After Sir Zenite left, the world didn't suddenly soften or open its doors to me.
But something inside me shifted.
Not much.
Nothing more than a small ember.
But enough.
Enough that when the next morning arrived, I didn't wake because I had to survive another day—I woke because I had something to do.
Something I chose.
Before dawn, I slipped out of the orphanage, careful not to wake the others. The floorboards creaked like dying birds, but I knew which ones to avoid. I'd learned that years ago.
Rua and Flin were still asleep beside me when I left. Rua, curled under her threadbare blanket, always woke up smiling no matter how cold it was. And Flin—snoring, drooling, absolutely dead to the world—wouldn't wake up even if someone set the building on fire.
They were the only people in the orphanage who didn't treat me like a ghost.
I paused at the doorway, staring back at them for a second.
Then I stepped out, letting the cold morning air bite at my face.
The slums were quiet at dawn. No shouting, no drunks, no guards shaking down merchants—just fog crawling between broken walls and muddy roads.
I reached the clearing.
And began.
Stance Training
Zenite's voice echoed in my mind:
"Lower your center."
"Your feet are uneven."
"Strength without stability is useless."
So I held the stance.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
Ten to Twenty.
My thighs burned like I'd been holding the world on my shoulders. My knees shook. My calves cramped. But I held on.
Stance is the foundation of knights. Without it, aura would break you instead of strengthen you.
Swinging and Striking
Then came the swings.
One hundred.
Two hundred.
Three hundred.
My arms screamed. My shoulders felt shredded. My breath turned harsh, clouds of white mist forming in the cold air.
Every swing was a promise.
Climb.
Climb.
Climb.
Footwork & Movement
After I could barely hold the wooden sword anymore, I began footwork drills.
Forward.
Back.
Sidestep.
Pivot.
Advance.
Retreat.
I imitated everything I remembered from watching fighters from the fighting club—even though I knew my version was a pathetic imitation.
But pathetic imitations can still become real skills if practiced long enough.
Core Meditation
Finally, I ended with meditation.
I sat cross-legged. I closed my eyes. Focused on the quiet space inside my chest.
Most days, I felt nothing.
But every few days… something pulsed.
A quiet heartbeat inside my core.
A reminder the lock hadn't fully shut me out.
Training didn't feed me.
And saving up for a real sword didn't happen on wishes.
So I found work.
The tavern paid scraps.
The blacksmiths wanted workers with muscle I didn't have.
Merchants didn't hire slum kids.
But the Red Lantern House?
They always needed extra hands.
It was a brothel near the center of the slums—not glamorous or fancy, but cleaner than most places here. The madam, Miss Heinal, was strict, sharp-tongued, and terrifying, but she paid on time.
And she didn't judge.
Not openly, at least.
My job was simple:
– Carry laundry
– Deliver food
– Clean hallways
– Take out trash
– Escort drunk clients out the back door
– Go on errands in dangerous streets
It wasn't glamorous.
But it paid two bronzes a day if I worked fast enough.
A sword cost at least forty.
That meant twenty days of nonstop work. More if the price rose or if I needed better materials.
The workers there treated me kindly—mostly. They called me:
"Little Rain,"
"Sweet kid,"
or "The quiet one with big dreams."
They knew I wasn't there for any reason other than survival.
Sometimes they teased me.
Sometimes they fed me leftovers.
Sometimes they ruffled my hair until I swatted their hands away.
It wasn't home.
But it wasn't hell either.
And that was good enough.
Every evening, I dragged myself back home—sore, dirty, exhausted.
Rua always noticed first.
She'd run up to me the moment I walked in, eyes bright, hair messy.
"You trained too much again, didn't you! Rain, you'll collapse!"
Rua was small, quick, and always worrying about things she couldn't control. She patched my clothes, fixed my wooden swords when they chipped, and scolded me for forgetting to eat.
Flin was the opposite.
He'd lean back on his bunk, arms crossed behind his head, smirking.
"You're insane, you know that? Normal people don't beat themselves up for fun."
But he always saved a piece of bread for me.
Always.
Rua would patch my hands while complaining loudly that I was going to "die before turning fifteen," and Flin would sit nearby pretending not to listen, even though he always did.
They didn't understand why I was training so hard.
But they didn't leave me alone either.
And that mattered.
More than I wanted to admit.
After everyone fell asleep, I sat by the tiny cracked window of the orphanage and closed my eyes.
I focused on my core.
Felt around for the pulse.
The spark.
The flicker.
Sometimes it didn't answer.
Sometimes it did—quiet, faint, shy.
But each time it appeared, I felt something inside me sharpen.
Grow.
Change.
The days bled into each other:
Stance.
Swing.
Footwork.
Work.
Meditation.
Sleep.
Repeat.
It was painful.
Boring.
Lonely.
Endless.
But for the first time in my life…
I wasn't just surviving.
I was preparing.
Winter was approaching.
And with it—the Lionhearth apprentice exam.
Zenite had left me with a single command.
"Take the Apprentice Knight's Exam."
So I would.
I didn't know how long I'd last.
I didn't know if I'd succeed.
But every drop of sweat, blood, and effort brought me closer.
Every day, The Drizzle slowly faded.
And something heavier, sharper, more certain began to take its place.
Not a drizzle.
Not yet a storm.
But the sky was darkening.
And I could feel the thunder.