Dawn had not yet broken when Ragna opened his eyes.
His body protested immediately.
Every muscle screamed as if it had been torn apart and stitched back together in the wrong order. His arms felt heavy, his legs stiff, his breath shallow. For a brief moment, he considered staying still—just long enough for the pain to ease.
Then he remembered Sir Aldren's words.
Stand back up anyway.
Ragna pushed himself out of bed.
The training ground was cold.
Morning fog clung to the stone as Ragna began his physical conditioning. Ten laps became fifteen. Push-ups became planks held until his arms shook uncontrollably. Aldren added new trials—carrying weighted stones across the yard, holding low stances until his legs burned, breathing drills that forced him to steady his racing heart.
"Again," Aldren said.
Ragna obeyed.
By the time the sun rose fully, his tunic was soaked with sweat. His vision swam, but his steps remained steady.
"Well done," Aldren said quietly. "You lasted longer today."
Ragna bowed slightly. Praise was rare—and he clung to it like fuel.
Magic training followed.
In the quiet hall reserved for arcane practice, Lady Sabrina stood before him, hands folded behind her back. Unlike Aldren, her gaze was gentle—but no less demanding.
"Begin," she said.
Ragna exhaled slowly and raised his hands.
Fire bloomed.
Not wild.
Not violent.
It curled around his fingers like living silk, responding instantly to his will. Despite his exhaustion, his control did not waver. He shaped the flames into precise forms—threads, spheres, controlled bursts—each one extinguished cleanly at her command.
Sabrina nodded. "Your focus is improving. Even fatigue cannot disrupt your control."
Ragna allowed himself a small smile.
For once, something felt right.
Then came the knights' yard.
The noise alone was overwhelming.
Steel clashed, and so did Wooded swirds. Orders were barked. Boots struck the ground in unison. Young trainees moved in disciplined lines, their movements sharp and practiced.
Ragna stepped forward with his practice sword.
The weight felt different now.
He was already tired.
"Pair up!" the drillmaster shouted.
Ragna found himself facing a boy slightly taller than him, broad-shouldered, confident. The other trainees smirked.
"Ready?" the boy asked.
Ragna nodded.
The signal sounded.
The boy moved first.
Ragna reacted too slowly, his vision, already dulled by exhaustion.
The wooden blade struck his side, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered back, barely raising his sword in time to block the next blow.
Pain flared.
He swung wildly.
The strike missed.
His opponent countered cleanly, sweeping Ragna's legs from under him. He hit the ground hard.
Laughter rippled through the yard.
"Again," the drillmaster barked.
Ragna forced himself up.
The second bout ended faster.
The third was worse.
His arms felt numb. His vision blurred. Every movement lagged behind his intention. He knew what to do—but his body refused to respond in time.
Aldren watched from the sidelines, expression unreadable.
By the final match, Ragna could barely lift his sword.
The last trainee disarmed him with a single strike.
The sword clattered to the ground.
Ragna dropped to one knee, chest heaving.
Defeat burned hotter than any flame he had ever summoned.
The drillmaster sighed. "You lack foundation," he said bluntly. "And you are exhausted. That combination gets people killed."
Ragna lowered his head.
"Yes, sir, I'll do better"
" I hope you will" the drillmaster scuffs.
The trainees dispersed, some still whispering, others shaking their heads.
Aldren approached and placed a hand on Ragna's shoulder.
"You lost because you walked three paths in one day," he said quietly. "Body. Magic. Steel, you have the mental fortitude, but your body lacks foundation to match how fast your brain thinks"
Ragna clenched his jaw. "I thought if I endured—"
"Endurance without structure is waste," Aldren interrupted gently. "But this loss is necessary."
Ragna looked up. "Necessary?"
"Yes," Aldren said. "Because now you understand something vital."
He gestured toward the knights leaving the yard.
"Talent does not replace foundation. Exhaustion does not excuse failure. And power alone does not win fights."
Ragna nodded slowly.
His hands trembled—not from pain, but resolve.
"I won't lose like that again," he said.
Aldren's gaze sharpened. "Good. Because tomorrow, you won't be fighting to win."
Ragna frowned. "Then what will I be fighting for?"
Aldren's voice was low.
"To survive."
Ragna's breath caught.
" To survive? ... What dose that mean?"
Aldren only gave a simple smile, then walks away, without looking back.
As the sun dipped lower and shadows stretched across the yard, Lady Sabrina watched from the balcony above. She saw Ragna kneeling in the dirt, sword at his side, shoulders shaking—not with tears, but effort.
He had lost.
But he had not broken.
She could see the conviction and determination in his eyes, but the exhaustion, overshadowed it all.
The next day...
Morning bells echoed through the imperial grounds of Manachy when Lady Sabrina summoned Ragna.
He stood before her with straight posture, though his body still carried the memory of yesterday's failure. Bruises hid beneath his tunic. His hands were calloused, his muscles sore—but his eyes were steady.
Lady Sabrina studied him in silence.
"You are progressing too quickly in too many directions," she finally said. "That is both your strength and your weakness."
Ragna bowed. "I will endure any training you deem necessary."
She shook her head slightly. "Endurance without balance will ruin you."
She turned and began pacing slowly. "From today onward, you will train magic once every two days. No more."
Ragna stiffened—but did not protest, rather he felt relieved.
"However," she continued, stopping before him, "you will never slack in your physical conditioning. And you will attend knight training daily."
"Yes, my lady," Ragna answered immediately.
"Magic is a blade," Sabrina said softly. "But the body is the hand that wields it. And steel…" Her eyes narrowed. "Steel is where reality decides who lives and who dies."
Ragna absorbed every word.
This was not a relief.
It was a warning.
The knights' training yard was louder than usual today.
A new group had joined.
They wore finer uniforms, carried engraved practice swords, and moved with the arrogance of boys who had never been told no. Sons of nobles. Future commanders by birth, not merit.
Their eyes followed Ragna the moment he stepped into the yard.
"That's him," one whispered.
"The adopted one."
"The bastard."
Ragna heard them.
He pretended not to.
The drillmaster called for sparring matches.
Names were drawn.
Ragna stepped forward when his was called.
Across from him stood a boy with pale hair and sharp eyes—well-fed, confident, smirking.
"Didn't expect to fight royalty's stray dog today," the boy said casually." Today sure is my lucky day"
Ragna tightened his grip on the wooden sword.
The signal was given.
The noble boy moved like someone who had trained since childhood.
His stance was perfect.
His footwork precise.
Ragna blocked the first strike—but barely. The second rattled his arms. The third slipped past his guard and struck his ribs.
Pain exploded.
He countered with brute force, but the noble twisted aside easily.
"Too slow," the boy taunted" bad stance, terrible precision, very predictable. Reminds me of when I held the sword newly "
He struck Ragna's wrist.
The sword fell.
Gasps rippled through the yard.
Ragna dropped to one knee as a sharp kick sent him sprawling. Dust filled his mouth. His vision blurred.
The drillmaster raised a hand—but paused.
The noble placed his foot on Ragna's fallen sword.
"Strong body," he said mockingly. "Decent magic, I hear. But swordsmanship?"
He leaned closer.
"You're nothing special."
The drillmaster finally stepped in. "Enough."
The noble stepped back, smiling.
As Ragna struggled to stand, laughter followed him.
"Jack of all trades! ,Master of none!"
" How dose such a lowborn try so hard to aim higher ... Who dose he think he is."
"Seeing him look pathetic, make my skin crawl ... I wish he just quit already"
"He has absolutely no foundation, like so newbie who picked the sword recently"
The nickname and mocking words spread faster than the pain.
It echoed through the yard, carved into the air like a brand.
Ragna stood anyway.
His legs shook. His chest burned. But he stood.
Aldren watched from the edge of the yard, fists clenched at his sides—but he did not intervene.
This, too, was training.
That night, Ragna sat alone in his quarters, staring at his bruised hands.
"Jack of all trades. Master of none."
He repeated it silently.
Then, slowly, he closed his fingers into a fist.
"If that's what I am now," he murmured, "then I'll decide what I become. Am a hack of all trades, who said I can't be master of them all"
Outside, the torches of Manachy flickered.
And somewhere within the knights' yard, a rivalry had taken root—one born of pride, bloodlines, and a boy who refused to stay beneath anyone's heel.
It would not end with words.
It would end with steel.
"Those foolish brats, I'll make sure to absolutely humiliate them as they did me. Am definitely not holding back".