The training grounds were quiet, save for the gentle rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of early birds. Travis stood alone on the field, sword in hand, the morning sun casting long shadows at his feet.
He exhaled slowly and stepped into his stance.
His grip tightened around the hilt. The blade felt natural—like an extension of his arm. With calm focus, he moved.
A basic slash.
Then another.
Each motion flowed into the next. His footwork was crisp, his posture balanced. There was no hesitation—his body moved with clarity, instinct, and control.
'This feels... cleaner than before,' he thought, pivoting smoothly into a side cut, then reversing into an overhead slash. 'My hands aren't fumbling. My feet know exactly where to go.'
He transitioned into drills his father once taught him—simple forms that once felt awkward, now sharp and purposeful.
Step. Swing. Breathe.
The sword hummed through the air, slicing with speed and precision. His movements weren't faster—just more refined. No wasted energy. No sloppiness.
Sweat beaded on his brow, but he didn't stop.
'Was this always inside me? Or did something finally click?' he wondered as he completed another set of cuts and dropped into a lower stance, flowing through a sequence of parries and counterattacks.
His chest rose and fell with deep, controlled breaths. He paused for a moment, holding his blade steady in front of him.
A small smile touched his lips.
'This is real. I'm getting better… finally.'
He continued.
Strike after strike, step after step, until the sun climbed higher into the sky. He didn't need applause. He didn't need praise.
An hour had passed, and Travis was still going at it—his sword slicing through the morning air with steady precision. His shirt now hung over a fencepost nearby, completely soaked. Beads of sweat rolled down his bare chest and back, muscles flexing with every movement as he continued cycling through his formation.
The once pristine grass beneath him had long been worn into shallow grooves, his repeated steps leaving a trail of impressions in the earth. But he didn't care. If anything, those tracks were a sign—proof of how far he'd pushed himself.
Each repetition felt sharper. Each motion clearer. It wasn't perfect—but it was better. Tangibly better.
'Every time I do it… I feel myself understanding it more,' he thought, breathing through his nose, his blade sweeping through another arc.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Hendrick arrived, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path as he spotted Travis already deep into training. He stopped, raising a brow.
It was unexpected—but Hendrick didn't let it show.
Still, Travis didn't even glance at him. He kept moving.
"Young Master Travis," Hendrick called, folding his arms behind his back. "Good morning. Are you ready for today's training?"
Travis finally turned to face him, sweat trickling down his temple. He gave a small nod. "I am," he replied simply.
"Good." Hendrick adjusted his posture. "Let's begin with warm-ups. Run twenty laps around the training grounds. No breaks."
Without a word, Travis nodded again. He walked over, drove his sword into the ground, and took off at a steady pace.
Hendrick watched in silence, walking to the shade of a nearby tree. He sat down, arms crossed, eyes tracking the boy as he ran.
'I'm sure he'll be done before he hits nine laps,' he thought with a smirk.
But as the laps stacked up, Hendrick's expression began to shift.
Ten laps in—and Travis was still running strong. His breath was controlled, his form tight, and his strides unwavering. Sweat dripped steadily down his brow, but his pace never faltered.
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen…
By the time he crossed the finish on his twentieth lap, Travis slowed to a stop, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, catching his breath—but not collapsing. His chest rose and fell quickly, but he was still standing.
Hendrick narrowed his eyes, concealing his surprise.
'He actually finished it… and he's still on his feet,' he thought.
Still, no praise came. Not even a nod. He simply stood back up and adjusted his cuffs.
" Alright let's move on"
Travis stood at the center of the clearing, the training sword gripped tightly in his calloused hands. His breath came steady, the memory of the dream and the mark on his hand still fresh in his mind. Hendrick crossed his arms behind him, silent, watching.
"Start with vertical slashes. One hundred. Count them out loud," Hendrick ordered.
Travis nodded, raising the wooden blade high over his shoulder.
"'One,'" he muttered, slicing downward. The blade cut through the air cleanly, without resistance.
"'Two.'" Another smooth motion.
"'Three.'" The same precision.
Ten strikes in, Travis began to feel the rhythm.
Twenty in, his shoulders burned slightly, but his form never faltered. By forty, his feet adjusted naturally after each strike, resetting with near-perfect posture.
Sweat started to bead on his brow. The wind carried the sharp whoosh of each swing.
But even as his arms grew tired, his technique didn't slip. In fact, it was getting better—tighter elbows, smoother transitions, no wasted movement.
Hendrick narrowed his eyes. He didn't say a word, but his gaze sharpened.
"'Eighty-seven... eighty-eight...'"
Travis's voice was strained, but steady. His arms trembled slightly by now, but every slash still landed precisely in the same imaginary line.
Finally, "'One hundred.'"
He exhaled slowly and reset his stance.
"Horizontal next?" he asked.
Hendrick gave a grunt, the closest thing to approval Travis had gotten all morning.
Travis turned, adjusting his grip. This time, the blade sliced left to right—then right to left—over and over. His footwork aligned perfectly with each movement, his knees bending just the right amount, spine aligned.
He wasn't thinking about it anymore. His body remembered what it used to struggle to do. Every motion was smoother, more refined—like the raw instinct had been tempered.
As he reached the final ten strikes, Travis's shirt clung to his back, drenched. His muscles ached, but his eyes remained focused. Determined.
"'Ninety-nine... one hundred.'"
He finally lowered the sword and let out a long breath.
"...Huh," he muttered to himself, glancing down at his arms. They were sore, yes—but steady. Stronger. His grip hadn't loosened once.
Even Hendrick, silent as stone, couldn't deny it. His voice finally broke the quiet.
"...Your swings used to flail around like you were fighting air itself," he muttered. "That was... less embarrassing."
Travis smiled faintly and wiped the sweat from his brow.
' That's the first time he's ever said anything nice. Is it going to rain today?' He thought.
" Time for a spar. I want you to give your all unlike yesterday. Come at me with the intent to kill. Nothing short of that " He said.
TO BE CONTINUED