Lucius trudged back from the training grounds, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. Sweat trickled down his brow, soaking into his tattered tunic. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, yet his mind remained sharp, replaying every move from the fight against Darius.
The knights stationed along the path whispered among themselves, stealing glances at him. A weakling noble child landing a hit on Commander Darius? It was unheard of. Even if it was just a scratch, it was a statement.
Yet, amidst the murmurs and sidelong glances, one presence stood out.
Marshal Reynard Ardentis.
The towering man stood near the entrance to the barracks, arms crossed, his sharp gaze locked onto Lucius. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across his face, his silver-streaked hair giving him a presence that demanded respect. He had witnessed countless battles, seen warriors rise and fall, yet something about Lucius intrigued him.
"That fight…" Reynard's fingers tapped against his armored forearm. "That wasn't luck. That boy knew exactly what he was doing. It may have been a small scratch, but against a seasoned warrior like Darius… it was no fluke."
Lucius met Reynard's gaze briefly, but the marshal's face betrayed nothing. No approval. No disappointment. Just curiosity.
"Interesting." Reynard thought. "Perhaps I was too quick to dismiss him."
For the first time since Lucius had awoken from his coma, a powerful figure in Ardentis took a real interest in him.
The next morning, Lucius woke up before dawn, his body still aching from the battle. Yet, despite the pain, his spirit burned brighter than ever.
Darius was waiting at the training grounds, his stance rigid as he watched Lucius approach. The air between them felt different today—not as a mere instructor and a noble child, but as a mentor acknowledging a student's potential.
"You wanted real training?" Darius asked, his gruff voice filled with expectation.
Lucius nodded. "Yes."
Darius's lips curled into a smirk. "Then survive this."
And so, it began.
Lucius's Training Routine
From that day forward, Lucius's days were grueling. Morning to night, he trained relentlessly.
Physical Endurance – Carrying weighted logs across the courtyard, running for hours without rest, holding stances for what felt like eternity. His body screamed, but he endured.
Sword Techniques – Striking dummies until his arms went numb, practicing forms until the motion became second nature.
Combat Awareness – Learning to anticipate movements, finding openings, training his eyes to see not just where an attack would land—but where it originated.
Unlike before, Darius did not hold back. Lucius was no longer seen as a fragile noble boy; he was being molded into a warrior.
One Year Later
Lucius stood in front of the mirror inside his training quarters, staring at the reflection before him.
Gone was the weak and frail child who had struggled to lift a wooden sword.
His shoulders were broader, his muscles defined—not just in bulk but in efficiency. Every inch of his body was honed through hardship.
At just eight years old, his presence had changed. His once soft features had grown sharper, his eyes burning with newfound confidence.
Darius leaned against the doorway, arms crossed as he observed the boy. A smirk played on his lips. "Not bad, kid."
Lucius turned, gripping the handle of his sword. He could feel it now—the strength within him.
Marshal Reynard, who had been quietly observing his progress from the shadows, stood atop a distant balcony. He had watched every moment of Lucius's training.
"He's surpassed expectations." Reynard mused. "No… he's something else entirely."
For the first time, Lucius had carved his place in the world of warriors.
His training had only just begun.