The training field was silent—eerily so. Not the kind of silence born from peace, but from disbelief.
William stood in the center, sword lowered, chest rising and falling. Around him lay the captain—unconscious, his blade flung far from his hand, the ground cracked where he fell. The whispers began like a slow tide.
"There's no way… a man who's never even held a sword—"
"He cheated."
"Did you see that speed? That wasn't human."
William ignored them all. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but his face remained unreadable. Sweat rolled down his jaw, disappearing into the dust.
He sheathed the sword, handed it back to the stunned instructor, and walked away without a word. Each step echoed through the field, heavy and deliberate, as if he carried something unseen—something far heavier than victory.
The next morning, the soldiers ate in tense silence. Every glance that met William's was sharp, laced with envy or fear.
"He's a fraud."
"No one defeats the captain like that unless…"
"Unless he's not normal."
William didn't look up. He ate slowly, calmly—rice, dried meat, and tea. Their words slid past him like cold rain on armor. Yet inside, something flickered. A voice.
"Let them talk. You know why you're here."
When breakfast ended, the commander appeared—his steps precise, his expression carved from stone.
"Everyone to the training grounds," he ordered.
The sun had not yet reached its peak when the drills began.
Running.
Dodging.
Sword forms.
Soon, the difference between William and the others became undeniable.
While the others gasped for breath, William moved like a storm under control—every motion fluid, every strike clean, every dodge precise. His body remembered things it shouldn't—techniques that felt older than he was.
"Faster!" the commander barked.
William complied without strain, his body responding effortlessly.
The others struggled, frustrated by how far behind they were. Some gave up mid-drill, collapsing in exhaustion. The few who continued burned with resentment.
When the day ended, the commander dismissed them all—except William.
He turned, eyes narrow.
"You've fought before."
William looked at him. "No, sir."
"That's a lie," the commander said softly. "No one moves like that without years of combat. Who trained you?"
William paused. For a moment, a flicker of pain crossed his face. "No one. I just… remembered."
The commander studied him longer, as if searching for something buried in his eyes. Then, without a word, he turned away.
That night, while others slept, William stood outside the barracks. The moon hung low, pale light reflecting in his eyes. His hand rested on the wooden fence, fingers trembling slightly.
He remembered flashes—blood on stone, a burning village, the weight of a dying man's crown pressed into his hands.
"Don't let them see it," he whispered to himself. "Not yet."
The wind carried the faint echo of the day's training. It sounded like whispers of ghosts—the ghosts of what he used to be.
And under that silent moon, William finally let his mask fall for a moment. His eyes burned—not with pride, but with sorrow.
He wasn't proud of defeating the captain.
He was terrified of remembering how he did it.