Dinner passed in an oppressive silence.
Ryn ate without tasting a single bite—only caring that the food was gone.
His mind was filled with the same repeating images: charging forward, swinging his sword, missing his target, and the crushing exhaustion that followed again and again. It felt as though the only thing he had done all day was stand in the training grounds, gasping for air.
The night dragged on, and dawn came once more.
Yet the results of his training… remained unchanged.
There were no hints.
No explanations.
Not even a guiding glance from his instructor.
Ryn's thoughts were dark, directionless.
He tried to review everything he had learned—
controlling his power, regulating his breathing, visualizing his intent.
All the methods that had once worked so well now offered no answers at all.
No matter how many times he reconsidered it, the solution refused to reveal itself.
Quiet despair began to take root once more.
Even so, Ryn did not stop.
He kept gripping his sword.
He kept charging forward.
He kept swinging.
He missed again and again, yet deep within his heart, he still hoped—
that one day, among all those empty strikes,
the answer he was searching for would finally appear.
In the end, all he gained was exhaustion and hopelessness.
Days passed, and the training remained the same.
No explanations.
No words of comfort.
Not even a single reprimand.
Only the relentless pressure of killing intent—
and a sword that swung, despite knowing it would never land.
The strain continued to build.
Ryn's mind began to crack, like glass being crushed from every direction.
Richard remained motionless.
He said nothing.
He did nothing.
He did not even change his stance.
Still, Ryn kept swinging his blade, over and over,
even though he knew it was meaningless.
Until—
His arm finally stopped.
His body bent forward, head lowered as he gasped for breath.
His breathing came in broken intervals, his consciousness flickering like a candle on the verge of going out, his mind threatening to shatter into fragments.
"Ryn…"
A voice called out.
And in that instant, the past came flooding back,
overlapping with the reality before him.
Tarin was sitting right in front of him, the game pieces scattered across the board.
"You idiot."
The voice was as clear as ever.
"You focus too much on what's right in front of you… and fail to see the rest of the field."
One of the pieces was moved, and the entire game shifted in an instant.
"And you think you can lead troops like that?
Everyone who follows you would end up dead."
Tarin laughed, yet his eyes were more serious than ever.
"Look at this. Whenever you push forward, you only push forward.
Your flanks fall behind.
In the end, no one can support anyone."
He tapped the board lightly with his finger.
"See it now?
Look at everything.
Make it all work together.
Don't rely on just one thing."
Then the voice slowly faded,
and the scene before him dissolved into nothingness.
Ryn drew in a deep breath.
His trembling body began to steady, just a little.
He slowly gathered his consciousness amid the exhaustion and the fractures in his mind.
But this time…
something began to connect again.
"Make it work together…"
His breathing slowed—not from weakness, but into a steady rhythm.
Calm.
Continuous.
Unbroken.
He stopped everything and allowed his mind to drift.
No resistance.
No pulling.
No rejection.
Then, little by little, he drew it back.
As his focus settled, the exhaustion gnawing at his body began to fade.
The chaos in his thoughts eased.
Light returned to his eyes.
This time, what he saw was not just Richard standing before him—
but everything around him.
The ground beneath his feet.
The direction of the wind.
The distant sound of leaves brushing against one another.
Space.
Distance.
Timing.
"See the whole picture…"
So that was it.
Don't look only at the enemy before you—
look at the entire field that surrounds you.
Yes… now he understood.
The world before his eyes had changed.
Richard—
the man who had once seemed towering,
who had pressed down on everything until breathing became impossible—
now appeared smaller.
Not because he was weak,
but because he was no longer the entire battlefield.
"Make it work together…"
Ryn charged forward at once.
He stepped in close, slashing diagonally with intent—
not just an image in his mind,
but a sensation.
His blade was fast.
Very fast.
Richard was forced to leap backward—
and farther than he ever had before.
Ryn emptied his mind again.
He did not chase recklessly.
He did not rush.
He followed.
He sprang after him, cutting horizontally, his imagination flowing without interruption.
His sword was fast—
and fierce.
Crash!
In a split second, Richard drew his blade from its sheath.
He barely managed to block Ryn's strike.
Steel clashed, the echo ringing through the training grounds.
The two froze in that position—
blades locked, eyes meeting,
the field utterly silent.
Richard was the first to lower his sword.
"Looks like you're starting to get it."
His voice was calm, but a faint trace of satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.
"Before this, you were slow as a crawling turtle."
Ryn smiled faintly and said nothing.
He stepped back, took his stance once more, and charged again.
This time, he did not rush.
He did not force it.
His breathing stayed in rhythm with his movements.
His mind neither resisted nor drifted away—
it remained centered.
The blade sliced through the air once more.
Whoosh.
Richard still evaded.
Ryn still missed.
Yet it was different from before.
The exhaustion no longer crashed down mercilessly.
His heart still raced, but it did not shatter.
His arms felt heavy, but they did not tremble.
He remained himself.
The training continued.
Strike — miss.
Retreat — stance.
Charge — halt.
Over and over, until their shadows stretched long across the ground.
And as the sun sank toward the horizon,
Richard raised his hand.
"That's enough for today."
Ryn stopped at once.
His breathing was still heavy.
He planted his sword into the ground, exhaling softly.
But his eyes were sharp—
not clouded like they had been on the previous days.