The training yard lay just beyond the imperial gardens, bordered by stone pillars worn smooth by decades of practice. Wooden dummies stood in neat rows, their surfaces scorched and chipped—silent witnesses to countless hours of discipline.
Ragna stood at the edge of the yard, gripping a wooden practice sword with both hands.
It was heavier than he expected.
His fingers tightened around the hilt as he lifted it, arms trembling slightly. Magic had always answered him easily—fire flowed like breath, natural and obedient. Steel, however, did not bend to will alone.
The royal instructor, a broad-shouldered man with streaks of silver in his hair, watched closely. His name was Sir Aldren, a veteran knight whose body bore the marks of both magic and blade. Unlike most instructors, his presence was calm rather than intimidating.
"Good," Aldren said. "You're not rushing."
Ragna blinked. "I'm… not? .. really, am I not a bit rushing?"
"No," Aldren replied. "Most children swing before they understand weight. You're listening to the sword."
Ragna frowned, adjusting his stance. He swung.
The blade cut the air awkwardly, striking the dummy with a dull thud. The impact jolted his arms, nearly sending the sword slipping from his grasp.
He gasped, stepping back.
"I know swordmanship is tough, but this is just ridiculous" Ragna, thought to himself.
Sir Aldren chuckled softly. "Again."
Ragna nodded, adjusted his stance, jaw tightening, no scream, just pure brute force accomplished with an unpolished strike on the dummy.
Again.
Again.
Few seconds later ...
Sweat beaded on his brow. His arms burned, far more painfully than when he summoned fire. The sword refused to move the way he wanted. Every strike felt wrong—too slow, too heavy, too real.
After several failed attempts, Ragna lowered the blade, breathing hard.
"I thought it would be easier," he admitted quietly.
Aldren stepped closer. "Magic obeys talent," he said. "The sword obeys discipline."
Ragna looked up at him.
"You didn't give up," Aldren continued. "That matters more than your stance."
He adjusted Ragna's grip, firm but careful. "Stand like this. Your strength doesn't come from your arms—use your core. Let your feet anchor you."
Ragna followed the instructions.
This time, when he struck, the sound was different.
Thock.
Cleaner.
Stronger.
Aldren's eyes narrowed slightly, then softened.
"Well done," he said. "You learn quickly."
Ragna's chest swelled—not with pride, but relief.
"Sir," he said after a moment, hesitating, "why do knights train with swords when magic exists? ... With magic, they wouldn't have to go through physical burden"
Aldren smiled faintly.
"Because there are moments when magic fails," he said. "And moments when a man must stand between danger and what he values—with nothing but his body and his will."
"Body and will" Ragna murmurs inaudibly.
Ragna thought of Lady Sabrina.
Of Rita.
Of the palace walls.
"I want to learn that," he said.
Aldren studied him carefully. Then he nodded once.
"If you continue like this," he said, "I will teach you something rare. A technique that separates ordinary fighters from true defenders… and true knights."
Ragna's eyes widened. "Really?"
"But only if you have the mental fortitude for it," Aldren added. "It is not a matter of strength, but a strong will with an already defined purpose."
Ragna straightened. "I do."
Aldren did not argue. Instead, he asked, "Tell me then—what do you think a defender is?"
Ragna hesitated. "…Someone who protects others?" He guessed.
"Close," Aldren said. "A defender is a warrior who fights for what he personally values. Family. Belief. Vengeance. Survival. Religion.Their loyalty begins and ends with their own interests."
He tapped the wooden sword lightly against the ground.
"And a knight?"
Ragna shook his head.
"A knight," Aldren said, voice steady, "is one who pledges his blood and sweat to a nation. Not a person. Not a desire. A nation. They fight even when they gain nothing. Even when the cause is cruel. Even when the reward is death, they don't hesitate, the embrace it."
Ragna swallowed.
"Both paths require strength," Aldren continued. "But only one demands sacrifice without promise."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Ragna asked quietly, "Which one are you?". An innocent look on his face.
Aldren smiled—but there was no humor in it.
"I was a knight," he said. "Now, I teach."
Ragna lowered his gaze, thinking.
"What is the technique?" he asked.
Aldren's expression grew serious.
"It is called the Upper Strings and Lower Strings," he said.
Ragna looked up sharply. "Strings? ... Are they really that impressive and flashy like magic?"
"Every warrior is bound by invisible strings," Aldren explained. "Fear. Desire. Pain. Duty. When your mind wavers, those strings pull you apart, as for impressive, they definitely are. Flashy, will be blasphemous."
He tapped Ragna's chest lightly.
"The Lower Strings govern the body—endurance, instinct, survival. Master them, and you will not fall even when wounded."
Then he tapped Ragna's temple.
"The Upper Strings govern the mind—focus, restraint, resolve. Master them, and you will move without hesitation, even when death stands before you."
Ragna's heart pounded.
"And if I can't?" he asked.
Aldren's gaze hardened. "Then the strings will snap."
Ragna tightened his grip on the sword.
"I still want to learn," he said.
Aldren watched him for a long moment—then nodded.
"Good," he said. "We begin tomorrow."
Across the garden, Lady Sabrina observed from afar, her hands folded in her lap. She watched the way Ragna stood—not tall, not imposing—but unmoving. A quiet resolve radiated from him, subtle yet unmistakable.
Her expression softened… then grew troubled.
Steel and fire, she thought. If he walks both paths… only one thing awaits such a person, the battle ground. A place filled with agony, pain, trauma, despair and a bunch of tragedies.
Ragna lifted the sword once more, stance firm, eyes steady.
" I can do this " he smiles
"Swooh"