The next morning arrived colder than usual.
Before the first hint of dawn even touched the rooftops of the slums, I was already awake. My body has been aching since yesterday. My shoulders felt like they were tied down with bricks. My wrists throbbed. My palms burned where splinters had dug in. But pain didn't matter.
Pain meant I was doing something. Pain meant I had started.
I slipped out of the orphanage, stepping over snoring kids and avoiding the creaking floorboards. The caretakers were still asleep—or passed out—so no one bothered me.
Good.
I didn't want anyone to see me so I could train in peace.
The streets were quiet. No fistfights. No drunken yelling. Just the cold bite of early morning air and fog that clung to the ground like steam rising from a dying fire. I took a deep breath, you could see it from how cold it was that morning.
I reached the same desolate clearing where everything had changed—where my wooden sword broke, where the knight appeared, where my core flickered for the first time.
The broken pieces were still there, scattered on the ground.I crouched and picked them up one by one. They were useless. Worthless.
But they were mine.
A reminder of where I started.
I set them aside and pulled out the new weapon I had carved overnight.
Calling it a sword was generous—it was a thicker, clunkier, heavier chunk of wood—but it felt solid in my hands. Stronger. Less fragile than the last one.
I took a deep breath.
Then I swung.
One.
Two.
Three.
The blade whistled through the cold air, heavier than I expected. My stance wobbled. My shoulders screamed almost immediately.
Good.
Weakness had to break before strength could grow.
I remembered the knight's voice—sharp, unimpressed, unwavering.
"Fix your stance."
I tried to adjust. Bent my knees. Lowered my center of gravity. Tightened my grip.
Then I swung again.
Ten.
Twenty.
Fifty.
My arms shook. My breath grew ragged. The wooden sword felt heavier with each cut, as if gravity was trying to pull it out of my hands.
But I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop.
Not now.
Not when a path had finally opened in front of me—no matter how narrow, how steep, how brutal.
By the hundredth swing, I collapsed to my knees, chest pounding, vision swimming.
"Not bad."
The voice froze me in place.
I knew it instantly.
I looked up.
The Lionhearth knight—stood a few steps behind me, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Armor polished. Presence overwhelming.
"Y-You came back," I said, breathless.
He raised an eyebrow. "Did you expect me not to?"
"…Honestly? I wasn't sure."
"Hm." He stepped closer. "Most brats talk about becoming strong. Few actually get up before dawn and try to do something about it."
His gaze swept over my posture.
"Show me your stance."
I scrambled up, trying to mimic everything I'd practiced.
"No. Lower."
I lowered.
"Too much. Again."
I adjusted.
"Your feet are uneven."
Adjusted again.
"Still wrong."
It took twelve corrections before he finally grunted, "Acceptable."
Not good.
Not impressive.
Not promising.
But acceptable.
Coming from a Lionhearth knight, that felt like someone handing me a torch in the dark.
The knight circled me once, studying me like a puzzle missing half its pieces.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Rain."
He repeated it slowly.
Quietly.
"Rain."
He nodded to himself, as if storing it away.
Then his finger tapped my chest.
"Your core," he said. "It's asleep."
"I know," I whispered.
"But yesterday… you felt it, didn't you?"
My heart stopped.
So he had seen it.
The split-second pulse. The spark.
"Yes," I said. "Just for a moment."
He smirked.
"Good. That means you're not empty. Just locked. And a locked core is nothing more than a stubborn gem."
I swallowed. "So how do I unlock it?"
"With will," he said simply. "With discipline. With suffering. And with time."
Lots of it, probably.
He stepped back.
"Come here tomorrow," he said. "Before sunrise. If I don't see you, I'll assume you gave up."
He turned away, cloak sweeping behind him.
"Wait—!" I called.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder.
"What… Do I call you?"
He hesitated. Just a fraction.
"…Sir Zenite."
Then he walked off, disappearing into the fog as quietly as he had arrived.
Leaving me standing there, trembling, exhausted, but more alive than I had ever felt.
Tomorrow.
At dawn.
He would train me.
Not fully. Not properly. Maybe not even kindly.
But he would start.
And that was enough.
Because for the first time in my life, the path forward wasn't just a dream or wish or hopeless fantasy. It was real.
It had a shape.
A direction.
A beginning.
And beginnings matter.
Even if they hurt.
Even if they're small.
Even if they look hopeless.
Because every storm, no matter how violent, no matter how legendary—
starts with a single drop of rain.