The training yard at dawn was cold and loud, the air sharp with Clover Knights' shouts and the crack of wood on shields.
Captain Blackthorn stood like a weathered rock, his dark green cloak with a faded clover flapping in the biting wind, scarred leather bracers glinting faintly, katana sheathed at his belt.
His eyes flicked to the gate, jaw tight, expecting nothing but frost and an empty archway.
Ash walked in, pale, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, each step a quiet battle.
His gray tunic, and dark trousers tucked into scuffed boots felt stiff.
His body ached from yesterday— muscles tight—but he met Blackthorn's stare, stubborn and fierce, a spark refusing to die.
Blackthorn stepped to the yard's center, boots crunching on frozen dirt, silencing the knights.
His voice was rough, like gravel scraped raw.
"I thought you won't come. Anyways, let's get started." He eyed Ash hard, sizing him up like a blade testing a whetstone.
"This world doesn't care about your heart or your dreams. Strength is not just muscle—it's essence, the spark in the dirt, the steel, our blood, our voice, the air, fire and so much more. If you want to be a hero here, you need that spark, make it yours.
Get through my training—bleed, hurt, without saying 'I quit'—and I'll teach you how to wield your essence. Give up, and I cease to train you."
He pulled his katana, its blade catching the dawn's pale light, cold and sharp.
"This is my essence—iron resonance." He held it near a practice stone, steady, not touching. The blade hummed, a low, bone-deep buzz that made the air feel thick, heavy.
The hum sharpened, and the stone cracked, chunks flying like they'd been hit by a sledgehammer.
"It makes metal listen to me," Blackthorn said, voice low, eyes locked on Ash.
"It breaks what I want broken. Having an essence is your first victory or you're nothing in this world."
Ash's heart jumped, his mind flashing to that first day—the white light bursting from him, blasting the boar, its squeal cut short as it dropped dead in the dirt. That's essence.
Blackthorn sheathed his sword, his stare heavy, piercing.
"Eventually, you could join the clover knights—."
"No," he said, cutting through.
The word hung in the cold air, bold, like a thrown knife, cutting through the noise.
"I just want to be strong enough to accomplish my goal," Ash said, voice steady, his goal a fire in his chest, burning through the ache, the doubt.
Blackthorn grunted, a rough sound, half-annoyed, half-impressed.
His eyes narrowed, seeing something dangerous in Ash's fire, something that could burn too bright.
"Fine. Let's get started. Fifty laps. Now."
Ash ran, legs burning, boots slipping on icy dirt.
The knights moved fast, smooth, like they were born for this, their looks cold, judging, slicing into him.
Blackthorn stood silent, arms crossed, waiting for Ash to crack.
Each lap felt heavier, his lungs screaming, chest tight, but he kept going, jaw clenched, refusing to bend.
His boots kicked up dirt, his breath steamed in the cold, and he pushed through, one step, then another, the knights' eyes on him like hawks.
Training was a grind, relentless, designed to break.
Blackthorn made Ash haul heavy stones across the yard, stacking them fast to beat sneering knights who moved like they'd done this a hundred times.
A tight timer ticked, each second pressing on Ash's chest like a weight.
Dirt stung his eyes, the stones' jagged edges cut his hands, blood mixing with sweat, dripping onto the ground.
His shoulders screamed, muscles shaking under the weight, his back aching like it might snap.
He thought of Noah and Kelvin at the festival, their voices loud, cheering as he hauled a cart full of barrels to win a ribbon, their grins bright under the lanterns, the crowd roaring.
Their absence now cut deeper than the stones, a hollow ache in his gut that hurt worse than his bleeding hands.
I'll bring you back. Pain was his fuel, pushing him to keep moving, to stack another stone, to beat the timer.
"Your body's lying," Blackthorn said as Ash stumbled, a stone slipping from his grip, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
"It's telling you to stop, to crawl away. Don't listen. Your goal's what keeps you standing. Stack it now."
"Strength ain't free," Blackthorn yelled as Ash ran to grab another stone, panting, sweat burning his eyes like salt.
"Beat them, or you're nobody. Move!"
Ash fell, knees slamming into dirt, pain shooting up his legs like fire.
Blackthorn stood over him, face hard, unyielding. "Get up. That's the only choice you've got."
Ash pushed up, hands shaking, dirt clinging to his bloody palms.
He caught his breath, the knights' eyes on him, their silence louder than words.
He grabbed the next stone, heavier than the last, its rough edges biting into his skin.
He hauled it, legs trembling, and stacked it, the timer's tick loud in his ears.
The knights sneered, but he didn't look at them.
He kept going, one stone, then another, his world narrowing to the dirt, the weight, the fire in his chest.
Princess Elis watched from a high window, her blue gown frayed at the hem, sleeves rolled up, leather belt tight around her waist, auburn braid loose.
Her hand gripped the frame, knuckles white, eyes steady.
She saw Ash fight, saw the spark in him growing, refusing to break under Blackthorn's grind.
Her heart tugged, respect mixing with worry, but she didn't look away.
Carrying the last stone, Ash felt worn to the bone, angry, his body screaming to stop.
This shouldn't be so hard.
He gritted his teeth, jaw tight, muscles burning. Noah, Kelvin—I'm not failing you.
The stone got lighter, its rough edges smoother, like new-cut rock from a world long gone, for a split second, then heavy again.
Ash stopped, heart racing, the boar's white light flashing in his mind—bright, wild, unstoppable. Essence. Mine.
Blackthorn saw it, his eyes narrowing, a shadow crossing his face. He could break it all.
A worry dug in, sharp and deep, like a blade in his gut.
"Sven!" Blackthorn called, voice cutting the air like a whip. A lean knight in a dark leather vest, faded green cloak swaying, scarred boots planted firm, stepped forward.
"Show him a real fight." The knights gathered, their whispers buzzing like flies.
Sven's skin turned hard, like stone, glowing faintly with essence.
Ash, chest heaving, wiped sweat from his eyes and said, "I should have known better what I signed up for?"
His punch hit Sven's arm, weak, barely a tap. Sven shoved him down, hard, dirt scraping Ash's tunic, grinding into his skin.
The knights gasped, shocked at Ash's nerve, their murmurs rising like a wave.
Ash got up fast, spitting blood, eyes fierce, burning with something raw, unyielding.
Sven nodded, quick, a flash of respect in his hard eyes.
Blackthorn snapped, "Again."
They went again. Ash swung, missed, took another hit, dirt in his mouth, tasting of blood and grit.
He got up, slower this time, but his eyes didn't waver, still fierce, still burning.
The knights watched, quieter now, their sneers fading into something else—surprise, maybe, or grudging respect.
Sven's nod came again, sharper, real.
Blackthorn's voice cut through, hard and final. "Enough."
Blackthorn stood over Ash, who was panting in the dirt, tunic torn at the sleeve, streaked with blood and dirt.
"You've got guts, kid, but guts need skill to cut anything." He pulled Ash up, his hand strong, like iron, steady.
"Tomorrow. Same time." It was a promise of more pain, but also a nod to the fire Ash carried, the spark Blackthorn couldn't ignore.
Ash limped to his room, body aching, every muscle screaming, every step a reminder of the day's grind.
The mossy stone walls closed in, cold and damp, the cot's gray blanket rough under his hands, the rusted window letting in dim, gray light that barely touched the dark corners.
His tunic and trousers, soaked with sweat and streaked with dirt, stuck to him like a second skin.
He sat, pain real, sharp, cutting through him, but his goal burned brighter, a fire kept burning. He wasn't broken. Not yet.
A knock came, breaking the quiet.
"Yeah," Ash said, voice hoarse, throat dry as dust.
The maid walked in, dark hair tucked under a white cap, her face kind but worn.
Her gray tunic was patched, her brown skirt stained from kitchen work, a leather apron tied tight, holding a small knife and a cloth.
She set a tray down on the wobbly stool—steaming stew, thick dark bread, a cup of water—its smell hitting Ash like a memory of warmth, of home.
"From the Princess, sir," she said, voice soft, like she didn't want to disturb the silence.
"She thought you'd be hungry after today."
Ash looked at her, her kindness a small light in the dark of his pain. "Thanks," he said, voice firm despite the ache. "Send my thanks to her, I'm grateful."
She nodded, a faint smile crossing her face, like she understood more than she said.
"Will do, sir."
The door shut quietly behind her, leaving the room still again.
Elis's food, her care, was a spark in a rough day, a reminder someone saw him, not just his fight, not just his pain.
Ash ate, each bite steady, deliberate, fuel for the fire in his chest.
He wasn't a Knight. He was something else, something he was only starting to understand. His training was just the beginning, and he'd keep going, no matter how much it hurt.