With the rise of the next day, Gray stood once again in the secluded training yard. His body still carried the weight of yesterday's exhaustion, yet his eyes burned with an unwavering resolve. Ken was already there, standing with his hands folded neatly behind his back, as if he had never left the yard at all.
Ken's cold voice cut through the silence:
— "Start where we left off. Show me your breathing."
Gray drew in a deep breath as he had been taught, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it slowly through his mouth. He repeated the exercise once, twice, then dozens of times, each breath growing heavier as fatigue pressed against his chest. Still, he forced himself onward.
Ken's next command came without pause:
— "Your feet. Show me stability."
Gray planted his feet firmly, but Ken closed the distance in two calm steps and corrected his stance with a quick touch.
— "Like this… Don't lean forward so much. Remember, without a solid foundation, you're just a leaf in the wind."
The drills continued, over and over, until the sun climbed high above the yard. Sweat poured from Gray until it soaked his clothes, but Ken showed no sign of relenting.
Just then, a few guards happened to pass by. They glanced toward the yard, their whispers laced with quiet laughter.
— "So this is the Fourth Prince's choice? A weak boy who can barely stand?"
Another chuckled.
— "Seems the prince has finally found someone who resembles him."
The words pierced Gray's heart like thorns. He clenched his fists tightly, hiding the sting of shame, but Ken remained unmoved, his expression calm. Only when the guards disappeared from sight did he step closer and murmur in a voice colder than frost:
— "You have two weeks. At the festival, either you win and seize your dream… or you fail me, and crawl back in tears."
Gray trembled. For a moment, it felt as if he stood on the edge of an abyss. Yet deep inside, a small fire sparked to life. He couldn't tell whether Ken's words were meant as insult or encouragement, but he resolved to make them his fuel.
The first week passed like hell.
Ken spared him no mercy. Hours upon hours were spent drilling the same fundamentals:
— controlling his breath so his body would not collapse under fatigue,
— fixing his stance until his balance could hold against any force,
— moving in rhythm with his breath so his strength was never wasted.
By the middle of the week, Ken finally revealed the first techniques.
Holding a wooden practice sword, he demonstrated with calm precision:
— "This strike looks simple, but its power lies in timing."
His blade slashed in a diagonal arc, deceptively ordinary—until at the very last instant, the cut snapped downward with a sudden burst of weight and speed.
— "The hidden diagonal cut. You draw breath at the moment you lunge, and release your power with the exhale… Try it."
Gray repeated the strike dozens of times. At first, his blows were light and clumsy. But under Ken's watchful eye, his form sharpened, his movements growing steadier until, for the first time, he felt as though he was wielding the sword rather than merely swinging it.
Then came the second lesson. Ken raised an invisible blade and spoke:
— "Attacking is easy. Defense is what defines a knight."
He demonstrated a new motion—the flowing parry. Instead of clashing force against force, the blade absorbed the strike's weight and redirected it with fluid precision.
— "Don't meet strength with strength. Let it slip past you."
It was far harder to execute. Gray stumbled again and again, his arms stung by every wooden strike Ken delivered. But he kept standing, adjusting, retrying, until the movements began to sink into his body.
The nights of that first week were brutal. Gray collapsed onto his cot inside a simple tent, his muscles screaming, his skin bruised, every breath filled with pain. Yet in those moments, he remembered his family's faces, and the moment Ken had chosen him. At dawn, no matter how broken he felt, he dragged himself back to the yard.
By the end of the week, he stood once more in the training yard. His body was drenched in sweat, his limbs shaking from exhaustion—but his breathing was steadier, his stance firmer, and his grip on the sword more natural.
Ken regarded him in silence for a long moment. His expression betrayed no admiration, but his words were clipped and final as he turned his back:
— "This is only the foundation. The real battle begins tomorrow."
A tired but determined smile broke across Gray's face. He knew his journey was far from over… yet for the first time, he believed he could walk it.