The morning sun painted the villa garden in a pale wash of gold. Dew clung to the grass tips, trembling like tiny crystals as a cool breeze whispered through the branches. In the center of that hush stood Arthur, barefoot, planted firmly in the soil. Midnight-black hair spilled over his shoulders, glinting silver where the light touched, and his ice-blue eyes fixed on Ren with a razor's focus.
"Ren." His voice carried the echo of last night's vow. "Today we begin. Your first lesson isn't about feeling the steel—it's about making your will felt."
Ren swallowed, tightening his grip on the hilt. The villa was empty; their parents were at the guild, Nola still asleep. In that moment the world seemed to narrow to Arthur's gaze.
"Understood… brother."
Arthur stooped to pick up a slender twig from the ground. "Try to strike me."
Ren frowned. "But you—"
He cut him off. "Rule one: don't look at what your opponent wields, look at who he is. Even a twig can kill you. Now, strike."
Ren drew a breath and lunged. The blade cut the air, but Arthur slipped aside without so much as lifting the twig. His foot pressed into the earth and Ren's balance faltered.
—Clack!
The twig's tip brushed the sword. Such a light touch—yet the tremor up Ren's wrist was as heavy as a hammer blow.
"You're too noisy," Arthur said. "Until you quiet your mind, steel won't obey you."
Ren gritted his teeth and came at him again, steps quieter this time—yet the twig still barred his way.
"Rule two." Arthur's eyes flashed like a blue thunderbolt. "Test your opponent's patience. The moment you grow impatient, you've lost."
Sweat ran down Ren's face. "So… I should wait?"
"Not wait. Endure. You don't create the opening; it reveals itself when your will holds steady."
Silence fell over the garden. Even the birds seemed muted. Ren forced his excitement down, controlling his breath, locking eyes on Arthur. Arthur's lips curved faintly.
"Good. Your strength isn't in your rings but in your mind. Anchor them not to steel but to will. Then you'll become a true Dover."
Ren steadied himself. This time he wouldn't rush. He raised his blade, feeling rather than watching. But before he could move, Arthur was suddenly in front of him. The twig pressed to his throat.
"Rule three," he murmured, voice cold as ice. "Never underestimate your elder brother."
Ren's breath caught. Then Arthur lowered the twig, turned, and walked away.
"That's enough for today. Tomorrow will be harsher. Be ready, Ren."
Ren watched his brother's back, heart hammering. In one lesson he'd been crushed—but also given an entirely new way of seeing.
Three Weeks of Training
Time blurred. For three weeks the mornings were a crucible, and an awakening.
Week One: Arthur drilled breathing, posture, and mindset. He taught Ren to hold his mind rather than the sword.Week Two: Using the garden as an obstacle course, they honed Dragging Steps. At every corner Arthur waited, laying traps to test Ren's patience.Week Three: Mental warfare and strategy. Arthur blindfolded him, forcing him to predict attack angles, face decoys. Again and again Ren fell, rose, and tried once more.
Each morning ended with Ren collapsed in the grass and Arthur looking down at him with cool eyes, speaking only one sentence:
"A Dover never falls—he only rises stronger."
Day by day Ren felt his body harden, reflexes sharpen, mind clear. At night his muscles burned, but each dawn he rose with new resolve. By the end of the third week, Arthur granted him a brief reprieve.
"I suppose… I'm not the same anymore," Ren panted.
Arthur simply nodded. "You're not. But this is only the beginning."
The Same Day — Academy Archive Room
The archive level of the academy in northern Ashton was quiet. Between the thick stone walls there was only the smell of old files and the glow of dim monitors. Donna, gloved hands moving steadily, opened a new dossier titled "Masked Figure."
Page after page of blurred night photos, date stamps, and terse notes flickered before her eyes. In the images, a figure masked from view—sometimes on rooftops, sometimes in shadowed streets—never revealing an identity.
Donna frowned, murmuring under her breath:
"This one… always one step ahead."
A note caught her eye:
The "Masked Figure" has been reported mainly in the northern district of Ashton City. Displays exceptional reflexes in sword and spear disciplines. Identity remains unknown. Some speculate this is a 'ghost guardian' shielding the academy from the shadows…
Her fingers lingered on the edge of the report. For a heartbeat Arthur's ice-blue eyes flashed in her mind, but she did not speak it aloud.
"If this report is true…" she thought, "then this is a far greater game than I imagined."
She stared at the frozen frame of the masked figure on the screen. The face was fully hidden, but in the eyes there was a spark—something familiar that sent a shiver down her spine. Closing the file, she whispered:
"Masked one… you're hiding something no one can see. But I'll find it."