Kael's feet hit the packed earth of the training yard with a dull thud. The rising sun smeared gold across the sky, but it gave no warmth—only light to see the bruises coming.
He was the first one there.
No one greeted him. No one expected him.
That was the point.
He moved to the farthest corner, where broken dummies leaned like forgotten sentinels, and worn weapons lay abandoned. No sword waited for him. No instructor beckoned. Just a log, a splintered post, and the hunger gnawing at his gut.
"One hundred strikes."
He raised his fists.
By the tenth blow, his knuckles split.
By the thirtieth, the skin peeled.
By the fiftieth, his vision blurred, and every nerve screamed to stop.
But Kael didn't stop.He couldn't.
Every strike was a memory—of his father's grave, of the laughter of those with bloodline gifts, of the cold night where the wind asked if he would survive.
When the first students trickled in, they found him there, still punching, blood painting the wood.
Jarek, a senior outer disciple, sneered. "Look at him. Still pretending to be one of us."
The others chuckled.
Kael didn't look up. He struck again.
Crack.
Wood splintered. His hand didn't stop.
"Hey, freak." Jarek stepped forward. "Think you're tough now? That wood doesn't hit back."
Kael turned.
His face was swollen. His eyes—calm. Too calm.
"Wanna try?" he asked.
Gasps from the crowd.
"You picking a fight with me?" Jarek's grin faded slightly.
"I'm not picking," Kael said. "I'm offering."
Silence.
Then, laughter. Cruel and loud.
But Jarek couldn't back down. Not in front of the others.
"Fine. You want to bleed, I'll oblige."
They squared off in the yard. A loose circle formed—no masters in sight yet. This was a grudge fight, unspoken but understood.
Jarek was fast, trained. He wielded a dull practice blade with precision. Kael had nothing but his fists and open wounds.
The first clash was a blur.
Kael dodged—but not enough. The wooden sword grazed his shoulder. Pain burst across his nerves. He barely kept his balance.
Jarek didn't let up.
Strike. Step. Strike again.
Kael danced on reflex, not skill. Each move felt stolen from instinct.
A feint. A lunge.
Crack!
The blade slammed into Kael's ribs.
He dropped to a knee.
"Stay down," Jarek hissed, lifting the sword again.
But Kael didn't stay down.
He charged.
Not with form, not with grace—but with desperation.
He tackled Jarek to the ground. Dust exploded. The blade flew from Jarek's grip.
Kael didn't stop.
His fist slammed into Jarek's face.
Once.Twice.Three times.
Then came the scream.
Jarek's.
Blood pooled from a broken nose.
Kael sat back, chest heaving. His hand throbbed, the knuckles torn. He could barely see through the haze—but he knew he had won.
Someone grabbed his collar and yanked him back.
A boot hit his side.
"Enough!"
Instructor Talan had arrived. His silver robe fluttered like a banner of judgment.
Kael coughed, but didn't flinch.
Talan stared down at him. Then at Jarek, still groaning.
"You," he said to Kael. "Why?"
Kael spat blood. "He said I didn't belong."
"And?"
Kael looked him in the eye.
"Now he knows I do."
Talan's eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he nodded.
He turned to the rest. "Anyone else think this boy doesn't belong?"
Silence.
"Then train," he barked. "Or crawl back to your beds. Kael stays."
As the crowd scattered, Kael slowly stood.
His ribs hurt. His hand throbbed. But something inside burned brighter than pain.
For the first time, they said his name.
And for the first time—he had earned it.