"They came riding on flying swords, shining like gods… but they were devils."
— Only surviving witness of the ****** massacre
The knights stared at me like I was some court jester fumbling through a pantomime, swinging a blade I didn't even know how to hold. The training sword wasn't that heavy, but to a body still wrestling with youth, it felt like a chunk of iron designed to mock me.
But I wouldn't falter, not because of weight. Not because of pain.
Because I carried something far heavier.
The weight of humanity's future.
I raised the sword.
A slash.
It was sloppy. Weak. Embarrassing, even.
But it was everything I had.
I raised it again. Another slash.
Then again.
And again.
My arms trembled, sweat beginning to sting my eyes, the burn creeping into my shoulders.
The knights kept watching, their expressions unreadable, amusement? Disdain? Pity? One by one, they drifted off to their own drills, murmuring amongst themselves, their attention evaporating like mist.
All but one.
The commander.
He stayed. Silent. Observing.
Sometimes he nodded as I moved, sometimes he shook his head, lips pressed thin in thought. His eyes were hard, not cruel, but forged in fire. Like someone who had seen too many dreams die.
At the fiftieth slash, my breath was ragged, my shirt clinging to me, and my hands were blistering.
That's when he stepped forward.
He didn't move like a knight from the stories. No polished nobility, no elegance. He moved like someone who'd grown up with fists and alley fights, like a wolf in iron skin. His armor looked lived-in, dented and stained with past battles. His jaw was rough with stubble, and his eyes had the gleam of someone who'd killed more men than he could remember.
He looked me over, head tilted slightly, eyes scanning me from boot to brow.
Then he spoke, voice like gravel in a storm.
"Why are you here, Young Lord?"
The title was spit out, not with respect, but mockery. Like I was some porcelain heir pretending to be steel.
I straightened up, biting down the fire in my lungs.
"Can't you see? I'm starting my training," I shot back, voice firm, even as it wavered with exhaustion.
He looked at me the way one looks at something pathetic left rotting in the gutter. Then, slowly, he let out a grunt. Not quite laughter. Not quite disgust.
A test.
And I hadn't passed yet.
He didn't bother replying.
With a sharp huff and a shake of his head, the commander turned his back on me and stalked off toward the other knights, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel like a silent verdict.
But I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
I resumed the drill, fifty slashes, each one pulling fire through my arms, each one a defiance against the voice in my head telling me I wasn't enough. Then came fifty thrusts. The blade trembled with each drive forward, my stance awkward, shoulders burning.
The commander occasionally glanced my way. Each time, he shook his head, not just in disapproval, but in disbelief. As if wondering what madness had pushed a boy like me into a world like this.
[Skill: Swordsmanship increased to Lv.2]
A subtle shift bloomed within me. It wasn't a rush of power, not some sudden burst of divine energy, but the movements felt… cleaner. Sharper. The sword no longer felt like an anchor dragging me down. It flowed, just a bit, like an extension of my intent.
The grind became more fluid.
The pain dulled to something distant.
Every slash came faster, every thrust more precise.
Still clumsy. Still raw. But better.
The knights didn't look at me anymore.
I didn't care.
By the time I completed my full set, 1000 slashes, 1000 thrusts,the sun was halfway up the sky. My shirt clung to me, soaked in sweat. My hands were raw, skin peeling under the leather wraps. My breath came in steady but tired gulps.
Just shy of three hours.
And I was still standing.
The clang of steel and barked orders echoed across the yard, but I didn't hear them anymore, just the rhythmic thud of my heartbeat and the dull ache in my muscles. I was wiping sweat from my brow when I noticed the commander's shadow stretch toward me once more.
He approached with none of the mockery that laced our first encounter. His gaze was still sharp, still evaluating, but there was something different in it now.
Approval.
A quiet nod.
He stopped a few steps in front of me, arms crossed, eyes scanning me top to bottom like he was trying to see through flesh and into spirit.
Then he spoke, not loud, but firm, and this time without venom.
"Lord Demure said you'd changed. I didn't believe him."
He paused, the silence heavy.
"Maybe there's still something worth redeeming in you after all."
His words weren't praise, not quite. They were cautious recognition. Like a man who's seen too many false starts, too many privileged brats playing soldier. But this time, just maybe, he was seeing the first ember of something real.
"But listen," he continued, tone turning sharp again, "if you plan on training with us seriously, you'll need to build your stamina. You're not going to survive out here on spirit alone."
He pointed his hands toward the mess hall, where soldiers were already lining up, loud and rowdy after their morning drills.
"Go. Eat with the others. You're one of them now… at least for today."
He didn't wait for a response. Just turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, sword in hand, lungs still burning, but chest lifted slightly higher.