The past month had been nothing short of hell for Lucius. Grueling physical training from dawn to dusk, relentless drills that pushed his body past exhaustion, and a strict regimen that left no room for weakness. His body had been torn apart and rebuilt, his endurance pushed to its absolute limits.
Yet, through it all, he had not touched a sword.
Until today.
As the sun began to dip behind the horizon, casting long shadows across the training grounds, Marshal Reynard finally handed Lucius a sword.
The weapon was simple but well-crafted, its weight balanced perfectly in his grip. Not a ceremonial blade, not a noble’s ornament—this was a warrior’s tool.
“Infuse your mana into it,” Reynard ordered, his deep voice cutting through the evening air like a blade.
Lucius took a slow breath, focusing his mana. It flowed through his arm and into the sword, causing the blade to faintly hum, its edge shimmering slightly.
At the center of the training ground stood a wooden post, worn but sturdy.
Reynard stepped back, arms crossed. His sharp gaze locked onto Lucius.
“Strike it with your full power.”
Lucius tightened his grip and swung.
CRACK!
The blade bit deep into the post, cutting through nearly halfway, but the momentum faded before it could split completely.
Lucius narrowed his eyes. Not enough power.
A murmur rippled through the knights observing the scene.
“That’s… a deep cut for a first strike.”“Most recruits barely make a dent their first time.”
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One man, however, remained silent—Sir Darius, the Knight Commander. His steely gray eyes locked onto Lucius, unreadable.
He had almost split a reinforced wooden post in one swing?
Lucius exhaled sharply, shifting his stance—but before he could prepare for another strike, Reynard’s voice rang out once more.
“Swing it again. Keep going until you cut it in two.”
Lucius gritted his teeth and raised his sword.
THWACK!
THWACK!
THWACK!
Sweat dripped from his forehead. His arms burned with each strike. The post slowly chipped away, his blade slicing deeper each time.
And then, on the eighth swing—
CRACK!
The post split in two and collapsed onto the ground.
For a moment, silence filled the training grounds.
The knights stared in disbelief. Most of them required three strikes to do the same—and Lucius had done it in just eight.
Lucius panted, his body soaked in sweat, his hands raw and trembling from the repeated impact. His knuckles were red, dirt clinging to his skin.
Sir Darius’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes flickered with something close to shock.
"This boy… he's improving at an unnatural rate."
But before Lucius could catch his breath, Reynard spoke once more, his tone as cold as ever.
“Your swordsmanship training will begin when you can cut it in one swing.”
A sharp inhale spread through the knights. One swing?
That was something only elite warriors could do—knights who had trained for years.
Even Darius’s brow furrowed slightly.
“One swing? That’s…”
Reynard turned away, his next words cutting through the air like a blade.
“You have two months.”“If you can’t do it by then, never show your face to me again.”
The air turned heavy.
Lucius stood frozen, the exhaustion momentarily drowned out by the sheer weight of those words.
The knights exchanged uneasy glances. Even Darius, who had witnessed countless recruits rise and fall, felt something unsettling about this declaration.
“Marshal Reynard actually expects him to accomplish that?”
Lucius slowly looked down at his trembling hands, his body screaming in protest.
But his eyes—his deep amber eyes burned with something else.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Determination.
Sir Darius watched him closely. This boy should be afraid. He should be overwhelmed. He should be on the verge of breaking.
But instead, Lucius simply tightened his grip on the sword.
He’s not going to break.
He’s going to fight.
Lucius exhaled sharply.
Two months.
One strike.
He had no choice.
