Two Weeks Later.
Swing. Slash.
Azhriel's sword cut cleanly through the morning air, each movement sharp and focused.
Sweat ran down his face, soaking into his shirt, but he didn't stop—not even for a second.
With a final slash, he lowered his blade, finishing the last move of his daily routine.
Even after the black market mission, not once had he skipped his training.
"Huu…" He let out a slow breath and tapped the gravity bracelets on his wrists, adjusting them down to double the normal weight.
A cool breeze brushed against his face, refreshing and crisp. He liked that feeling—the cold wind after hard work.
"Papa, this feels so nice," said a soft voice.
Zephyriah sat high on a tree branch, her little wings tucked behind her as she stared out at the sunrise. The soft light danced across the sky, and she looked happy.
She was the reason he chose to train outside today instead of in his usual private room.
Then, from nearby, a sleepy voice drifted over.
"Are you done?"
