Inside a small tent set up at the edge of the tournament grounds, Gray lay on a modest bed, his body wrapped in white bandages that carried the faint scent of medicinal herbs. Shafts of light slipped through the seams of the canvas, brushing his weary face, while pain gnawed at every inch of his battered body. And yet, mingling strangely with the ache, there was something unfamiliar… a faint sense of peace he hadn't felt in years.
He turned his head slowly, trying to process the duel in his mind—the fall, the jeers, and then the moment the Fourth Prince himself had stood before everyone and declared he would take him under his wing. Gray still wasn't sure if it had been a dream or reality, but he could already feel the heavy weight of responsibility settling in his chest.
As he drifted deeper into his thoughts, the sound of quiet footsteps approached the entrance of the tent. They weren't the brisk steps of soldiers, nor the hurried pace of servants. These were steady, confident—yet without noise. Gray looked up, and a shadow slipped inside.
It was Prince Ken. No guards, no attendants, no display of royal authority—only his cold, firm presence.
Ken sat beside him in silence at first, his clear eyes scanning the bandages with calm precision. There was no pity in his expression, no softness—only a sharp, detached focus. Then, in a voice low but cutting like a blade, he said:
— "I didn't take you in just to keep you lying in bed."
Gray's heart jolted at the words. He didn't know how to answer, but he could no longer hold back the question that had been burning inside him since yesterday. Gathering what little courage he had left, he spoke in a shaky but clear voice:
— "Why me? Out of all the knights here, why did you choose me?"
Silence lingered for a moment before a faint, almost mocking smile touched Ken's lips.
— "Because you're the only one stubborn enough to fall while still standing."
Gray's eyes widened in surprise, but Ken didn't stop there. His tone grew sharp, serious:
— "Strength can be earned. Skill can be trained. But resolve… resolve is something that can neither be gifted nor taught. You're either born with it—or you die without it."
Gray's heart pounded as if struck by an arrow. He wanted to speak, but Ken continued, his voice firm and cold:
— "But don't misunderstand. I didn't bring you here to pave the road for you. If you think I'll grant you privileges just because I chose you, you're mistaken. First, I'll test you. We'll start from the foundations—standing, endurance, and discipline."
Gray blinked in disbelief. This wasn't what he had imagined. He had expected sword techniques, advanced drills, special training. Instead, the prince spoke of things that seemed… simple. He nearly protested, but Ken cut him off:
— "Don't underestimate what seems simple. How do you control your breathing under pressure? How do you plant your feet so the wind itself can't topple you? How do you endure when your body becomes a burden? These… are the basics. And if you fail at them, every other skill is nothing but an illusion."
Gray fell silent, his mind drifting back to the duel. He remembered how his legs gave out, how his chest had struggled for air, how his body betrayed him before his will did. Suddenly, Ken's words no longer seemed meaningless.
The prince leaned closer, his voice dropping, colder, sharper:
"I won't forgive you if you disappoint me. Prove to me that your resolve does not break—not with words, but with action. Otherwise, you'll have no place at my side."
Ken rose smoothly, turning toward the tent's exit. Just before leaving, he paused, casting a sidelong glance back at the boy. His voice was quiet but carried a chilling weight:
— "Tomorrow… we'll see if you can even stand."
Then he was gone, leaving Gray lying on the bed, staring up at the canvas above, breath trembling with emotion. His body screamed in pain, but his heart burned with a new fire. With a shaky hand, he clenched his fist and whispered to himself:
— "This time… I won't back down."