Morning arrived without mercy.
The rain from the night before had turned the training yard into churned mud, footprints overlapping like scars that refused to fade. Squires lined up in uneven rows, armor half-buckled, weapons dull with use.
Owen stood among them, soaked boots drying slowly, expression calm.
But something had changed.
It wasn't visible at first. Not in posture. Not in stance. Not even in his eyes—at least, not until he moved.
"Paired sparring," Instructor Halbrecht barked. "No mana reinforcement. Practice swords only."
A groan rippled through the line.
Names were called.
When Owen's was spoken, the squire beside him stiffened.
"Please," the boy muttered under his breath. "Not you."
They stepped into the ring.
Owen faced him silently, wooden sword resting loosely in his hand. The squire raised his weapon hesitantly, eyes darting to the instructors, then back to Owen.
"Begin."
The squire attacked first.
Owen moved.
Not back.
Sideways.
His body leaned just enough for the blade to whistle past his cheek, close enough to feel the air shift. In the same motion, his foot slid through the mud, hips rotating, sword snapping up in a clean arc.
Too clean.
The squire barely managed to block. The impact rattled his arms.
Gasps rippled through the yard.
Owen pressed forward.
His movements were no longer restrained by hesitation. No longer drifting. Each step had purpose. Each swing carried weight, not mana, not strength but intent.
The squire retreated, panic flashing across his face.
"Stop." he began.
Owen's eyes met his.
They were wide. Pupils dilated. Focus absolute.
It wasn't rage.
It was resolve sharpened into something terrifying.
Owen's blade slid past the squire's guard, stopping an inch from his throat.
Silence.
"Instructor!" the squire choked. "I yield!"
Halbrecht stared, stunned.
"Match over," he snapped.
Owen lowered his sword immediately and stepped back.
Whispers erupted.
"Did you see that?"
"He retreated"
"He actually lost to that defect."
"That's insane he has no mana!"
Owen returned to the line without a word, breathing steady, heart pounding.
He didn't feel stronger.
He felt… awake.
The drills continued.
And Owen didn't stop.
Each bout, he pushed further. His technique grew sharper, faster. Not sloppy—never sloppy—but fluid. His body moved as one continuous motion, weaving through attacks, stepping inside strikes, blades clashing in rapid succession.
Flashy.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
Some said he was dancing.
Others whispered that he'd gone mad. Fighting like that without mana was suicide.
Then the Head Knight Commander arrived.
Sir Reinhardt didn't speak. He simply watched.
His eyes narrowed as Owen engaged another opponent, movements flowing seamlessly, dodges born from instinct, counters forged by repetition. A style not taught. Not named.
Forged alone.
"A masterpiece," Reinhardt murmured. "A complete art form."
Cedric stood at the edge of the yard, arms crossed.
For the first time, this sensation of wariness ate at his chest.
Owen's final match ended with his opponent on the ground, weapon skidding away, chest heaving in terror.
Owen stepped back and bowed.
The yard was silent.
Cedric's jaw tightened.
Owen felt eyes on him, from instructors, from squires, from the balcony above.
He didn't look up.
The pendant beneath his shirt rested heavy against his chest, unbroken, unmoving.
But the boy wearing it had changed.
Not because he learned something new.
But because he finally decided why he was fighting.
And that dormant anger, had turned into unyielding intent for survival.