The morning air was crisp, cool, and still faintly damp from dawn dew when Raiden's training for the day began.

As usual, Sir Leonard's voice cut through the calm like a sword through silk.

"Thirty laps. Around the main building. Go."

Raiden didn't argue. He didn't groan. He didn't even roll his eyes.

He just nodded, grabbed his wooden sword, and started running.

Sir Leonard stood there for a moment, arms folded, a faintly puzzled look crossing his normally unreadable face.

No protest?

No "just five minutes of stretching"?

No attempt at witty delay tactics?

Strange.

By the tenth lap, Raiden's hair clung to his forehead with sweat. By the twentieth, his breathing grew uneven. But he didn't stop.

He didn't even slow down.

Sir Leonard's eyes followed him silently, assessing.

Normally, the boy would have started making comments by now — joking about needing an audience or accusing Leonard of secretly enjoying his suffering. But today, Raiden's expression was… focused. Strangely adult.

The knight frowned slightly. "Something's different."

When the thirtieth lap ended, Raiden bent forward, catching his breath. "Done."

"Good," Leonard said. "Now we'll begin your endurance drills."

Raiden raised his head and nodded wordlessly.

Still no complaints.

That was the first time Sir Leonard began to genuinely suspect something was wrong.

By the time the stamina training began — push-ups, sword-holds, and stance endurance — Leonard was outright staring.

"Raiden," he said at last, his tone more questioning than commanding. "Are you feeling well?"

Raiden, who was holding his sword horizontally while doing squats, blinked up at him. "Huh? Yeah. Why?"

"You're unusually quiet."

Raiden shrugged between breaths. "Trying… to conserve energy."

Leonard narrowed his eyes slightly, unconvinced. He'd trained soldiers, mercenaries, nobles — all kinds. But he'd never seen a child like Raiden before. The boy had always been reckless, bright, unpredictable — a wild ember that refused to be still.

And now, suddenly, he was calm.

Focused.

Determined.

'What changed?' Leonard wondered.

Midway through their second set of drills, a young servant came running into the courtyard, panting. "Sir Leonard! Miss Hilda requests your presence at the infirmary!"

Leonard raised a brow. "For what reason?"

"One of the guards tried to… overpower Captain Baren during a spar."

Even Raiden paused, mid-stretch. "Wait—overpower Captain Baren? Why would anyone—?"

"He broke three ribs," the servant said, grimacing. "Miss Hilda's attending to him."

Raiden blinked once, then burst into laughter. "He what? Hah! Oh, that's priceless!"

Sir Leonard sighed. "You find amusement in another man's poor judgment?"

Raiden grinned, wiping a tear from his eye. "Not the injury — just the idea. Who in their right mind tries to beat Captain Baren in a strength match? That's like trying to arm wrestle a mountain!"

The servant couldn't help snickering as well, though he quickly straightened under Leonard's glare.

That brief moment — Raiden's laugh, clear and unrestrained — was the only time Sir Leonard saw his usual spark that day.

When the servant left, Leonard simply said, "Five more sword-holds, then we proceed."

Raiden saluted weakly. "Yes, sir!"

Hours passed in the relentless rhythm of training.

Strike. Block. Step. Breathe.

Strike. Block. Step. Breathe.

Sir Leonard gave precise instructions, and Raiden followed every one. He stumbled, corrected himself, adjusted, and continued. No tricks. No shortcuts.

By midday, even the guards watching from a distance had started whispering.

"That boy's still going?" "Hasn't he been at it since dawn?" "Five years old, they said. You sure he's not secretly fifteen?"

Sir Leonard ignored the chatter, but inwardly, he shared their surprise. He had expected the boy's focus to falter after an hour — two, at most. Instead, Raiden's persistence only grew stronger, almost mechanical.

Finally, when the sun stood high and shadows grew sharp, Leonard called, "Break. Twenty minutes."

Raiden slumped down immediately, flopping onto the nearest patch of shade. His arms trembled faintly from exhaustion, but his eyes were bright.

He didn't waste his break lying down. Instead, he turned his head toward the far end of the courtyard — where his brother and father were training.

Kent stood opposite their father, both holding practice swords.

Unlike Raiden's chaotic swings, Kent's movements were smooth, measured, fluid. His stance was balanced, his posture impeccable.

Lord Cedric moved like the wind itself — patient, invisible, guiding rather than striking. Every motion he made carried centuries of refinement.

Today wasn't a spar, though. It was movement training — learning how to flow, to breathe, to anticipate.

Raiden sat cross-legged, watching intently.

Kent pivoted, blocked, and countered in a single elegant sequence.

So that's how he does it, Raiden thought. His center of gravity shifts with his shoulders. He's not fighting the sword — he's letting it move with him.

He smiled faintly. There was no envy in his gaze, only fascination.

He could already tell — Kent was born for this. The sword was an extension of him.

Raiden… wasn't.

And strangely, that didn't bother him anymore.

If anything, it motivated him.

"Guess I'll just have to work harder," he murmured.

When twenty minutes passed, Raiden sat up, expecting the inevitable call.

But none came.

He frowned, glancing at Sir Leonard, who stood some distance away with his back turned, arms folded.

The man was giving orders to a pair of guards — or pretending to.

Raiden blinked. 'He's… not calling me back yet?'

He checked the time again in his system interface. Twenty-three minutes. Twenty-five. Still nothing.

By the time it hit thirty, Leonard finally turned around and said evenly, "Raiden. Resume."

Raiden rose, stretching out his arms. "You gave me extra time, didn't you?"

"I did not," Leonard replied without turning.

Raiden smirked. "You totally did."

"I said resume."

Raiden laughed softly as he walked toward him. "Fine, fine. But thanks, anyway."

"I don't know what you're referring to."

"You're a terrible liar, Sir Leonard."

Leonard's response was to double the boy's movement speed drills.

"Ten sets," the knight commanded. "Full-speed slashes. No pauses."

Raiden groaned dramatically. "Ten?!"

"Twelve."

Raiden blinked. "Wait—what? No! I was just—"

"Fifteen."

Raiden dropped his head in defeat. "You're evil."

"Sixteen."

"Alright, alright!" he shouted, already swinging. "You win!"

The courtyard echoed with the rhythmic sound of the wooden blade slicing through air, again and again. Sweat rolled down Raiden's temples; his breath came in quick bursts. His arms screamed, his legs trembled, but he didn't stop.

Sir Leonard watched in silence, his eyes unreadable. Each swing, though still imperfect, carried more intent than the last.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Raiden stumbled forward, his sword clattering to the ground. He dropped beside it, panting heavily, chest heaving.

He looked like he'd run through three storms.

Sir Leonard approached slowly, his boots silent on the dirt. He crouched down slightly, his shadow falling over the boy.

"Are you alive?" he asked dryly.

Raiden looked up weakly. "Barely."

"Good. That means we can continue tomorrow."

Raiden groaned. "You're trying to kill me."

"If I wanted that," Leonard said calmly, "you wouldn't be breathing."

"Comforting."

Leonard stood and glanced toward the horizon. The afternoon light had softened into gold. "That's enough for today. Rest."

Raiden didn't need to be told twice. He collapsed backward, staring at the sky. His entire body throbbed, but somewhere beneath the exhaustion was… satisfaction.

He'd kept up.

He'd lasted longer than yesterday.

And for once, Sir Leonard hadn't scolded him for laziness.

That was progress enough.

As the guards began clearing the training grounds, Raiden lifted his head slightly.

"Hey," he called weakly. "Thanks… for the extra ten minutes."

Sir Leonard, who was halfway to the gate, paused.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Raiden smirked faintly. "Sure you don't."

He flopped back down again, laughing softly despite his exhaustion.

Behind him, Sir Leonard's lips twitched ever so slightly before he walked on.

From a distance, Kent — now done with his own training — watched his younger brother lying sprawled on the ground, drenched in sweat and grinning up at the sky.

He smiled to himself.

"Looks like you've finally found something you want to chase," he murmured.

Raiden didn't hear it, of course. He was too busy catching his breath — too busy dreaming about the day he'd swing that sword and not fall flat on his face.

For now, that was enough. "I need to beat Sir Leonard at least once." Raiden ended up speaking his thoughts and the man paused.

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