The clang of metal on metal rang out sharp in the cold morning air.
It was still early — the kind of hour most nobles would never dare leave their beds — but the Thorne training yard was already alive. Dozens of soldiers drilled in formation, blades flashing under the rising sun, voices barking orders, feet pounding stone.
Noel stepped into the open yard without a word.
His coat was gone, replaced by a dark sleeveless training tunic and fitted trousers. His boots were strapped tight. His hair was tied back. And at his hip, as always, hung Revenant Fang, bound tightly in its worn leather sheath.
Heads turned.
One by one, soldiers paused mid-swing or stance, eyes shifting toward him.
Someone chuckled near the archery posts.
Another whispered just loud enough: "Looks like the noble brat wants to sweat with the real men."
Noel ignored them.
He crossed the yard at a calm pace, stopping just short of the central sparring square. His boots hit the dirt with a soft crunch.
He dropped his training bag, stretched his arms slowly, and began moving through his warm-up sequence.
Neck rolls. Shoulder circles. Deep lunges. All smooth. Controlled. Like ritual.
A few more soldiers noticed.
Most just smirked.
"Think he's lost?" one muttered. "Should be out on a balcony somewhere, sipping tea."
Another laughed. "Maybe he's trying to impress daddy again. Pathetic."
'They can talk whatever they want, I dont give a fuck.'
'Noise doesn't change the edge of my blade.'
Noel moved into footwork drills.
Forward steps. Side pivots. Weight transfers.
Then into forms.
Sword unsheathed, he ran through clean-cut patterns — transitions between guards, measured strikes, recovery stances.
Not fast.
Not showy.
Just sharp and efficient.
The muttering slowly faded.
But the smirks remained.
And above them all, from a raised platform near the armory wall, a pair of calm, sharp eyes watched every movement in silence.
Noel moved fluidly across the sparring square.
Reverse step. Downward diagonal. Guard shift. Counter-slash. Reset.
He wasn't fast.
He wasn't flashy.
But he was deliberate. Precise.
To the soldiers watching from the edges of the yard, though, precision was the last thing they respected.
"Tsk. Look at that posture," one sneered. "He's gonna break his own stance before he breaks someone else's."
"Is he even swinging with strength?" another said. "Those are warm-up hits at best."
"No pressure in his follow-through. Might as well be waving a stick."
"I've seen squires strike harder than that," a third chimed in, crossing his arms. "Bet he's holding back so he doesn't chip a nail."
More laughter followed.
Noel didn't react.
Not a glance. Not a frown. Not a twitch of acknowledgment.
He moved into an upward feint, transitioned into a step-through pivot, and closed the form with a clean reversal — still measured, still focused.
"Trying to impress someone?" one called out louder. "Because it's not working."
"Might as well go back to polishing silverware," came another, this one barely hiding the disdain.
And still, Noel said nothing.
He re-sheathed his sword, stepped back into position, and began again from the top.
His movements didn't change.
His focus didn't waver.
And the silence he gave them? It grated more than any insult.
Some of the mocking paused — not out of respect, but out of discomfort.
Because they expected arrogance.
They expected ego.
What they got was discipline.
Captain Maren stood at the edge of the training yard, arms crossed behind his back, expression unreadable.
He wasn't one to jump to conclusions. In the Thorne estate, power spoke louder than posture, and bloodlines didn't always translate to real talent. He'd seen more than enough brats try to swing a sword like it was a toy.
But this…
His eyes narrowed, following every motion Noel made.
The footing. Balanced. Grounded. Not perfect, but close.
The strikes are controlled and intentional, no wasted motion in any of the moves.
The form — textbook. Not the flashiest variant, not the latest technique from the capital — but one of the classical forms.
Maren muttered under his breath.
"Is this the young master I remember?"
He glanced toward the small cluster of soldiers heckling from the sidelines. Their noise was a mosquito's buzz in his ears now — untrained eyes judging from a distance.
"That's hours of practice, he has a better foundation than a lot of my soldiers" Maren said quietly to himself.
That was the key difference.
Most nobles showed off to feel superior.
This one was working to get better.
The captain tilted his head slightly.
His mana sense stretched out, brushing against Noel's presence for a moment.
Still a Novice core, no doubt about that — but it was sturdy. Refined. The kind that had been tempered through actual effort.
And more importantly…
It was growing.
'If he keeps this up… he won't be a background character in this family for long.'
Maren exhaled slowly. A corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"Interesting."
Noel sheathed his training sword with a soft click and turned toward the group of whispering soldiers near the corner of the yard. His expression was unreadable, but his steps were deliberate — and heavy with intent.
The laughter died the moment he approached.
One of them, the loudest earlier, tried to play it off with a grin. "Good swings, young master. Didn't think you had it in y—"
"Name," Noel interrupted sharply.
The man blinked. "Uh… Daron, sir."
Noel pointed at him. Then at the other two who had been laughing the loudest. "You three. Yard center. Now."
They glanced at each other, unsure.
Noel's gaze darkened.
"You were loud enough a moment ago. I assume that means you're confident." His voice dropped slightly, cold and level. "Or is your mouth stronger than your stance?"
Daron opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded stiffly. "Yes, young master."
Noel walked past them, stopping a few paces ahead, then turned on his heel.
"You're soldiers under House Thorne. Which means you serve my family."
The words hung like a guillotine in the air.
"I'm not one of your drinking buddies. I'm not your sparring partner. I'm your superior. And unless your paygrade's changed in the last five minutes, you don't talk behind a Thorne's back like you're standing above him."
He rolled his shoulder once, loosening the muscles, his voice still perfectly calm.
"You want to laugh at my form? Let's see what yours looks like up close."
The yard had gone silent. Even the other guards had stopped to watch.
Noel gestured to the first man. "Daron. You're up."
The soldier hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, gripping his practice sword.
Across the yard, Captain Maren watched without interfering.
And for the first time all morning, he looked genuinely entertained.
Noel stood in the center of the yard, his grip loose on the wooden practice sword. The three soldiers stood off to the side, casting uneasy glances between him and one another.
Captain Maren stepped forward with a slight frown, arms crossed.
"Young master," he said calmly, "I assume you want these to be proper duels, not a brawl."
Noel nodded. "Correct. I want you as the arbiter."
Maren arched an eyebrow. "Understood." He turned to the men. "Standard sparring rules, then. One-on-one. First to surrender, drop their weapon, or become unable to continue — loses. No mana, no enchantments, no artifacts. This is purely sword technique."
He shot a pointed look at the soldiers. "Anyone cheats, they answer to me."
The soldiers swallowed hard.
Noel exhaled once and rolled his shoulders. "Daron. Let's begin."
The soldier stepped into the ring, his stance unsure. His hands were too tight on the grip, elbows too wide.
Noel's eyes scanned him like a hawk.
Maren raised his hand. "Begin!"
Daron took a step forward—
And that was it.
Noel surged ahead with a single step, bringing his sword down in a brutal diagonal arc.
CRACK.
Daron's weapon flew from his hands, clattering across the yard. The man staggered back, blinking in shock.
Noel didn't follow up. He simply stood there, calm, controlled, sword pointed down.
Daron clutched his wrist, stunned. "…What the hell?"
Maren didn't even flinch. "Match over."
Gasps and scattered murmurs rippled through the yard.
Noel glanced toward the next. "You."
The second man stepped in — a little slower, this time. He held his sword up higher, more cautious.
"Match two," Maren called. "Begin."
This time, the man didn't charge. He circled. Noel matched him, one foot sliding at a time.
Then the man lunged — a clean horizontal slash aimed for Noel's midsection.
Noel ducked under it, rolled his shoulder into a pivot, and cracked the man on the ribs with the blunt edge of his sword.
The man groaned and dropped to one knee.
Another hit, fast and low — tapped his sword hand cleanly. The man hissed and dropped his weapon.
"Match over."
Noel didn't gloat. He didn't smirk.
He turned to the last.
The final soldier looked pale, but he stepped forward.
Maren nodded again. "Last match. Begin."
This one had better balance. His stance was solid. He knew how to fight.
Noel waited.
The clash came fast — swords meeting in a flurry of strikes. This one didn't go down immediately. He blocked well. Adjusted fast.
But Noel didn't push for speed. He let the fight breathe.
He absorbed strikes with minimal movement. Rolled with the momentum. Let the man tire himself out.
Then, when the soldier overextended on a downward strike—
CLACK. Noel spun and knocked the sword from his hands with a backhanded sweep.
The man stumbled. Noel stopped a hair's breadth from his throat with the tip of his sword.
Silence.
Then Maren's voice, calm and final: "Match over."
Captain Maren remained rooted where he stood, arms folded, his gaze following Noel as the young Thorne stepped back from the sparring circle.
Not a word.
Not a boast.
Just calm precision and terrifying control.
The yard had gone quiet. Even the jeers from earlier had shriveled into stunned silence.
The soldiers were all watching now.
Maren exhaled through his nose, his thoughts sharper than his expression.
"Three duels. Three wins. Not even winded."
He looked at the man who had given Noel the best fight — still rubbing his sore wrist, eyes wide in disbelief. The others didn't even lift their heads.
"He's not flashy," Maren murmured under his breath. "But gods, is he efficient."
He'd seen it in Noel's footwork, in the weight behind his strikes, in how he read each opponent like a well-worn book. That wasn't instinct. That was discipline. Repetition. Relentless training.
"Who the hell taught him?"
Noel stood alone now, sword resting over his shoulder, staring off toward the training dummies with a distant expression.
He didn't acknowledge the stunned glances.
Didn't look for approval.
Didn't need it.
That's what unsettled the men. Not the victories — they'd seen people win fights. But the quiet focus, the razor's edge hidden beneath the polite veneer.
Maren scratched his jaw.
"This one's going to shake things up. Whether the Thorne household's ready for it or not."
He turned to the rest of the soldiers.
"Back to drills," he barked.
They scattered like mice.
But every now and then, one of them glanced at Noel.
Still watching.
Still unsure of what they'd just witnessed.