Three months passed quietly, each day blending sweat, wood splinters, and laughter.
At first, the boys stumbled through drills. Wooden swords slipped from trembling hands. Footwork faltered, parries missed. Every swing was an exercise in frustration—but also in determination. The sun warmed their backs, sweat trickling into eyes and stinging tiny cuts on palms. The smell of sawdust and grass mingled, sharp and earthy, while the hollow thud of each strike echoed across the field like distant drumbeats.
Little by little, they improved. By the end of the first month, their cuts became sharper, strikes cleaner. The eight directions of the blade—forward, back, left, right, and diagonals—were no longer abstract lessons; they moved with intention, fluid as water. Mikayle occasionally rubbed a raw patch on his palm, grimacing. Even the sting reminded him that progress never came without cost.
The second month brought endurance. They practiced until shoulders ached, legs shook, and arms burned. Logs split under repeated blows, each strike drawing a small, triumphant grin or a quiet chuckle. Mikayle, though a student himself, sometimes called out mock warnings:
"Careful, or you'll hit your friend instead of the target!"
This earned groans, laughter, and occasional playful jabs. Yuhan wiped sweat from his brow, shaking his head, while Marco muttered under his breath, "Just one clean strike… just one," before landing it with a grin. Ivan's awkward laughter followed.
By the third month, precision met strength. Each swing was calculated; each dodge deliberate. Even the mistakes had purpose. Between drills, the boys teased one another, argued over technique, and invented ridiculous games to pass the time. Out of one such game—the infamous "throne of mischief"—Marco crouched like an immovable bench while Yuhan and Ivan formed crude armrests on either side.
Mikayle arrived one afternoon and froze. "What… are you doing?"
Yuhan's face turned crimson. Ivan's matched. Only Marco grinned, clearly proud.
"It's gratitude!" Marco said, puffing out his chest. "For teaching us swordsmanship! Now Ivan can mimic your style, and Yuhan… well, we all can dodge, stab, slash. So we made… the throne of mischief!"
Mikayle raised an eyebrow. "Gratitude, huh? And you think this counts?"
"Step on and sit, great teacher," Marco said, voice solemn.
Mikayle climbed onto Marco's back, placing his hands on Yuhan and Ivan's heads for balance. Marco didn't flinch. Mikayle wiggled experimentally.
"Indeed… very comparable," he said, grinning faintly, though inside he wondered if his balance would survive five more seconds.
Yuhan groaned. "I… can't feel my neck!"
Ivan muttered something half-laugh, half-groan.
Mikayle tilted his head. "Relax. You'll make fine armrests yet."
Training continued, sweat and laughter mingling, until a shadow swept across the field. A pigeon descended, wings dark except for the stark white of its body. It landed on the chimney, bobbing expectantly.
The master rushed over, lifting his arm. The pigeon hopped onto his forearm, paper tied with a green ribbon clutched in its claws. Green meant good news.
Mikayle leaned closer, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "What's that?"
Before anyone could answer, the master's voice rang clear:"Show me what you've learned this month. The time has come—we've got a prey."
Night fell, draping the training field in silver moonlight. The boys sprawled across the grass, staring at stars scattered like tiny fires in the dark. Cool air brushed their necks, the wind rustling leaves softly. Shadows shifted between the trees, twisting as if alive.
Yuhan broke the quiet first. "So tomorrow, we're going downhill. Into that forest."
Mikayle's grin was soft, teasing. "Finally. Something worth hunting."
Ivan tilted his head, confused. "Wait… when you taught us sword techniques, I thought we'd practice on wild boar. Or deer."
Mikayle snorted. "Oh no. What good is learning a sword technique for a boar? It won't complain, at least."
Yuhan muttered, "So basically… we're robbers."
Marco's eyes widened. "It isn't robbing… a robber."
Ivan blinked. "How do you figure?"
Marco leaned forward. "Where those men were taking you… the forest, the frontier. That's the kind of place where every crime imaginable happens: trafficking, smuggling, illegal weapons. People use holes in walls to pass goods no one should see."
Yuhan's eyes widened. "The frontier city wall… it's forty-four meters high. Eight meters thick. No one could pass through."
Ivan frowned. "How come, I didn't even see a wall."
Yuhan explained evenly, "Forest hides it. The stones come from the Revrigan Mounts—three sacred peaks that reflect sunlight and breathe crimson in moonlight. That's what the walls are made of."
Mikayle's voice dropped. "There's a hole. No one knows who dug it. But everything passes through it. Everything."
Yuhan almost bit his tongue in shock. He pushed himself up from the ground and leaned toward Mikayle, eyes wide."Wait… you do know it would take nearly twenty-four years to dig just one meter through that wall, right?"
Mikayle didn't move his gaze from the sky. His voice was even, almost casual, but carried a hint of admiration."Hmm… I don't have your book knowledge, but yeah… those walls are ridiculously hard. Who dug that hole? No idea. But whatever they did, it's impressive."
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "If it really took twenty-four years for a meter, I'd rather not think about how long the entire wall took."
Yuhan's gaze drifted to the dark line of trees at the forest's edge. "If those… Diema predators exist," he said quietly, almost to himself, "why don't they come this way? Why stay in the forest?"
The words hung in the air. For a heartbeat, the others didn't move, didn't even breathe. No one had spoken of the creatures yet; the thought seemed to have arrived out of nowhere.
Mikayle's eyes lifted to the stars, then narrowed. His hand rubbed at his temple, a dull pulse behind his eyes. Slowly, his voice dropped, low and measured."They… can come. But they don't. Not often," he said slowly, forcing his voice even. "The forest is their hunting ground, their home. Crossing out into open land… they're slower, easier to spot. They hunt where shadows hide them, where flames and darkness bend their shape. Out here… we would see them first, and most wouldn't survive."
Ivan shivered. "You… you've seen them, haven't you?"
Mikayle swallowed hard, jaw tight. "I've seen enough. At first, they look human. But the longer they linger in cursed flames… they twist. Their eyes. Their teeth. Their bloodlust. Real monsters. And once you meet them…" He closed his eyes for a moment, pale. "…you never forget."
Silence followed. The wind whispered through the grass, carrying the scent of pine and earth. Mikayle rubbed his temple as a dull throb began behind his eyes. Suddenly, for a brief instant, he saw it—the red flames, the twisted shapes, the horror of what he had faced. His head pulsed painfully.
The boys were silent. Yuhan whispered, almost to himself, "So the forest… it's like their cage. And tomorrow… we're walking straight into it."
Marco exhaled slowly. "Then we better be ready. Even the sharpest sword can't cut luck or fate."
Mikayle let the memory fade, head still throbbing slightly. The flash of fire lingered—a warning, a promise of danger.