Three months had passed since they began external combat training, and the difference in their bodies was evident. Lean muscle now wrapped around Min Jae's arms and legs, forged through relentless drills, harsh discipline, and bloodied calluses. Each day was a war of survival, and within that war, he grew stronger—physically and mentally. Gone was the wide-eyed boy who had trembled in a dark cave; now, the boy called 007 moved with silent confidence.
Today, the atmosphere in the underground chamber was different. The air buzzed with anticipation as their instructor, a towering man with a jagged scar crossing his throat, stood in front of the gathered children.
"It is time," he growled. "You've strengthened your bodies. Now you will learn how to fight."
A heavy curtain behind him was pulled open, revealing racks of weapons arranged neatly across stone walls. Swords, blades, spears, axes, whips, throwing needles—even massive stone gauntlets—glimmered faintly under the torchlight. It was a deadly buffet for the young assassins-in-training.
"Pick wisely," the instructor said. "This weapon will accompany you until the end of your training. Changing it later will only set you back."
The children moved like a tide, surging toward the weapons, some shouting with excitement, others desperate to get to the best pick. Min Jae walked slowly, observing. He wasn't interested in what was popular—he was searching for what suited him.
His eyes landed on a thin sword nestled quietly in a corner, partially obscured by the shadow of a larger greatsword. Its black scabbard looked old, nearly abandoned, but when he unsheathed the blade, a faint, eerie purple shimmer ran across the steel's edge.
It was light, almost unnaturally so, yet he felt its weight deep in his wrist. The aura it emitted reminded him of death. This is it, he thought. My blade.
As if drawn by some invisible thread, the moment he gripped the hilt, he knew—this wasn't an ordinary sword.
The instructors split the children by weapon groups. Min Jae was among the forty or so who had chosen blades and swords. Each group was assigned an instructor specializing in their weapon.
Their instructor looked them over. "Before you learn techniques, you must learn perfection. A perfect cut, every time."
Their first task? Swing their weapon ten thousand times a day.
Min Jae's hands blistered and bled. His arms trembled after only a few hundred slashes. But he gritted his teeth and continued, whispering his brother's name with every cut.
Each stroke wasn't just training—it was a vow. A promise that he would never be weak again.
Days blurred. Blood mixed with sweat. He began to notice subtle changes—the way his wrist aligned better, the smoother arc of his blade, the balance between tension and flow. He was growing—not just in skill, but in connection. The sword was no longer a tool. It was part of him.
In those months, he saw her again—Yerin.
The silver-haired girl had caught his eye the day they were paired, but now he noticed something different. While the rest of them grunted, groaned, and suffered under the weight of impossible training, she moved as if it were a dance. Graceful. Fluid. Untouched by exhaustion. And… she had no weapon.
One evening, after training, he found her sitting atop a boulder in the far side of the chamber, her legs crossed, eyes closed, meditating. She didn't even look winded.
He approached. "Why haven't you chosen a weapon?"
She opened one eye, smiling slightly. "Because none of them suit me."
"That's not allowed," he said. "Everyone has to choose."
"I've been given… special permission."
He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
Yerin shrugged, her smile never fading. "Because I'm not like the others."
He studied her face. Delicate features, a small mouth, and sharp blue eyes that glowed subtly in the dark. She was beautiful—otherworldly, even—but her presence made him uneasy. The instructors, who wouldn't hesitate to beat any of them, always passed by Yerin without a word. Almost with reverence… or fear.
That night, after hours of training, as others collapsed from exhaustion, he approached her again during their free hour.
"Who are you?"
For a second, the glow in her eyes flickered, and her body tensed. "Just someone who wants to get out of here. Same as you."
"You're not the same."
She looked down, her voice barely a whisper. "Maybe not. But it doesn't matter."
They trained in silence together for a while. Yerin watched as Min Jae practiced slashes over and over.
"You're too rigid," she said suddenly. "Try loosening your shoulder. Flow with it, don't force it."
He tried. And it worked.
"You've done this before," he muttered.
She didn't respond.
What are you hiding? he thought.
Later that night, we shift to Yerin's POV.
She knelt in a separate chamber, head bowed. In the shadows, a tall man stood—his face hidden, his voice calm and cold.
"Have you gotten close to him?"
"Yes," she said. "He's strong. Getting stronger every day."
"Good. Watch him carefully. He may prove useful in the future. But if he learns too much—"
"I understand," she whispered. "I won't disappoint."
He stepped forward, placing a hand on her head. "Don't forget who saved you from death."
"I haven't."
As she stood, her blue eyes hardened. "And I won't."