Aldrin woke an hour before dawn, moving with practiced silence through the small house. He'd done this dozens of times before when sneaking out to practice with wooden swords, but today felt different. Today wasn't pretend training—it was real.
He dressed quickly in his oldest work clothes, the ones already stained and patched beyond repair. If Gareth's warnings were accurate, these clothes wouldn't survive the morning anyway. Slipping through the door, he paused only to grab a heel of bread from the kitchen, stuffing it in his pocket.
The village was dead silent as Aldrin made his way through the dirt streets. Only the occasional bark of a dog or the rustle of wind through the thatched roofs broke the stillness. Above, stars still dominated the sky, though the eastern horizon showed the first hints of grey.
The old mill sat half a mile outside Riverton, built beside a stream that had gone dry fifteen years ago when the water source shifted. Now it was just a skeletal structure of rotting wood and moss-covered stone, avoided by superstitious villagers who claimed it was haunted.
Aldrin had never believed in ghosts.
As he approached through the morning mist, he saw a figure sitting on a fallen log near the mill's entrance. Sir Gareth looked up at his approach, those sharp eyes gleaming in the pre-dawn darkness.
"You're early," Gareth observed. "Good. Punctuality is the first lesson of discipline."
"I didn't want to be late, sir."
"Drop the 'sir.' I'm not your commanding officer. I'm not even officially a knight anymore." Gareth stood, using his walking stick for support. "Call me Gareth. Or Master, if you need the formality. But never 'sir'—that title belongs to men who still have honor."
The bitterness in his voice was thick, but Aldrin chose not to comment on it. Instead, he straightened his posture. "What should I do first, Master?"
Gareth studied him for a moment, then pointed his walking stick toward an open clearing beside the mill. "Run. Ten laps around that clearing. Go."
Aldrin blinked. "That's... that's it?"
"Did I stutter, boy? Run. Now."
Without further argument, Aldrin jogged toward the clearing. It was roughly circular, maybe fifty meters in diameter. He settled into a steady pace, his farmer's endurance kicking in. This wasn't so bad—
By the third lap, his lungs were burning.
By the fifth, his legs felt like lead.
By the seventh, he was stumbling, gasping for air like a drowning man.
"Faster!" Gareth's voice cracked like a whip from where he stood watching. "You think monsters will wait for you to catch your breath? You think enemy knights will slow down because you're tired? Faster!"
Aldrin pushed harder, his vision beginning to blur. His breakfast bread sat heavy in his stomach, threatening to come back up. Sweat poured down his face despite the cool morning air.
The eighth lap.
Ninth.
On the tenth lap, his legs finally gave out. Aldrin crashed to his knees, vomiting the bread he'd eaten onto the grass. His entire body shook, and he couldn't seem to draw enough air no matter how hard he gasped.
Gareth's footsteps approached slowly. "Pathetic."
The word cut deeper than any blade.
"Stand up."
"I... can't..." Aldrin wheezed.
"Then you'll die on your knees, and your dream dies with you." Gareth's voice was cold, merciless. "Stand. Up."
Something ignited in Aldrin's chest—not the warmth of Aura, but pure stubborn rage. Using every ounce of willpower he possessed, he forced his trembling legs to straighten, pushed himself upright, and stood swaying on the verge of collapse.
"Good." Gareth's expression didn't soften. "Now, pick up that stick."
He pointed to a thick wooden branch lying nearby, roughly the size and weight of a practice sword.
Aldrin stumbled over and lifted it with shaking hands. The wood felt impossibly heavy.
"Attack me," Gareth commanded.
"What?"
"You heard me. Attack. Try to hit me. Give it everything you have."
Aldrin hesitated. Gareth was an old man with one arm. Even exhausted, Aldrin didn't want to hurt him.
That hesitation cost him dearly.
Gareth's walking stick flashed out faster than Aldrin's eye could follow, cracking against his shin with brutal precision. Aldrin yelped and stumbled backward, nearly dropping his branch.
"Again!" Gareth barked. "Attack me, or I'll break both your legs and leave you here for the wolves!"
This time, Aldrin didn't hesitate. He charged forward, swinging the branch in a wide arc toward Gareth's head—
The old knight sidestepped effortlessly. His walking stick jabbed into Aldrin's exposed ribs, driving the air from his lungs. Before Aldrin could recover, the stick swept his feet out from under him. He crashed onto his back, the branch flying from his grip.
"Dead," Gareth stated flatly. "Get up. Again."
Over and over, Aldrin attacked. Over and over, he was beaten down. Gareth moved like water around his clumsy strikes, each counterattack precise and punishing. The old knight targeted joints—knees, elbows, wrists—places that would disable an opponent without causing permanent damage.
But God, did it hurt.
"Your footwork is garbage," Gareth critiqued as he swept Aldrin's legs for the dozenth time. "You telegraph every attack. You have no guard. You're not a fighter—you're a scarecrow flailing in the wind."
Aldrin tried to respond, but another strike to his solar plexus drove the words back down his throat.
"You know what your problem is?" Gareth continued, circling Aldrin like a predator. "You're thinking. You're trying to predict what I'll do, trying to plan your moves. In real combat, thought gets you killed. You need to act on instinct—feel the flow of battle, react without conscious decision."
"How—" Aldrin gasped, struggling to his feet again. "How am I supposed to do that?"
"By getting hit. A lot." Gareth's stick cracked against Aldrin's shoulder. "Pain is the best teacher. Your body learns faster than your mind. Eventually, you'll move without thinking. You'll see an opening and exploit it before you even realize what you're doing."
Another swing. Aldrin tried to dodge, but the stick caught him across the thigh, sending him sprawling again.
"But that takes time," Gareth continued, not even breathing hard. "Hundreds of hours. Thousands of repetitions. And three years? That's barely enough to make you competent, let alone competitive."
Aldrin pushed himself up once more, his arms trembling. "Then... why... are you training me?"
Gareth paused, and for the first time that morning, something other than cold instruction crossed his face.
"Because I see myself in you," he said quietly. "Thirty years ago, I was just like you—a nobody from nowhere with impossible dreams. Everyone said I'd fail. Everyone said a commoner could never become a Royal Knight, let alone reach Rank S."
He tapped his walking stick against the ground.
"I proved them all wrong. Clawed my way up from nothing through blood and determination. And you know what? It was worth every broken bone, every scar, every moment of agony." His expression darkened. "Right up until the moment it all got taken away."
The raw pain in those words made Aldrin forget his own exhaustion for a moment.
"I can't get my arm back," Gareth continued. "Can't regain what I lost. But maybe—just maybe—I can forge someone else into what I used to be. Someone who won't waste the opportunity when they reach the top."
He met Aldrin's eyes.
"That's why I'm training you, boy. Not out of kindness. Not out of generosity. But because I need to know that everything I suffered wasn't for nothing. That the path I walked can be walked again by someone worthy."
The weight of that expectation settled on Aldrin's shoulders like an iron mantle. This wasn't just about his own dreams anymore. He was carrying Gareth's hope as well—the desperate hope of a broken man trying to find meaning in his failure.
"I won't let you down," Aldrin whispered.
"We'll see." Gareth's mask of cold instruction slammed back into place. "Now get up. We're not done."
The beating continued until the sun fully rose. By the time Gareth finally called a halt, Aldrin was more bruise than boy. Every inch of his body screamed in protest. His clothes were torn and filthy. Blood trickled from his split lip and a cut above his eyebrow.
"Sit," Gareth commanded, pointing to the log.
Aldrin collapsed onto it gratefully, too exhausted to even wipe the blood from his face.
Gareth sat beside him, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-some years. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a leather water skin, tossing it to Aldrin.
"Drink slowly. Gulping will make you vomit again."
Aldrin obeyed, the cool water heaven on his parched throat.
"Tomorrow morning, same time, same place," Gareth said. "And the day after. And every day for the next three years. Understand?"
"Yes, Master."
"Your parents will notice eventually. The injuries, the exhaustion. What will you tell them?"
Aldrin had thought about this. "That I'm doing extra work for the blacksmith. Heavy labor. It'll explain the bruises and why I'm always tired."
Gareth nodded approvingly. "Good. Always have your story ready. Deception is part of a knight's toolkit—not for evil, but for survival."
He stood, groaning slightly as his knees popped.
"One more thing before you go." Gareth's tone shifted, becoming almost... gentle. "What you felt three days ago—that warmth in your chest. That was your Aura trying to awaken. It responded to your emotions, your determination. That's normal for a first manifestation."
Aldrin sat up straighter despite the pain. "Can you teach me to control it?"
"In time. First, your body needs to be ready. Aura flows through your muscles, bones, blood. If your body is weak, your Aura will be weak. We'll spend the next few months just on physical conditioning—building you into a weapon that can channel power."
Gareth placed his hand on Aldrin's shoulder, and this time, there was no harshness in the gesture.
"Only after your body is ready will we begin true Aura training. Rushing that process will cripple you permanently, or worse. Patience, boy. Everything in its proper order."
"I understand, Master."
"Good." Gareth removed his hand and turned away. "Now get out of here. You've got a farm to work and a family to fool. I'll see you tomorrow morning."
Aldrin somehow found the strength to stand. As he limped back toward Riverton, every step agony, he couldn't help but smile.
This was the hardest thing he'd ever done.
And he'd loved every second of it.
Back at the farm, Aldrin's mother took one look at him and gasped. "Aldrin! What happened to you?"
"Fell helping the blacksmith move his anvil," Aldrin lied smoothly, exactly as he'd practiced. "Clumsy of me. But he's paying me extra, so I'll be helping him most mornings before regular work."
His father frowned suspiciously but said nothing.
Little Elara, however, watched her brother with knowing eyes. That night, as they prepared for bed, she whispered, "You found a teacher, didn't you?"
Aldrin froze. "What makes you say that?"
"Because you're smiling. Even though you can barely walk, you're smiling." She grinned. "Don't worry. I won't tell."
Aldrin pulled her into a gentle hug, careful of his bruised ribs. "Thank you."
As he lay in bed that night, body screaming in protest, Aldrin closed his eyes and focused on that spot in his chest. The warmth was there, stronger than before. Still dormant, still sleeping.
But waking up.
Day one of one thousand and ninety-one was complete.
Only one thousand and ninety days to go.