The taste of iron sat thick in Klen's mouth long before the real bleeding even began. His chest burned, ribs screaming every time he pulled in a breath, but he forced himself to keep his stance tight, eyes locked on Leor.
The man stood unbothered, not even winded, blade held with the casual ease of someone who had lived more years with a sword in his hand than without it.
Klen stepped forward.
Leor was already there.
A sharp blow slammed into Klen's ribs—flat, controlled, yet still enough to knock the wind out of him. He folded to the side instinctively, stumbling back as dust kicked up beneath his boots. Before he could raise his guard again, steel crashed into his shoulder and the world blurred.
He hit the ground hard, skidding, rolling, tumbling through dirt until his body finally stopped. He pushed up on trembling arms, coughing violently. Blood dripped onto the ground in thick splatters.
Leor's voice cut into him like a blade.
"If that's all it takes—with me holding back—then I've wasted my time."
Klen looked up, vision wobbling. Leor's expression barely shifted. Cold. Sharpened. Disappointed.
"You're worthless if you can't protect yourself," Leor continued, stepping forward, the point of his sword dragging against the dirt. "Worthless… if you can't even hope to protect my daughter."
The air left Klen's lungs before he even processed the strike—Leor's boot slammed into his stomach, sending him rolling across the training yard once more. He curled in on himself, trying to breathe, but Leor didn't let him.
A backhand.
A kick to the ribs.
A thrust to the shoulder.
A merciless knee to his gut.
Every hit dropped him lower.
Every breath tasted like copper and dirt.
His vision swam. His ears rang.
Finally, his body went slack—limp, barely conscious—limbs spread out on the ground like a broken doll. His fingers twitched weakly.
Leor stopped. Looked down at him. Then, with a sharp exhale of contempt, kicked him aside and sheathed his sword.
The duel was over.
Leor turned his back.
The courtyard held its breath in silence.
But something in Klen wouldn't die quietly.
A faint wheeze escaped him, barely a sound. His finger curled, digging weakly into the dirt.
"I… I'm not…" His voice cracked, nearly lost to the wind. "…weak."
The servants flinched. Fole froze mid-step.
Klen pushed himself up—slow, painful, stubborn beyond reason—his entire body shaking violently under its own weight. He wiped his cheek with the back of his trembling hand, smearing the blood further across his jaw.
His vision twisted and doubled, but he forced it steady. Every nerve in his arm burned. His legs wobbled beneath him. His heart hammered wildly, then began to slow in unnatural intervals—like someone clicking down a metronome.
Leor didn't turn fully—only glanced over his shoulder.
"…Stubborn brat," he muttered.
Then Klen staggered, clutching his head. A sharp, nauseating pressure surged behind his eyes. His veins crawled beneath the skin of his neck, pulsing with something hot and wrong.
"What… what's… happening…"
His voice died mid-breath.
His grey eyes snapped open.
Bloodshot.
Dilated.
Empty.
A hollow, eerie stillness washed over him—his body straightened, his breathing steadied, and all expression left his face. He didn't look injured anymore. He didn't look afraid.
He didn't look human.
Leor's hand fell toward his sword. He turned completely.
Before he could draw—
Klen appeared in front of him.
No sound. No warning. No buildup.
He was just there.
Expressionless, dead-eyed Klen drove the kodachi into Leor's shoulder. The blade sank in deep. Leor grunted sharply, caught off-guard for the first time.
Klen kicked him away with unnatural force.
Leor slid back, boots tearing the dirt beneath him until he stopped himself.
Fole's eyes widened. "Klen…?!"
The boy didn't hear him.
He lifted the bloodstained kodachi, spun it once, and hurled it. The blade cut through the air in a tight arc. Leor parried it just in time—but it was a feint.
Klen was already there.
Three brutal punches landed—jaw, ribs, sternum—one after another, faster than Leor could fully track. Klen's hand then clamped onto his head, and the boy flipped over Leor's shoulder, slamming the man into the dirt.
Leor hit hard and rolled, but he rose quickly, his eyes narrowing. He exhaled, refocused, and steadied his sword.
Fole stepped forward instinctively. "We must stop—"
Leor held up a hand. "Stay out of this."
His gaze locked onto Klen's frozen stare.
"…Something is wrong with this kid."
Klen didn't answer—he only twitched, his head tilting slightly as if confused by the sound of Leor's voice.
Leor lunged.
His blade swung with practiced precision—aimed to knock Klen down without killing him.
It struck.
And shattered.
Metal burst apart at the point of contact, fragments flying across the yard. A shockwave of disbelief rippled through the watchers.
Klen didn't blink.
His hand twitched.
Then snapped up—grabbing Leor by the throat.
Leor's breathing hitched as the grip tightened. The boy squeezed harder, lifting him an inch off the ground before Leor managed a clean strike to Klen's side, forcing him back.
Klen stumbled one step—then calmly bent down and picked up his discarded wooden sword.
Before Leor could reposition—
Klen vanished again and appeared behind him.
The blade sank near Leor's left kidney. Blood sprayed out in a violent jet. Leor clenched his teeth and spun, attempting to slash him, but Klen drifted out of range and retaliated with a slash across Leor's arm.
Leor grabbed the wooden sword, snapped it in half, and used the movement to jab Klen in the stomach.
Klen slid back a little, coughing up a mouthful of blood—thick, dark, dripping down his chin—but his blank expression never changed.
He charged.
Blood poured from his nose and mouth, but he didn't wipe any of it. His steps were silent, fast, disturbingly precise. Leor braced himself, but Klen's strike hit his wounded shoulder again, hard enough to force him back.
Leor grabbed Klen's wrist before the boy could follow up, yanked him close, and slammed his fist into Klen's face. Then he gripped Klen's skull and smashed him into the ground with a sharp, brutal thud.
The dirt cracked. Dust burst outward.
Klen lay twisted—but only for a second.
His arm twitched. His spine arched. His joints popped in rapid, sickening snaps as he forced himself upright in a distortion of movement no human should ever make.
The courtyard went cold.
Leor's stance hardened. He stepped back defensively.
Klen lunged.
Leor's fist swung wide and connected perfectly—a clean, solid hit that would've knocked out a grown soldier.
Klen was launched across the yard, crashing into a wall. Stone cracked under the impact.
He dropped to his knees, trembling violently.
His breath stuttered.
His bloodshot eyes flickered…
…and slowly lost their unnatural glow.
His breathing changed. His shoulders sagged. He looked suddenly, painfully human again.
He coughed—hard—and blood splattered onto the ground. He blinked, confused, dazed, terrified even.
Then exhaustion swallowed him.
Klen collapsed fully, his body falling limp into the dirt.
Leor waited. Watching. Making sure the boy wouldn't get up again.
He didn't.
"…Fole," Leor said at last, voice quiet.
Fole rushed over immediately.
"Give him treatment. He lost." Leor's eyes lowered, the faintest edge in his tone. "But he stays. I saw enough."
Fole bowed, then lifted Klen carefully into his arms. The boy's head lolled limply against Fole's chest, blood still trickling from his parted lips.
The entire yard remained frozen in stunned silence.
Leor turned to the staff.
"Return to your duties," he said—not cold, not kind, but firm. "This session is finished."
They bowed, scrambling away.
Leor finally pressed his hand over the deep wound at his side, blood leaking through his fingers.
Something was wrong with that kid.
Terribly wrong.
He turned away from the courtyard and headed toward the manor for treatment.
The training ground, once filled with noise and movement, now felt eerily hollow—nothing left but stray droplets of blood.