Leon's mind had gone completely blank; he couldn't think straight. He stole one last look at the squire, his eyes widening in sheer bewilderment, before stumbling away from the training grounds. He forced down some food at the refugee station and practically fled back to his small house.
"This... what is happening to me?" he whispered, his hands trembling. "Am I going... mad?!"
Desperate to drown out the creeping panic, he stood up, grabbed his newfound sword, and began to swing it wildly. I can't go crazy if I keep myself busy... right?
Then, he heard it again. That distinct, unmistakable sound cutting through the air. It was coming from the dirt yard behind his house.
Swoosh.
"That sound..."
Leon instantly dropped his weapon and rushed outside. The man was there. He was standing in the dirt, swinging his blade with that same effortless elegance.
Leon fell to his knees, clutching his head as a sharp pain flared behind his eyes. "I'm really going crazy! Why?!"
The moment the words left his mouth, the man vanished into thin air.
Breathing heavily, Leon crawled back inside, his eyes wild with a frantic, desperate energy. He picked up his sword to return it to its sheath, and—
Swoosh.
"Again?!"
Leon bolted back outside, this time gripping the sword tightly in his hand. The man was there again, swinging non-stop. In his panic, the sword slipped from Leon's sweaty palm, clattering to the ground. The moment the metal hit the dirt, the man vanished. Leon scrambled to pick it up, and the instant his fingers wrapped around the hilt, the phantom reappeared.
"Why does he appear every time I hold my sword? Just what is happening?!" Leon shouted, his voice cracking. He stepped closer, staring at the figure. "Hello? Are you... following me or something? And why do you keep disappearing?"
No answer. The blade continued its perfect arcs.
Leon took another step forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Who... are you?"
There was a moment of complete, suffocating silence.
"Call me... Stranger," a voice replied, echoing as if from a great distance.
"Stranger? Is that your code name or something?" Leon pressed, his fear turning into defensive anger. "Anyway, why do you keep following me? And why do you continuously keep swinging your sword?"
The figure ignored him, continuing his routine. Frustrated by the silence, Leon reached out to grab the man's shoulder. His hand passed straight through the man's body, meeting nothing but empty air. It was like trying to touch a reflection in water. Leon tried again, his hand cutting right through the torso.
"I really am crazy! I don't remember getting hit in the head, though..."
"You aren't crazy," the Stranger murmured. "Just clueless."
"I... was just thinking that," Leon stammered, his eyes widening. "Can you hear my thoughts?"
No answer.
"You are getting on my nerves, you know?" Leon snapped.
The man just kept swinging. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Stranger stopped. He turned his head slightly. "Copy me."
"Huh? Copy you? Why?"
Silence.
Leon let out an annoyed groan, but the sheer hypnotic pull of the swordsmanship was too strong to resist. He raised his cheap blade, adjusted his feet to match the Stranger's stance, and began to copy the movements.
"How... huff... long do I have to... huff... do this? It has been... huff... three hours."
"Until you get it perfect," the Stranger said, his face was still expressionless.
"I-I'm going to sleep."
Leon stumbled backward, dropping his arms in exhaustion. The moment he turned away, the man disappeared.
The next morning, Leon dragged his aching body to the refugee station for breakfast. The volunteers were ladling out thin, watery gruel. Leon stared down at the gray blandness. For someone who had eaten only the most lavish, seasoned feasts served on silver platters all his life, this was barely food.
A single tear slipped down his cheek. But deep inside, a quiet voice told him he had no right to throw a tantrum. This was not his family's manor. This was not his private dining room. This was his current reality. He swallowed the bitter lump in his throat and ate every bite.
When lunch arrived, he returned. This time, the large pots contained nothing but bean water. He forced it down, but this time, no tears fell. The harsh edges of reality were beginning to blunt his pride.
He remembered when he first arrived in Givera. The authorities had served large, hearty food portions to the refugees for the first few days. Then, the generosity abruptly stopped. It was a cruel trick, showing that the kingdom didn't truly care about them. Leon had wallowed in bitterness over it, until he finally looked around at the people sitting beside him.
They weren't angry. They were smiling. They were happy just because they weren't starving. They were grateful simply to be alive.
A little girl and her mother were sitting a few feet away, sharing a meager bowl. "Hey, Mother, look," the girl whispered, pointing a small finger toward him. "It's the man who fainted. They put him in the wagon with us."
Leon froze. He recognized her. She was the child who had selflessly handed him the waterskin when he first woke up in the refugee caravan, back when he was nothing but a broken, bitter shell.
Leon looked around the crowded square. Children were laughing over bowls that contained little more than flavored water. Mothers were thanking the harried volunteers as if they had just been served a royal feast.
Yet this morning, he had nearly wept over a bowl of gruel.
The realization hit him harder than any physical blow. It shattered something deep inside his chest. All his life, he had lived in absolute luxury, never once wondering what hunger felt like, never once caring about the desperation of the less fortunate.
Images flashed through his mind in a dizzying sequence. The servants he had mocked, demeaned, and struck for minor mistakes. The people he had stepped over. The lives he had ruined or dismissed for nothing more than his own fleeting amusement.
I was a monster, he realized, the truth was choking him. A spoiled, pathetic bastard.
He abruptly stood up and ran away from the tables, keeping his head down to hide his face. Tears streamed hot and fast down his cheeks, but they didn't come from self-pity or sadness. They came from the agonizing weight of his own shame.
He sprinted all the way home, burst through the door, grabbed his sword, and went straight to the backyard. The Stranger materialized out of thin air, already in motion. Without a word, Leon threw himself into the routine, channeling all his guilt, his anger, and his newfound humility into the edge of his blade.
For two grueling days, he barely stopped to rest. Finally, at the end of a long afternoon, Leon executed the sequence. The blade sliced through the air with a clean, melodic whistle, perfectly mirroring the phantom beside him.
"You got it perfect that time," the Stranger said quietly.
Leon let out a long, ragged breath, his face washing over with a deep, profound sense of satisfaction. "Finally... it's almost been three weeks."
The Stranger vanished. When Leon went to the refugee station for dinner that night, he sat among the crowd, swallowed his simple meal, and for the first time, a genuine, peaceful smile rested on his face.
The next morning.
When Leon picked up his sword, expecting another dance of blades, the Stranger was on the ground, driving his body up and down in rapid pushups.
"Huh? Pushups?" Leon asked, bewildered.
"Do it."
"But why?"
No answer.
Leon dropped his sword and hit the dirt. His pampered, unconditioned muscles screamed in protest. He managed ten agonizing reps before his arms collapsed beneath him, his chest hitting the dirt.
"Rise and do it again," the phantom commanded.
Teeth gritted, Leon pushed himself back up. He managed five more before his body gave out entirely. He spent the rest of the day in a brutal cycle of pushing against the earth until his muscles trembled like reeds in the wind.
The next day, the routine shifted. The Stranger was doing sit-ups, his movements sharp and relentless. This time, Leon didn't waste his breath asking why. He simply lay down and began. He failed at twenty, gasping for air. After a few minutes of rest, he forced himself through twenty-five more. The entire day was consumed by the burning ache in his core.
The third day brought squats. The burning moved to his thighs, making his legs feel like lead weights.
Then, the days began to blur into a seamless, punishing continuum. The routine repeated so frequently, with such mind-numbing consistency, that Leon completely lost track of the date. One week bled into the next. Pushups. Sit-ups. Squats. The sun rose and set, the cold mornings giving way to milder air, but the grinding exhaustion remained a constant companion.
A full month passed in this silent, agonizing crucible.
Thick, rough calluses formed over the palms of his hands. The lingering softness of his aristocratic youth melted away, his body growing leaner, harder, and more dense with each passing day.
Then, the Stranger finally broke the silence. "We will add sword swings as the fourth day."
Leon paused, wiping a layer of sweat from his brow. "It's been a month since you said a single word to me! And that's what you say? Fine."
Leon didn't question the training anymore. Whether it was out of blind trust, sheer desperation, or a deep, silent admiration for the phantom, even he didn't know. He had simply become entirely mesmerized by the path laid out before him.
The Stranger raised his sword and brought it straight down. The swing was terrifyingly simple, yet it felt immensely powerful, clean, and absolute. Leon attempted to replicate it, but his strike felt weak, unbalanced, and utterly improper. The gap between them was still a vast chasm.
The weather grew progressively warmer as the weeks rolled on. The second month of his isolation was well underway when Kael came to visit him.
"Leon... you home?" Kael's voice called out from the front door.
Receiving no answer, Kael walked around the side of the house just as Leon was returning from a quick lunch at the refugee station.
Kael stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing as he scanned his friend. "Leon? How have you been?"
"Kael? How have you been?" Leon asked, wiping his brow.
Kael stared at him, a look of profound disbelief crossing his face. "You... you look different."
"Different?" Leon asked, glancing down at himself.
"Taller? No... not quite that," Kael muttered, studying the sharp lines of Leon's jaw, the broader set of his shoulders, and the completely altered, steady posture. "Sharper. You look much sharper."
"Anyways, I came to check on you," Kael continued, shaking off his surprise. "I haven't heard from you in such a long time."
"Oh! I'm sorry," Leon said, offering a small, apologetic smile. "I've just been a little busy recently."
Kael smiled warmly. "Did you land a permanent job?"
"Something like that," Leon replied, already backing toward his door, eager to get back to the yard. "Anyways, bye!"
He shut the door quickly, cutting off the conversation.
"Bu— This boy..." Kael muttered to the empty wood, a helpless, amused smile shaking his head as he turned to leave.
Leon ran straight back to the yard. The four-day cycle resumed without a hitch. Pushups. Sit-ups. Squats. Sword swings. Over and over, until the movements became secondary nature, until the definition of his muscles carved deeply into his skin, and the sword felt less like a tool and more like an extension of his own arm. Another full month dissolved into the dirt of the backyard. Two months of absolute, unrelenting isolation.
And then, the peace shattered.
It happened on a Tuesday afternoon, right in the middle of a sword-swing set.
Leon raised his blade, completely focused, when a sound pierced the air from the center of the town.
It wasn't a normal city noise. It was a collective, blood-curdling scream.
"Ahhhhhh! Help!"
Then came another. And another. A cascading wave of raw, unadulterated terror echoed over the rooftops, accompanied by the sudden, distant crash of collapsing wood and iron. The air instantly grew heavy, suffocatingly tense, as the desperate shrieks of hundreds of people blended into a horrifying chorus.
Leon froze mid-swing, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. The Stranger vanished instantly, leaving Leon standing completely alone in the sudden, terrifying silence of his yard.
"What... what was that?!"