Akira's smirk froze.
Silas's voice was right behind him.
Too close.
Akira twisted on instinct, swinging the bow like a club—but his body was already a step behind his mind.
Silas caught the bow mid-swing with two fingers.
The wood creaked.
Then shattered.
Akira staggered back, eyes wide, chest heaving.
The training grounds fell silent once more.
"You rely too much on tricks," Silas said calmly, turning to face him.
Akira clenched his fists, broken pieces of the bow slipping from his hands.
"I almost had you," he spat.
Silas tilted his head slightly.
"No. Almost is the loser's delusion. You were never close. You failed because you simply lack the ability."
Akira's nails dug into his palms.
"Still," Silas continued evenly, "I do admire that you tried—despite knowing you were outclassed. You may challenge me whenever you wish. Let's see if you can ever defeat me."
Akira's blood boiled at the ridicule, but Silas didn't allow him time to respond.
"From now on," Silas said, voice firm, "you will follow the formal knight training program."
Murmurs spread through the ranks. Several knights looked at Akira with pity.
"Moving on," Silas continued, "since it's Akira's first day, we'll keep it light. One hundred laps around the training grounds."
Akira's head snapped up.
"One hundred…?" he breathed.
A few knights chuckled. Others shook their heads.
"That's it?"
"Only a hundred?"
"Light day."
Several began stretching casually.
Silas didn't acknowledge them. His gaze remained fixed on Akira.
"Begin," he said.
Akira started running, assuming he'd be alongside the others.
Instead, air boomed past his face.
Within moments, he realized—no footsteps beside him.
He glanced around mid-stride and saw all the knights already watching him.
Confused and winded, he called out, "Why… why aren't they running?"
"They already finished," Silas replied calmly. "I told you—it's light today because of you."
"…Finished?" Akira repeated, disbelief cutting through his breathlessness.
Silas nodded once.
Akira's eyes swept the grounds.
Some knights stood with arms crossed. Others leaned against posts or sat on the stone edges, drinking water, completely relaxed. One met Akira's gaze and offered a sympathetic shrug.
Akira clenched his teeth and turned back to the track.
Fine.
He ran.
The first few laps felt manageable.
His breathing was steady, legs moving in rhythm. Compared to the chaos earlier, this almost felt normal. He focused on his footsteps, on the steady thud of his heart, shutting out the stares.
Five laps passed.
Then ten.
The ease began to slip.
His breaths sharpened. Sweat beaded on his brow and slid down his neck. The ground felt harder beneath his feet, every impact echoing up his legs.
By the twentieth lap, the burn set in.
His calves screamed, thighs tightening like coiled wire pulled too far. He leaned forward and forced himself onward.
He refused to look at the knights.
At thirty laps, his breathing broke.
Each inhale scraped his lungs raw. His chest felt crushed beneath invisible weight. He swallowed hard, tasting iron.
Voices drifted from the sidelines.
"He's still running."
"Didn't think he'd last this long."
Akira heard them anyway.
Forty laps.
His steps faltered. One foot dragged, then the other. His arms felt heavy, swings uneven, balance slipping.
He stumbled—barely caught himself.
"Maintain your form," Silas said calmly.
Akira wanted to shout back.
Instead, he ran.
By fifty laps, the world narrowed. Dark edges pulsed at his vision with every heartbeat. His body screamed to stop—but his legs moved on sheer refusal alone.
Sweat soaked his clothes. His hair clung to his face, eyes stinging.
Sixty.
His pace slowed no matter how hard he fought it. Every step lagged behind his thoughts.
"…He should've collapsed by now," a knight muttered.
Seventy.
His breathing turned ragged. His stomach twisted violently, nausea rising. He forced it down.
Eighty.
His legs trembled uncontrollably. The ground tilted, the track stretching endlessly.
He tripped.
His hands slammed into the dirt, skin scraping raw as he skidded forward. Pain flared through his palms and shoulder.
For a moment, he stayed there.
The ground was cool.
Still.
"Get up," Silas said.
Akira's fingers curled into the dirt. His arms shook violently as he pushed to his knees—then to his feet.
He didn't look back.
Ninety.
Every step felt wrong. His legs barely obeyed him. His breathing came in broken gasps, throat burning, chest screaming.
The knights were silent now.
One hundred.
Akira crossed the line—and collapsed.
He hit the ground hard, chest heaving as he dragged air into lungs that barely felt functional. Dark spots danced in his vision.
Footsteps approached.
Silas stopped beside him.
"You're finished," he said evenly.
Akira let out a weak, breathless laugh.
"…Light day."
"For them," Silas replied.
He turned away.
"You may go," Silas added. "You joined late. Training is over—go rest."
Akira lay there, staring at the sky, every muscle screaming—
but he was still conscious.
Still breathing.
Still standing and making his way towards his room.