Clank!
Clank!
**CLANK!**
The sharp rhythm of steel striking stone shattered the quiet serenity of the garden.
Ronan's head snapped up, his small body stiffening. "That sound… a sword?" he whispered, eyes narrowing. "Who would be practicing here of all places?"
The garden was supposed to be off-limits—isolated, hidden within the inner palace grounds. Only a few knew of this corner where silence reigned. Yet now that silence was being torn apart by the desperate clang of metal.
Curiosity tugged at him. Carefully, Ronan began to move toward the noise, each step silent as shadow. Fallen leaves whispered beneath his feet, branches swayed softly, and the faint breeze carried the echo of each strike—raw, furious, unrelenting.
**Clank! Clank! CLANK!**
As he drew closer, the outline of a small figure came into view between the hedges. A boy—no older than himself—stood before a moss-streaked stone wall, his arms trembling as he swung a dulled sword again and again. His breaths came out ragged, his small frame drenched in sweat, but his eyes burned with an unyielding fire.
"Not enough…"
*Clank!*
"Not enough…"
*Clank!*
"Not enough!"
*CLANK!*
Each strike was more forceful than the last, as though he was fighting something unseen—something inside himself.
Ronan stopped a few paces away, hidden behind a tree trunk, watching quietly. There was something magnetic about that boy's desperation. His strikes were clumsy, lacking refinement, but there was… *resolve*. The kind of resolve that didn't belong to a child.
"This boy…" Ronan murmured under his breath, his sharp eyes observing every detail. "He's about my age… but he's not from the nobility."
The boy's clothes were old, frayed around the edges, their color dulled by countless washes. Sweat had soaked through the fabric, and the sword in his small hands was nicked and chipped—a weapon that had long been discarded. Even from afar, Ronan could tell it wasn't a blackwood-forged blade; the balance was poor, and the hilt was wrapped in makeshift cloth. Probably a sword a blacksmith had thrown away as a failure.
And yet the boy swung it as if it were the greatest treasure in the world.
Ronan tilted his head, studying the rhythm of the child's movements. "He's using pure physical strength… there's no mana flow at all." His tone carried both surprise and curiosity. "For someone that young to keep swinging with that kind of focus… just what drives him?"
The boy's breathing grew heavier. His arms quivered violently, his knees wobbled, but his grip never faltered.
"Not enough…"
"Not enough…"
"Not enough!"
With one final cry, the child swung the sword downward, the force sending dust and small bits of stone scattering from the wall. The blade vibrated in his hand, and he nearly lost his grip—but instead of stopping, he bit his lip and straightened his back again.
Ronan's expression softened slightly, though his eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "Determination like that… I've seen it before," he muttered, recalling his own desperate nights of silent training, enduring the pain of hardship from his previous life where there were no magic. Just pure hardwork and dedication.
But there was something else about this boy—a strange sense of familiarity. As if their paths were destined to cross.
Ronan stepped forward, his shadow stretching across the ground toward the boy.
"Hey," Ronan called out softly, his tone calm yet imbued with quiet authority that carried farther than his voice should have.
The boy froze mid-swing, his sword stopping mere inches from the cracked wall. He turned sharply, startled by the sudden voice. His chest rose and fell heavily, his hands trembling from exhaustion. When his eyes met Ronan's—those gleaming golden irises reflecting the sunlight like polished metal—his breath caught in his throat.
For a long, still moment, the air between them hung thick. Only the echo of the last sword strike lingered faintly, fading into the garden's serene silence.
Then, as if awakening from a trance, the boy dropped to one knee, his head lowered deeply.
"G-Greetings, Young Master Ronan," he said, voice shaking but respectful.
Ronan stepped closer, the faint crunch of leaves beneath his boots breaking the silence. His gaze was sharp yet composed, the way one might observe an unfamiliar animal rather than a child. "Who are you, boy? And what are you doing here—in the royal garden of all places?"
The boy swallowed, his sweat mixing with the dirt on his cheek. "My name is Lucen, Young Master," he said, still kneeling. "As for why I am here… I was training. No one ever comes to this place, so I thought I wouldn't disturb anyone."
Ronan tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes narrowing. "Training, you say? But this is the royal garden. Only members of House Blackwood are permitted here."
He studied the boy's appearance—tattered clothes, calloused hands, and a sword that had seen far too many repairs. "No crest, no emblem," Ronan noted silently. "Not a noble. Just a commoner… and yet, there's something in his eyes."
Lucen bowed his head even lower, his voice trembling. "Forgive me, Young Master. I was foolish. I didn't know this place was forbidden. I only wanted a quiet spot… to train in peace."
Ronan's eyes softened for a brief second, though his expression remained unreadable. "This boy…" he thought.
"There's no deceit in him, just desperation and hunger. He reminds me of my past life. But why is he training like this?"
He crossed his arms, his tone turning thoughtful. "Tell me, Lucen," he said slowly, "why do you wield the sword? To kill? To protect someone? For revenge? Or… just to look powerful? Answer truthfully. Depending on your answer, I might forgive you."
Lucen raised his head, his eyes gleaming despite his exhaustion. "To serve you, Young Master," he said, voice steady.
Ronan blinked, momentarily taken aback. "To serve me?"
Lucen nodded fervently. "I've watched you train from afar, Young Master Ronan. We're of the same age, yet the difference between our strength… it's like heaven and earth. You are my ideal. My dream is to stand beside you someday—to be strong enough to protect you with my sword."
Then he bowed deeply, his forehead touching the grass. "Please, accept me under you, Young Master! I will dedicate my life to becoming worthy of your side!"
For a moment, Ronan was silent. His gaze lingered on the trembling boy before him—his voice raw, yet his resolve unshaken.
Ronan's lips curved faintly. "How can a boy barely six years old speak with such resolve?" he thought. "Perhaps fate brought us together. Let's see what he's capable of."
He raised his sword slightly, resting it lazily against his shoulder. "Very well, Lucen. Draw your sword," Ronan said, voice calm but heavy with challenge. "If you can land even a single strike on me… I'll accept you."
Lucen's breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled on the hilt of his battered sword. A duel—with the Young Master of the Blackwood family? The idea was absurd, suicidal even. Yet when he met Ronan's golden eyes, there was no trace of arrogance—only a chilling sincerity that demanded his resolve.
Lucen swallowed hard, his knuckles whitening. "A-as you command, Young Master!"
The soft clang of steel echoed as he took his stance, knees bent, sword trembling in his grip. The garden, once peaceful, fell deathly silent. Even the rustling leaves seemed to hold their breath.
Ronan's aura shifted—not mana, not intent, just presence.
He stood with effortless grace, his blade lowered, posture relaxed. But Lucen felt it—the invisible weight pressing on him, as if facing a seasoned warrior rather than a boy of his age.
"Show me your will," Ronan said softly, his tone almost kind.
Lucen roared and charged, kicking up dust from the stone path. His first strike came down fast and raw, every ounce of strength poured into it.
CLANk!
Ronan's sword moved in a blur. A single parry—clean, precise, almost lazy. The shock traveled down Lucen's arm, numbing his fingers.
"Too much force," Ronan said coolly, sidestepping. "A sword isn't swung like a hammer."
Lucen gritted his teeth, pivoted, and slashed again. Then again.
CLACK!
CLANG!
CLACK!
"Pure strength can solve anything young master. That's what i believe."
Lucen said as each strike came heavier, faster, filled with growing frustration. Sparks danced in the sunlight as steel kissed steel, but Ronan—he didn't even seem to try. Every parry was exact, every motion minimal, like he already knew where the next strike would come from.
"His movements… they're refined beyond his years," Lucen thought, panting. "But I—won't stop here!"
He swung wildly, spinning into a diagonal slash, a desperate gambit—
Ronan slipped aside effortlessly, countering with a flick that knocked Lucen's sword away from his chest.
"You're leaving your flank open."
Before Lucen could react, Ronan's blade tapped lightly against his ribs.
"Dead."
.
...
....