"You're leaving your flank open."
Before Lucen could react, Ronan's blade tapped lightly against his ribs.
"Dead."
But Lucen didn't stop. He twisted his wrist, spinning low, sweeping the sword toward Ronan's knees. The young master leapt backward, landing gracefully, his expression unreadable.
"interesting" he murmured.
Lucen's arms shook from exhaustion. His breath came in ragged gasps. Still, he lifted the sword again, sweat dripping from his brow. "I-I'm not done yet!" he shouted, voice cracking but fierce.
Ronan tilted his head, faintly impressed. "Then come."
Lucen dashed forward, his bare feet skidding on the grass. He attacked not with skill—but with desperation, instinct, and burning will. His swings became erratic, unpredictable.
Clang!
Clang!
Clack!
The rhythm turned chaotic, forcing Ronan to take a half step back, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Good… that's better," Ronan muttered. His tone dropped cold. "But still not enough."
Their blades met again, this time in a flurry. The sound of impact rang sharp through the garden, birds scattering from nearby trees. Ronan's sword moved like flowing water—redirecting, guiding, dismantling every strike before it could land.
Lucen lunged for the last time, thrusting straight at Ronan's chest. The young master sidestepped, pivoted, and brought his sword down to rest gently against Lucen's shoulder.
"You've lost," he said quietly.
Lucen stood frozen, panting, the word echoing in his ears.
Lost.
But even as his body screamed in pain, his heart refused. "No… not yet. If i give up now then my path ends here. All my hardwork for years, my suffering, my dedication will be in vain."
He staggered back, teeth clenched, eyes burning. With a final, ragged breath, he lifted his sword one more time.
"Not… yet!"
He swung upward from below, a wild arc of defiance—the move so fast and reckless that even Ronan's sharp eyes widened for a fraction of a second.
The steel cut through the air—
SHHH!
A faint tearing sound. A thread of fabric fluttered down from Ronan's sleeve, a shallow scratch marking where the blade had grazed him.
The world seemed to freeze.
"This boy have gets up everytime. He doesn't give up. He can become a great warrior." Ronan thought as he looked at Lucen.
Lucen's knees buckled, his vision fading. "Y-young master… I… did it…" he muttered weakly before collapsing forward, unconscious, his sword slipping from his fingers and clattering to the ground.
Ronan stood there silently, staring at the torn sleeve. Then, slowly, he looked down at the fallen boy.
For a long moment, the proud heir of Blackwood said nothing. Then he knelt beside Lucen, his gaze calm but thoughtful. "You actually managed it," he whispered.
He brushed a leaf from the boy's messy hair. "That strike wasn't born from skill… it was pure will."
Standing, Ronan sheathed his sword and looked toward the setting sun that painted the garden in gold and crimson. "Lucen," he said under his breath, a faint smirk curving his lips. "Very well… from today onward, you're mine. My sword."
The breeze carried away the scent of sweat and steel, rustling the leaves once more.
And in that lonely garden—between a noble and a nameless child—something unspoken was forged. Not of metal or blood, but of resolve.