The morning air was crisp, cool, and still faintly damp from dawn dew when Raiden's training for the day began.
As usual, Sir Leonard's voice cut through the calm like a sword through silk.
"Thirty laps. Around the main building. Go."
Raiden didn't argue. He didn't groan. He didn't even roll his eyes.
He just nodded, grabbed his wooden sword, and started running.
Sir Leonard stood there for a moment, arms folded, a faintly puzzled look crossing his normally unreadable face.
No protest?
No "just five minutes of stretching"?
No attempt at witty delay tactics?
Strange.
By the tenth lap, Raiden's hair clung to his forehead with sweat. By the twentieth, his breathing grew uneven. But he didn't stop.
He didn't even slow down.
Sir Leonard's eyes followed him silently, assessing.
