At the break of dawn the next day, Gray expected Ken to arrive as usual and continue their relentless training. Yet the auxiliary yard of the royal guard stood strangely empty, its silence broken only by the echo of Gray's footsteps and the whisper of wind stirring the dust. He waited for a while, expecting his mentor to appear—but no one came.
Puzzlement tightened in his chest, until Ken's cryptic words from yesterday resurfaced in his mind: The true path is not paved under the eyes of others, but beneath the gaze of your own self.
As he turned to leave, his eyes caught sight of a folded slip of paper set carefully upon a flat stone. He picked it up, recognizing Ken's sharp handwriting:
"I've led you to the threshold, but the crossing must be by your own steps. From now until week's end, you are alone. Do not seek me… seek yourself."
Gray's heart clenched. He closed his fist around the note and drew in a steady breath.
— So… it's on me now to prove that I can stand on my own.
And thus began the hardest week of his life.
He practiced the breathing techniques Ken had drilled into him, synchronizing inhale and exhale with every motion of his body. He watched his chest rise and fall, counted the seconds in his head, then sprang forward in quick bursts, testing whether his body had truly grown stronger under strain. But without Ken's guiding presence, everything felt uncertain—like a single mistake could drag him back to square one.
During breaks, he sat at the edge of the yard, muttering under his breath:
— Why did he vanish? Does he think I'm weak? Or is he waiting for me to stumble? …No. It doesn't matter. If he's watching from afar, then he'll see—I will not break.
Hours dragged on. Sometimes he repeated stance drills until his legs burned like fire, sometimes he swung his sword again and again, rehearsing the defensive form Ken had hammered into him. And each time the blade slipped from his exhausted hand, he picked it back up with a tighter grip, reminding himself that this pain was the road he had chosen.
At night, his thoughts gnawed at him. He recalled his past—those days of weakness and helplessness, the pitying looks, the mocking glances. Each memory stoked the embers of defiance within him.
— If I don't change myself now, then when? If I can't prove I'm worthy of the sword, then why did I ever take it up?
The days blurred together. The sun rose and fell, marking time by his ragged breaths and the stumbling rhythm of his steps across the dirt. Yet gradually, he noticed change. His movements grew sharper, smoother. His breathing steadier, more aligned. And when he stared into the small mirror he carried, his eyes reflected a gleam he had never seen before.
By the sunset of the week's final day, Gray stood in the center of the yard, sword in hand, face drenched in sweat—but a faint smile curved his lips. He was no longer the uncertain boy who had first entered this place. His features now bore a true resolve—no longer a mere trainee, but a fighter ready to step into challenge.
He lifted his voice for the first time, calling out as though to his mentor, wherever he might be:
— I'm ready. Whether you're watching or not… I'm ready!
And so the second week closed, leaving events poised at the edge of the Knights' Tournament—where all his effort would be tested, and where both his fate and his dreams would be decided.