The Goldheart training courtyard shimmered under the sharp light of mid-afternoon.
The air carried that faint weight of mana that always lingered near the practice grounds along with a mixture of sweat, steel, and power.
A dozen practice dummies stood in perfect formation like wooden soldiers, their straw-filled bodies casting thin shadows across the tiled ground.
Servants gathered at the edge of the courtyard, pretending to polish armor or carry water buckets, but everyone knew why they were there.
It wasn't every day the youngest Goldheart, known more for explosions and pranks than discipline, received a private lesson from the estate's most formidable swordsman.
And right on cue, Sir Leonard appeared.
He walked out from the barracks with the same unhurried grace that could silence a crowd. His steps were measured, his posture impossibly straight, his eyes cold and calm like a blade yet to be drawn. Even now, dressed in a plain white shirt with his sleeves rolled, he looked too perfect — too dangerous.
In his right hand was a wooden training sword. Simple, unadorned… and somehow terrifying.
"Well then, young master," Leonard greeted, his voice a polite rumble. "I trust you are prepared?"
Raiden, standing in the middle of the yard with a sword slightly too long for his height, gave a nervous grin. His hair gleamed in the sun, sweat already gathering at his temples.
"Of course!" he said brightly. "Totally ready. I, uh, love sword practice."
Leonard's gaze lowered to Raiden's grip. His lips twitched — not quite a smile. "Excellent. Ready yourself then, young master. We'll begin with the basics."
Raiden sighed in visible relief. "Basics? Great! I love basics."
Two seconds later, his sword went flying.
The sound it made — a whiff, then a full clatter — echoed painfully through the courtyard.
"Ah—wait! Time out! I wasn't ready!" Raiden yelped, ducking just as Leonard's practice blade sliced the air where his head had been.
Leonard didn't answer. He moved with such smooth precision that it barely looked like he was moving at all. Every step, every swing was a master's rhythm — calculated, effortless, merciless.
Raiden's stance crumbled almost instantly. He stumbled, parried once by accident, then tripped over his own feet.
From the sidelines came a polite cough. Maybe a laugh. Probably both.
"Up," Leonard said simply.
Raiden pushed himself up, grimacing. "You hit hard for a butler, you know that?" He was referring to the time when his father had made Sir Leonard pick a new brooch for him, something worthy of a butler.
"I am not a butler," Leonard replied. "I am the head guard. There is a difference."
"Oh, right," Raiden muttered, brushing dirt from his shirt. "One beats people for training, the other for fun."
"Up," Leonard repeated, with that same tone that somehow managed to sound polite and threatening.
Raiden groaned but obeyed.
The next few exchanges were a blur of wood and humiliation. Leonard's strikes came from impossible angles; his footwork made no sound. Every time Raiden tried to attack, his weapon was deflected, twisted, or simply removed from his hand.
After the fifth fall, he stayed down, panting. "I think my sword hates me. It keeps trying to escape."
Leonard adjusted his gloves, perfectly composed. "Your sword is not the problem."
"Oh? Then what is?"
"Everything else."
The servants nearby turned away, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.
Raiden's instincts screamed for help — or better, for magic. His mind raced through his available skills. [Mana Cloak] could boost his reflexes, [Magnetic Field Manipulation] might knock Leonard off balance, [Quick Step] could help him dodge.
"No magic," Leonard's voice cut through his thoughts, as if reading them.
Raiden froze mid-gesture. "Huh?"
"No magic at all. Only your sword."
"Only—only my sword? But I'm terrible with just my sword!"
Leonard's smirk deepened by a fraction. "Then today, you'll learn the truth of that."
And with that, he lunged again.
Raiden barely managed to raise his blade before the force of Leonard's strike sent him spinning backward.
Thud!
He hit the dirt shoulder-first with a groan. Dust puffed around him like smoke from a failed spell.
He lay there for a moment, dazed, before muttering to the sky, "I hate this already."
Leonard approached at a leisurely pace, stopping just close enough for his shadow to fall over Raiden's face. "Up."
Raiden sighed. "You really like that word."
"It seems to be the one you understand least."
The boy gritted his teeth and pushed up again. He adjusted his grip, tried to recall something—anything—from his father's lessons. Feet apart. Shoulders steady. Eyes on the target.
He swung clumsily, and Leonard deflected it with one hand. Another swing — another effortless parry. Then a flick of Leonard's wrist, and Raiden's sword clattered to the side again.
"Father!" Raiden shouted, throwing up his arms. "I surrender! Help! I'm being bullied by your personal butler,. Sorry, head guard!"
A servant at the gate choked trying not to laugh. One of the guards dropped his sword mid-drill from shaking too hard.
Leonard exhaled, expression perfectly neutral. "If you have enough breath to shout, you have enough for another round."
Raiden groaned. "I hate this man."
"Good," Leonard replied, stepping forward. "Hatred breeds effort. Again."
Minutes blurred into an exhausting haze. The courtyard echoed with the rhythm of wood meeting wood — or, more accurately, wood meeting Raiden's arms, shoulders, and occasionally, his face.
His movements grew sloppier, slower. Sweat dripped from his hair onto the training tiles. His muscles screamed, and his confidence, once inflated like a parade balloon, now deflated with every strike.
And then, against all odds, it happened.
Leonard swung low, and Raiden — purely on instinct — blocked. It was clumsy, barely balanced, but the wooden blades met and held for an instant.
Bang!
The impact rattled his arms, but the sword didn't fly away. It held.
Leonard paused. Just for a moment. His sharp eyes flickered, and the faintest ghost of approval crossed his face.
"Better," he said. "You thought before you moved."
Raiden blinked, breathing hard. "You mean… I didn't completely fail?"
"Not completely."
For Raiden, that was practically a medal of honor.
He straightened, or at least tried to, but his knees wobbled like jelly. The effort of that single block seemed to have used every bit of energy he had left.
Leonard raised his blade again, but after a long moment, he lowered it.
"That will suffice for today."
Raiden's sword slipped from his fingers as he collapsed backward onto the dirt, arms spread wide. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath a small victory.
"Suffice?" he wheezed. "I think you broke half my bones."
Leonard didn't even look winded. He dusted his gloves off, tucking the training sword under his arm. "Then tomorrow, you'll learn to fall properly."
Raiden turned his head slightly, squinting up at the sky. "I should've stuck with magic from Mother or Miss Hilda…"
Leonard gave a short, approving nod. "Magic means nothing if you can't stand when it fails."
The words struck deeper than Raiden expected. He lay there, the ache in his limbs mixing with the faint sting of realization.
He'd always relied on his wits, mischief, systems, and his mana — never his body.
Now, faced with a man who didn't need a single spark of magic to dominate him, he understood something about strength that no system panel had ever explained.
But of course, being Raiden, the epiphany lasted only three seconds.
As Leonard turned to leave, Raiden muttered to himself, "He's worse than Miss Hilda."
That did it.
The nearest guard finally burst out laughing, doubling over. Another tried to hide his grin behind his sword, failing miserably.
Leonard didn't react, though the corner of his mouth might have twitched once — no one could prove it. He simply said, without turning back, "Rest well, young master. We begin again at dawn."
"Dawn?!" Raiden gasped, sitting halfway up. "Who trains at dawn?!"
But Leonard was already gone.
The laughter slowly faded, replaced by the hum of cicadas in the distant hedges. The courtyard, once bright and loud, seemed softer now — painted gold by the lowering sun.
Raiden stayed sprawled on the ground, every part of him aching, every breath reminding him he was still alive.
For the first time, though, he didn't feel humiliated.
He felt… grounded. The chaos, the pain, the laughter — it all felt like something real. Like the beginning of something bigger.
He glanced toward the manor, where his father's silhouette stood faintly in an upper window. Lord Cedric's expression was unreadable from here, but Raiden could imagine the slight, proud smile.
A slow grin crept across Raiden's face.
"Tomorrow, huh?" he murmured. "Fine. But next time, I'm bringing knee guards."
He winced, rolling onto his side before groaning again and deciding the floor was a perfectly acceptable bed for now.
From somewhere behind him, one of the guards whispered, "He's alive, right?"
Another replied, chuckling, "Barely. But he'll be fine. I don't think the Goldhearts break that easily."
And as the sun sank behind the estate walls, painting the courtyard in warm gold, the youngest Goldheart lay there smiling through the ache — bruised, beaten, but strangely content.
Because for the first time in a long while, Raiden wasn't chasing mischief.
He was chasing strength.
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous mischief of all.
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A/N: As promised, five chapters coming up due to the castle received. Thank you all for reading and I hope you guys continue to do so.
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