Meanwhile...
The training grounds were silent.
No soldiers. No spectators. No servants.
Only open earth, wooden racks of practice weapons, and the wide morning sky stretching above like an indifferent witness.
Lucas stood at the center of the field, wooden sword in one hand, wooden shield in the other. He had already removed his outer coat. His posture was relaxed—but ready.
Bereshith stood several steps away, staring at the rack of weapons.
Swords.
Spears.
Polearms.
Blunted practice blades meant for training.
Lucas crossed his arms.
"Choose one."
Bereshith didn't move.
"I don't want one," he said quietly.
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You don't want one?"
Bereshith turned to face him.
"I don't want to use a blade."
Lucas watched him carefully. "Why?"
Bereshith hesitated, then answered honestly.
"I don't want to cut anyone."
Lucas studied him for a long moment.
"Then choose a spear."
"It still pierces."
"A staff."
"It's meant to strike."
Lucas sighed slowly.
"All weapons are meant to strike."
Bereshith stepped closer to the rack, staring at the polished wood and shaped steel. His fingers brushed lightly over a sword hilt before withdrawing.
"I'll fight with my hands."
Lucas blinked.
"With your hands."
"Yes."
Lucas walked to the rack himself and picked up a pair of leather gloves. He tossed them toward Bereshith.
"Wrap your fists."
Bereshith caught them and began tying them around his hands carefully, tightening the leather around his knuckles.
Lucas picked up a wooden sword and shield.
"You understand," Lucas said calmly, "that your hands will break before my weapon does."
Bereshith nodded.
"I know."
Lucas stepped into position.
"Then we begin."
The first strike came fast.
Lucas did not warn him.
The wooden sword sliced through the air toward Bereshith's shoulder.
CRACK.
Bereshith barely raised his forearm in time. The impact forced him backward immediately. Pain flared through his arm.
Lucas did not pause.
He struck again.
And again.
And again.
Bereshith stumbled under the relentless rhythm.
"You cannot hesitate!" Lucas barked.
The shield slammed forward into Bereshith's chest.
THUD.
He fell to the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs.
Lucas stood over him.
"Get up."
Bereshith coughed, forcing air back into his chest. His arms already ached. His knuckles throbbed from blocking solid wood with flesh.
He stood.
Lucas circled him slowly.
"You refuse the blade," Lucas said evenly. "Fine. Then you must become sharper than one."
He lunged again.
This time Bereshith stepped sideways, barely avoiding the strike. He moved in closer—too close for the sword to swing properly—and threw a punch toward Lucas's ribs.
The leather-wrapped fist connected.
But it was weak.
Lucas's shield immediately smashed downward, knocking Bereshith's arm aside. The wooden sword struck his thigh.
CRACK.
Bereshith collapsed to one knee.
"You are arrogant," Lucas said calmly.
Bereshith gritted his teeth.
"I'm not."
"You believe good intentions are enough."
Another strike came.
Bereshith rolled aside, dirt smearing across his tunic. He sprang up and rushed forward again, this time aiming for Lucas's shield arm.
He grabbed it.
Pulled.
Lucas shifted his weight and used the shield's momentum to throw Bereshith off balance. The wooden sword struck his back.
Hard.
Bereshith fell again, face pressing into the dirt.
"You think refusing a weapon makes you pure?" Lucas continued. "It does not."
Bereshith pushed himself up, breathing harder now.
"I don't want to kill anyone!"
Lucas didn't soften.
"Then you will die protecting someone who cannot defend themselves."
The words struck deeper than the wooden blade.
Lucas attacked again—faster now. No pauses. No mercy. The shield bashed into Bereshith's forearm. The sword struck his side. His leg. His shoulder.
Every block sent pain through bone.
Every missed dodge left bruises forming beneath skin.
Bereshith tried countering again—this time ducking beneath the sword's arc and driving a punch toward Lucas's stomach with everything he had.
It connected.
Lucas stepped back slightly.
But only slightly.
"Better," Lucas said.
Then he swept Bereshith's legs from under him with the shield.
Bereshith hit the ground flat on his back.
Lucas placed the wooden sword against his throat.
"If that were steel, you would be dead."
Bereshith stared up at the sky, chest rising rapidly.
Sweat mixed with dirt across his face.
"I don't want to hurt people," he said again, softer this time.
Lucas lowered the sword but did not step away.
"Attacking someone is not always evil," Lucas replied. "Sometimes Attacks prevents greater harm."
Bereshith slowly sat up.
"My fists won't cut anyone."
Lucas looked down at him.
"No," he agreed. "But they will not reach someone holding a spear ten feet away either."
Silence stretched between them.
Lucas extended a hand.
Bereshith hesitated—then took it.
Lucas pulled him to his feet.
"We continue."
The training grew harsher.
Lucas forced him to close distance against a longer weapon. He switched from sword to wooden spear, thrusting repeatedly, forcing Bereshith to weave and deflect with bare hands.
Each blocked thrust numbed his palms.
Each failed dodge left him bruised.
"Use your feet!" Lucas barked. "Your body is your weapon if you insist on being one!"
Bereshith adapted slowly.
He began watching Lucas's shoulders instead of the weapon.
He moved before the strike completed.
He slipped inside the spear's reach, striking at Lucas's arms, his torso, his legs.
Still, he was thrown down again.
And again.
And again.
Hours passed.
The sun climbed higher.
Bereshith's breathing grew ragged. His knuckles were swollen beneath the leather wraps. His arms trembled from blocking.
Lucas did not slow.
"You are naïve," Lucas said during a brief pause. "But not weak."
Bereshith wiped sweat from his brow.
"I don't want to change who I am."
Lucas nodded once.
"Good."
He lifted his wooden sword and shield again, and tossed the spear aside.
"Then become strong enough to protect that."
They resumed.
Strike.
Block.
Dodge.
Fall.
Rise.
Strike.
By midday, Bereshith could barely lift his arms.
Lucas stood before him, shield raised.
"Again."
Bereshith's legs shook.
"I can't."
"Yes, you can."
Lucas attacked.
Bereshith forced himself to move.
He ducked the sword, stepped inside the shield, and drove his fist upward with every ounce of strength he had left.
It struck Lucas's jaw.
Not clean.
Not perfect.
But solid.
Lucas stepped back.
Silence.
Bereshith swayed on his feet.
Lucas lowered his shield slowly.
"There," he said quietly.
Bereshith blinked through sweat and exhaustion.
"That is discipline."
He walked closer.
"Arrogance says you do not need a weapon."
He tapped Bereshith's chest lightly with the wooden sword.
"Ignorance says the world will spare you because you are kind."
He lowered the sword completely.
"But purity…" he continued, "is choosing not to kill when you can."
He placed the wooden sword back onto the rack.
"And naivety is believing that choice will be easy."
Bereshith stood there, bruised and shaking, leather gloves stained with dirt.
"I'll keep my hands," he said quietly.
Lucas nodded once.
"Then we will make them strong enough to carry your convictions."
The sun shone brightly above them.
And the first lesson of many had been carved—not in flesh—
But in resolve.
The sun had risen higher.
The heat pressed down harder.
And Lucas did not stop.
Bereshith was already bruised, already exhausted, his breathing ragged as he stood once more in the dirt. His knuckles were swollen beneath the leather wraps. His legs trembled from repeated impacts.
Lucas did not see a child.
He saw a future that would either harden—
Or shatter.
"Again," Lucas said flatly.
Bereshith lifted his fists.
Slow.
Heavy.
Lucas attacked without warning.
The wooden sword came down in a diagonal arc.
CRACK.
Bereshith raised his right arm to block on instinct—
The sound that followed was wrong.
Not wood striking flesh.
Not wood striking bone.
It was sharper.
Deeper.
A snap.
Bereshith froze.
Then the pain arrived.
White-hot.
Explosive.
His right arm bent unnaturally at the forearm, dropping uselessly at his side.
He screamed.
Not a gasp.
Not a grunt.
A full, unrestrained scream that tore into the open sky.
He fell to one knee, clutching at the broken limb, tears spilling freely from his eyes.
Lucas did not rush to him.
Did not soften.
Did not apologize.
"Stand."
Bereshith's breath came in broken bursts.
"I— I can't—!"
Lucas stepped forward—
And kicked him.
Hard.
The impact struck Bereshith's stomach like a battering ram.
The air exploded from his lungs.
His body lifted from the ground and slammed back several feet away, rolling across the dirt.
He coughed violently.
Blood splattered onto the ground.
Then he vomited, his body rejecting the shock.
He lay there trembling, vision blurred, ears ringing.
Lucas walked toward him slowly.
No anger in his face.
No cruelty.
Only resolve.
"This," Lucas said calmly, standing over him, "is reality."
Bereshith curled slightly, trying to breathe.
"No one," Lucas continued, voice steady and cold as iron, "will stop in the middle of an atrocity just because you are in pain."
He nudged Bereshith's shoulder with the wooden sword.
"No one will wait for you to recover."
Bereshith's tears mixed with dirt.
"You think evil will fight you fairly?" Lucas pressed on. "You think those who chain children and people in prisons will spare you because your arm is broken?"
Bereshith's broken arm throbbed with every heartbeat.
His stomach burned.
His lungs struggled.
Lucas crouched slightly so Bereshith could see his face clearly.
"This world does not protect the weak," Lucas said. "It consumes them."
Silence.
Only the sound of Bereshith trying to breathe.
"You want to keep your hands?" Lucas continued. "Then understand what those hands must endure."
He stood again.
"You want to remain kind?"
His voice sharpened.
"Then you must become strong enough that your kindness will not crushed."
Bereshith's vision cleared slightly.
Lucas pointed the wooden sword toward him.
"If you are weak—who will gonna protects your sister?"
The words struck deeper than the broken bone.
Bereshith's chest tightened.
Lucas did not stop.
"When someone stronger than you grabs her—when someone decides she is useful, or disposable—who will stand in front of her?"
Bereshith's teeth clenched.
Tears still fell.
Pain still raged.
"If you fall," Lucas said firmly, "no one is coming to save you!"
The wind moved across the training ground.
Empty.
Witnessing.
"You will be become another victim of this world," Lucas finished. "Unless you decide you are not."
Silence followed.
Long.
Heavy.
Bereshith lay there, shaking.
His arm was broken.
His body hurt in places he didn't know existed.
His pride was shattered.
His innocence—cracked.
Lucas stepped back slightly.
"Stand," he repeated.
For a moment—
Bereshith did not move.
Then—
His left hand pressed into the dirt.
His broken right arm hung uselessly at his side.
He pushed himself up.
Slowly.
Unsteadily.
But up.
His breathing was uneven.
His face streaked with tears and blood.
But his eyes—
They were different now.
"I…" he began, voice trembling.
Lucas watched.
"I am not weak."
Lucas said nothing.
Bereshith straightened as much as his injured body allowed.
"I am not weak!" he shouted, louder this time, voice breaking but fierce.
His chest heaved.
Tears continued falling.
"But I won't stay like this."
He raised his left fist.
"I am her brother, her only kin left..."
Even though it shook.
"I won't let anyone hurt her. It's my duty as Man!!!"
Bereshith yelled as truth and reality struck him seeing the possible future if his weakness consumed him.
Then the wind carried his words across the empty grounds.
Lucas studied him for a long moment.
Then he walked forward.
Without warning—
He swung again.
Bereshith moved.
Not perfectly.
Not gracefully.
But he moved.
He stepped inside the arc of the wooden sword, using his left arm to deflect the strike enough to avoid full impact.
He drove his shoulder forward into Lucas's chest.
It lacked strength.
But it had intention.
Lucas absorbed the hit.
Then stopped.
He did not strike again.
Instead, he reached out and grabbed Bereshith before he collapsed from exhaustion.
"Good," Lucas said quietly.
He supported the boy's weight briefly before lowering him carefully to sit.
"Conviction," Lucas continued, kneeling beside him, "is forged in pain."
He glanced at the broken arm.
"You will heal."
His eyes returned to Bereshith's face.
"But remember this feeling."
Bereshith's breathing began to slow slightly.
"This world is merciless," Lucas said. "So you must be disciplined."
He stood and looked toward the horizon.
"Strength is not given."
His gaze shifted back to the boy.
"It is earned."
Bereshith sat in the dirt, broken, bleeding, trembling—
But not defeated.
Not anymore.
And beneath the harsh sun of midday,
Something fragile had ended.
And something unyielding had begun.
The training ground fell into silence.
Not the silence of peace—
But the silence after something has been broken.
Bereshith sat in the dirt, his breath uneven, his body trembling from pain and exhaustion. His right arm hung lifeless, bent where it should not bend. Blood still clung to his lips, drying slowly beneath the harsh sun.
Lucas stood over him for a moment longer.
Then the soldier disappeared—
And the caretaker remained.
He exhaled quietly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he crouched beside the boy.
"Stay still," Lucas said, this time not as a command—but as instruction.
Bereshith nodded weakly.
Lucas carefully examined the arm first. His hands were firm, practiced. He did not hesitate, but neither was he careless. He ran his fingers lightly along the fracture, feeling the break, measuring the damage.
Bereshith flinched.
"I know," Lucas muttered. "It hurts."
His tone had changed.
No longer harsh.
No longer cold.
Just… steady.
Lucas removed the torn cloth from Bereshith's upper body, exposing bruises already forming—dark, uneven, spreading across his ribs and abdomen. He wiped away the blood from the boy's mouth with a piece of fabric from his own sleeve.
"You held longer than most," Lucas said quietly. "That matters."
Bereshith didn't answer.
He was too tired.
Lucas reached toward the stone ledge at the edge of the training ground. Resting there was a small brass bell—simple, unadorned, but polished from years of use.
He picked it up.
And rang it once.
The clear sound echoed across the grounds.
Not loud—
But precise.
They waited.
A minute passed.
Then footsteps approached.
Measured. Composed.
A maid entered the training grounds, her posture straight, her expression firm—almost rigid. Her uniform was pristine, her movements disciplined, as if every step had been rehearsed.
She stopped a respectful distance away and bowed her head slightly.
"Yes, what do you require?" she asked.
Her tone was formal.
Controlled.
Lucas glanced at her, then back at Bereshith for a moment before answering.
"Can you bring some bandage, wine, water… and a splint?"
There was a slight pause.
Then—
"Understood, Lord Lucas."
Lucas blinked.
Then immediately shook his head.
"You don't need to add 'Lord' to my name," he said, a bit awkwardly. "I'm just a guest here."
The maid straightened slightly.
"No," she replied firmly. "I must insist."
Lucas hesitated.
There was something in her tone—
Not defiance.
But certainty.
He scratched the back of his head slightly, clearly unsure how to respond.
"…Oh. Okay."
A small, awkward smile appeared on his face.
The maid bowed once more.
Then turned.
And left.
For a brief moment, Lucas watched her go.
Something about that exchange lingered—
But he said nothing.
Instead, he returned his attention to Bereshith.
"Listen carefully," Lucas said, kneeling beside him again. "I'm going to set your arm. It will hurt more than anything you've felt so far."
Bereshith's eyes widened slightly.
"But if I don't do it now," Lucas continued, "it will heal wrong. And you'll carry that weakness for the rest of your life."
A pause.
Bereshith swallowed.
"…Do it."
Lucas nodded.
He positioned the arm carefully, one hand supporting the upper limb, the other gripping just below the break.
"Breathe in," Lucas instructed.
Bereshith inhaled sharply.
"Now—"
Lucas moved.
A sharp, precise motion—
CRACK.
Bereshith screamed again.
Louder than before.
His entire body tensed violently, his back arching as pain surged through him like fire.
Lucas held him firmly, preventing him from thrashing.
"It's done," Lucas said quickly. "It's done."
Bereshith's breathing broke into ragged gasps.
Tears streamed freely down his face.
Lucas didn't let go until the worst of the shock passed.
Then he gently lowered the arm into a stable position, supporting it with folded cloth for now.
"Good," Lucas murmured. "You're still here."
Minutes passed.
The sun shifted slightly.
Then—
Footsteps returned.
The same maid.
But this time, she carried a small wooden tray—on it were clean bandages, a flask of wine, a container of water, and properly cut wooden splints.
She approached, just as composed as before.
"Your request," she said simply.
Lucas nodded.
"Thank you."
She knelt beside them and placed the tray carefully within reach. For a brief moment, her eyes flickered toward Bereshith—taking in the injuries, the bruises, the broken arm.
Something in her gaze tightened.
But her face remained still.
Professional.
Disciplined.
Lucas reached for the supplies and began working.
He cleaned the wounds first, using water to wash away dirt and blood. Then wine—its sting sharp, immediate.
Bereshith winced, but did not cry out this time.
Lucas wrapped the arm with practiced precision, securing the splint tightly enough to hold—but not enough to cut circulation.
"Tell me if your fingers go numb," Lucas said.
Bereshith nodded weakly.
Lucas continued, binding bruised ribs, covering cuts, stabilizing what he could.
Throughout it all—
The maid remained.
Silent.
Still.
Watching.
And then—
Without a word—
She stood.
Bowed slightly.
And turned away.
Lucas barely noticed, focused on finishing the bindings.
But as the maid walked away—
Her steps quickened.
Her composure cracked.
And once she was far enough—
Out of sight—
Her hand rose to her face.
Tears.
Uncontrolled.
Unstoppable.
"Jerk…" she muttered under her breath, voice trembling. "Now you forget about me too… after that night?!"
Her vision blurred as tears continued to fall.
She didn't stop walking.
Didn't look back.
She moved quickly toward the manor—
Toward the medical ward—
Gripping the edge of her sleeve tightly as if trying to hold something together that had already begun to break.
Behind her—
On the training grounds—
Lucas finished tying the last bandage.
Bereshith leaned back slightly, exhausted beyond words.
"You did well," Lucas said quietly.
The boy didn't answer.
He simply closed his eyes—
Not in defeat.
But in recovery.
And somewhere between pain and rest—
The first lesson had been carved into him.
Not just in body—
But in soul.