With the dawn of a new morning, the royal palace felt strangely quiet. There were no cheers from the crowds, no echoes of celebration—only silence, broken by the sound of Gray's footsteps as he followed Ken toward one of the palace's secluded training yards.
The yard was wide, paved with worn stone and enclosed by high walls that hid it from curious eyes. There were no decorations, no traces of luxury—only a place designed to test one's will before one's body.
Ken stopped at the center of the yard, his stance straight as though he were carved from steel. He turned to Gray, his voice cold and sharp:
— "Show me what you've got. I want to see your skills… if you have any."
Gray swallowed hard. He raised his sword nervously and began to display everything he had taught himself over the years: quick flurries of strikes, short dashes, clumsy blocks, and jumps he thought looked strong. He tried to pour all his determination into every movement, but his breath grew ragged, and sweat quickly dripped down his brow.
Ken didn't interrupt. He didn't frown, nor nod, nor move. He simply observed, his eyes unreadable, as though time itself had frozen.
When Gray finally finished, panting, leaning on his sword for support, Ken's voice cut through the silence like ice:
— "Plenty of energy… not much foundation."
Gray's chest tightened. He looked up, waiting, and Ken continued:
— "Do it again. But this time, focus on the basics. Show me how you plant your feet. How you raise the sword with stability. How you breathe when you move."
Nerves pressed against Gray's chest, but he obeyed. He set his feet as firmly as he could, lifted the sword more slowly, and tried to steady his breathing.
Ken approached without hurry and crouched beside him. He adjusted Gray's stance himself—pushing one foot slightly back, pressing lightly on his knee.
— "If your foundation isn't firm, you're nothing more than a leaf in the wind."
The words weighed more heavily than Ken's touch. Gray forced himself to focus.
Then Ken tapped a finger against Gray's chest.
—"Breathing. That's your first lesson. Draw air deep through the nose… hold it for a heartbeat… then release it slowly through the mouth. Don't pant like a hunted beast. Control your breath, and you control your body."
Gray tried. He inhaled deep, but exhaled too quickly. Ken's slight shake of the head was enough to make him try again. Once. Twice. Until finally, his chest rose and fell with a steadier rhythm.
Ken struck his shoulder lightly with the back of his hand.
— "Better."
He then took the sword from Gray without asking, turning the blade in his hand before gripping it firmly.
— "Don't strangle it as though someone will rip it away, and don't hold it so loosely it feels borrowed. Grip it as though it's an extension of your arm."
He handed the sword back. Gray tried to mimic him, fumbling at first, until Ken adjusted his grip with his own hand. Looking straight into Gray's eyes, Ken said quietly:
— "A sword isn't just a tool. It's a part of you. If you can't feel it that way, it will only weigh you down."
Before Gray could respond, Ken suddenly snatched up a wooden staff resting nearby. He lunged without warning, swinging down toward Gray's shoulder. Gray barely managed to raise his blade in time. Steel met wood with a sharp ring, the force jarring his arms as he stumbled back half a step, heart hammering.
Ken's lips curved faintly.
— That's where it begins. Don't expect more from me today.
Gray dropped to his knees, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. Yet his eyes burned with a different fire. His body still felt weak, but for the first time, his feet seemed to touch solid ground.
Ken, hands folded calmly behind his back, regarded him with the same coldness—yet with a glimmer of approval in his gaze. His tone was firm, decisive:
— "Tomorrow… you'll learn how to turn your foundation into a weapon in itself."