"…Did I mess up?" I chuckled weakly.
"Dumbass… idiot…" Alice mumbled, face beet red.
"If not for your condition, I swear—", She cut herself off, shoved me back with both hands, and bolted for the door.
SLAM.
The clinic shook with how hard she shut it.
I blinked.
'Ah fck. I messed up, didn't I?'*' Goddammit, it was supposed to be a protective gesture. That's what guys do in stories, right?! I didn't mean it like that—she's a kid—I'm technically a kid—bloody hell.'
I sank back onto the bed, sweating.
Yup.
I screwed up.
It's been five days since I woke up.
Five days since I last saw Alice.
Things in the slums have escalated faster than I expected.
Apparently, I'd been unconscious for nearly half a month. And in that time…our plan worked.
Klein told me we'd made a major breakthrough — the source of the incident was located, and part of the enemy network was rooted out and dismantled.
The one who attacked us — the man with the beak mask — his codename is Beta. He works for an organization called Obscurum.
A dark guild.
No one knows much about them. Just whispers.
They work in shadows. Swift, silent, efficient.Give them coin, and they'll handle any dirty job — as long as it fits their rulebook.
Yes.They have a rulebook.
A dark guild with a moral compass? What a f*cking joke.
As for Jack — he was transferred to a higher facility. Apparently, the damage to his face was too much for our local healers to handle.
I haven't seen Anna. Or Nara.
No word. No visits.
Part of me says they're busy. The rest of me… doesn't buy that.
Today was the first time I got out of bed.
And I was immediately swarmed.
"Master Roy!"
"Kiddo!"
"You stupid brat, don't scare us like that again!"
Everyone who passed by dropped a gift, a fruit, a scroll, something. According to the nurse, the inn was flooded every day with people checking on me and Jack.
It was…Nice.
The first thing I did after greeting everyone who came to see me…
was head straight to Uncle Jon.
My father wasn't around. Probably off somewhere smashing skulls over what happened to me. Not that I could blame him.
But right now, we needed to get our house in order. Fast.
When I reached Uncle Jon's place, I saw something I didn't expect—
And honestly?
It stunned me.
His squad of mercenaries — the group he'd trained from the ground up — were out in full force, training under a half-broken roof.
Sweat. Metal. Dust. Rhythm.
Swords swung left and right, daggers spun in tight arcs, spears danced through the wind. And yet—
Not a single wasted movement.
Every breath was centered. Every footstep timed.
Some moved with grace. Others with speed. And a few radiated sheer, brutal power. Each had their own rhythm… but all of them moved with the same purpose.
Then one of them spotted me.
He stopped mid-swing, eyes wide.
The others turned. Then, without hesitation—
"We greet young master Roy!" Dozens of voices echoed in unison as they bowed.
I froze.
'Young master…?'
Before I could even react, the door to the house creaked open—
Uncle Jon stepped out.
Mid-30s, built like a boulder, with a scowl permanently etched into his face. He spotted me—
His eyes flared.
And then—he stormed toward me.
No words.
He grabbed my head, rough but not violent, and stared at me with eyes I'd never seen from him before.
Not anger.
Not pride.
Fear.
"You little sh*t," he muttered, voice shaking. "Don't you ever run off like that again—not until you're strong enough not to come back looking like half your bones got rearranged."
Uncle Jon stepped back after gripping my head, like he'd finally released some tension he didn't want to admit he was holding.I didn't respond. I just bowed my head slightly and looked past the mercs toward the cracked rooftop, the sky above it split by drifting clouds.
Later that evening, I stood atop the training yard behind the inn.
The place was mostly deserted — everyone had cleared out by now. The moon was a crooked slash across the sky, and the wind was biting, relentless.
Fitting.
Wind is freedom.Wind is weightless.Wind can slice without ever being seen.
And right now…I needed to be all of those things.
I closed my eyes and tried to summon it — not the aura, not the rage — but the movement. The air itself. The rhythm of the world.
The mana responded sluggishly at first, still dulled from my injuries.
But I pushed harder.
Harder.
I raised my foot and slashed out with a wooden practice blade, letting mana trail through my veins like lightning through copper.
Swish.
The blade cut air — too slow.
Again.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Each swing sharper, lighter.
My body ached, ribs burned. But I kept moving.
Two hours later, sweat soaked through my shirt. My breath hitched in ragged bursts.My vision blurred — but my blade sang in rhythm with the breeze.
That's when I felt it.
A snap — not in my bones, but in the air.
Wind gathered. It didn't just follow my blade — it clung to it. Like it wanted to move with me.
A flicker of speed. A spiral cut. A blur before the strike.
I grinned.
Only slightly.
Because it was working.
But I wasn't done.
..
..
..
The sky was still dark — just a thin silver line tearing across the horizon.
I was heading back from my second round of movement drills. The sweat on my skin was already drying under the wind when I heard it—
Clang.
Metal hitting stone.
Clang. Clang.
Rhythmic. Heavy. Angry.
I slowed my steps, taking cover near the training shed.
There, under the dim glow of a mana lamp, was Nero.
Swinging.
Again and again.
His broadsword hacked into a thick post reinforced with cloth. Splinters flew.
His grip was strong. His form wasn't bad.
But there was rage in every swing.
Sloppy transitions. Missed footing. A power-drunk tempo that would've earned a scolding from Jack.
He wasn't training.
He was punishing himself.
His shoulders were shaking.
He pivoted hard and swung wide again. The blade crashed into the post, jarring his arms. He staggered back but didn't stop.
"Too slow—"
Another swing.
"Too weak—"
Another.
"Too damn useless—!"
I stepped out of the shadows.
"Your stance is too open," I said casually.
Nero froze.
He didn't turn.
"I know," he muttered.
I walked toward him, hands in my pockets, stopping a few feet behind.
"I thought I told you to train with me," I said.
"I didn't want to slow you down."
"I don't give a shit if you do."
He didn't respond.
The wind brushed between us. Cold. Dry.
Then he raised his sword again. Slower this time. More controlled.
"I saw everything," he said. "How he played with you and Jack. How little effort he used. It's burned into my skull."
I stayed silent.
Nero lowered his weapon slightly.
"I'm not trying to catch up to you, Roy. Not anymore."
I blinked.
"I want to surpass you. Because if you fall again… someone has to be there to finish the job."
That one line.
It hit.
He wasn't weak. He was just desperate to matter.
"…Good," I said finally, smirking a little. "Then fix your footwork."
I picked up a practice sword from the side rack and tossed it to him.
He caught it.
We didn't speak after that.
Only steel did.