
"Food's ready!"
Bowls of rice and steaming red stew were placed before them. The four boys sat on one side; Tormond on the other, his gaze unreadable.
Ivan hesitated, whispering, "…Is this really for us?"
Tormond said nothing, his calm gaze more imposing than words.
Yuhan picked up his bowl mechanically, movements precise but devoid of joy. Marco ate quietly, steadily.
Mikayle tore through his food like a beast unleashed, bowls clattering to the floor. Rice vanished, stew disappeared, all in record time.
Finally, Tormond spoke:
"Mikayle. You'll teach them the basics of swordsmanship."
Mouth full, Mikayle froze.
"Eh?"
"Mikayle," Tormond repeated, voice like rolling thunder.
Startled, Mikayle saluted hastily, wiping stew from his lips.
"Yes, Master!"
As Tormond left, Marco calmly slid another bowl across the table.
"Here, Boss. Master's leftovers."
Mikayle snatched it up, devouring it in seconds, chasing it with gulps of water that poured down his throat like a flood.
With bowls cleared and the sun climbing higher, the boys followed Mikayle out of the hall. The narrow hilltop path stretched ahead, soft earth underfoot, mist thinning into clear morning light. The anticipation of open space, wind in their faces, and the promise of practice made even Ivan's hesitant steps feel lighter.
The flat hilltop beyond the house stretched before them, untouched, perfect for practice. Mikayle rested his blade on his shoulder.
"Today, we'll do the Traditional Mongo True Sword Splash," Mikayle announced, grin playful.
Immediately, Marco jumped in excitement. "Yesss! Finally!" He raised his wooden blade high and demonstrated the move, swinging downward through the air with gusto, cutting the wind as though challenging it itself.
Ivan observed silently, then scoffed aloud:
"That's… some practicing method."
Marco's cheeks puffed in a cute-angry pout. "H-Hey! How can someone not like my naming!?"
Mikayle watched silently, noting subtle tells. Ivan's swings were uneven, hesitant, and his right hand trembled slightly whenever tension rose. It's not the method he doubts… it's me, the master.
"First move—downward, straight, clean. Cut through the wind," Mikayle instructed.
Marco's enthusiasm never wavered, swinging with precision. Ivan reluctantly followed, uneven but attentive. Yuhan's swing missed the mark entirely but he gripped his blade determinedly.
"Again," Mikayle said, arms crossed. "Every swing matters."
Repeatedly, the boys swung. Marco gleamed with energy, Yuhan persevered, and Ivan's tension remained visible.
After repeated swings, Mikayle lowered his blade, watching the boys panting, sweaty, energized.
Marco's passion never fades. Yuhan keeps trying. Ivan… Ivan has fire, but doubts me. He's holding back, and it shows in every swing. His right hand shakes when tension rises. This is where I start helping him—not with the blade, but with him.
Mikayle stepped closer to Ivan.
"I see it now," he said softly. Then, looking directly at him:
"Maybe it's not the method you doubt… maybe it's the master."
Ivan stiffened, gripping his blade tighter. Determination flared, though tension lingered.
"Duel me," Mikayle said simply.
They circled on the flat ground. Ivan's swings were cautious, his right hand trembling.
Minutes passed. Finally, Ivan staggered backward, collapsing, chest heaving. Mikayle's blade rested lightly beside him.
"You've touched steel," Mikayle said calmly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Ivan blinked, a flush of awe and embarrassment crossing his face. He… defeated me… but… he noticed my right hand.
Not bad… but he has an issue in his right hand. Or he's afraid of someone.
Mikayle crouched slightly, placing a hand on Ivan's shoulder.
"Next time, we'll work on that hand."
Ivan's chest rose and fell, a subtle nod of acknowledgment forming, an unspoken bond growing between them.
As the sun dipped behind the hills, Marco's voice broke the silence.
"Hey, Mikayle… can we go to the grassland?"
Mikayle's expression remained cold, detached.
"Not now."
A few seconds passed. Then, his eyes sparkled like a child, brimming with starlight excitement.
"We'll go after training ends."
Marco leapt with joy. Ivan and Yuhan exchanged hesitant glances, curiosity flickering.
The flat hilltop, open sky, and wind carrying promise—everything hinted that tomorrow would be a day unlike any before. And the boys would begin to understand what it truly meant to follow the little master named Mikayle.