Three months passed like a blade sliding across whetstone—silent, relentless, and irreversible.
From the moment Aurelian von Blackthorne stepped into the Blackthorne Sword Hall, he had not taken a single day of rest.
Not one.
Dawn found him already awake. Long before the bells rang, before instructors arrived, before soldiers fully armed themselves, Aurelian was there—his small figure cutting through the mist-covered training grounds with steady breath and measured steps.
Push-ups until his arms trembled.
Running laps until his lungs burned.
Core training, balance drills, stance refinement.
Then the sword.
Always the sword.
Horizontal slashes. Vertical cuts. Diagonal arcs. Thrusts. Withdrawals. Repetition after repetition, each movement polished a fraction more than the last. He trained until his muscles screamed and then trained again, pushing past limits his body had no business enduring at his age.
And yet—he never complained.
The soldiers noticed.
At first, they had watched out of curiosity. Then disbelief. Then respect.
Now… admiration.
"That kid hasn't skipped a day," a veteran soldier muttered one morning, watching Aurelian finish another set of strikes, sweat dripping down his chin.
"Three months," another replied. "Not even when he collapsed from exhaustion."
"He got back up," someone else added quietly. "That's what matters."
The Sword Hall did not reward talent alone.
It respected consistency.
And Aurelian embodied it.
Whenever Aurelian finally sat down—usually on the stone bench near the western wall—it was only because his body had reached its absolute limit for the day.
And even then, rest never lasted long.
Almost immediately, footsteps would approach.
"Young Master, water."
"Here—use this towel."
"Sit properly, you'll strain your back."
Female soldiers appeared one after another, offering water flasks, clean cloths, even quietly checking his posture. Their expressions were gentle, admiring—some outright reverent.
To them, he wasn't just the Duke's heir.
He was an ideal.
So young, yet so disciplined. So talented, yet so humble. Training harder than grown men without complaint.
More than a few had begun referring to him as a god of effort, half-joking, half-serious.
Naturally, not everyone was pleased.
Some male soldiers glanced over with narrowed eyes, arms crossed.
"Tch… spoiled brat."
"He's just a noble."
"Of course they fawn over him."
But jealousy didn't last long.
Because Aurelian never acted like a noble.
Sparring sessions became routine.
At first, instructors paired him with lower-ranked soldiers. Then intermediates. Eventually, veterans began stepping forward voluntarily.
Aurelian accepted every challenge.
He didn't look down on commoners.
Didn't hesitate to bow.
Didn't demand special treatment.
When sparring, he treated everyone equally—focusing fully, giving his all, respecting their strength. He neither mocked nor flattered, simply fought with the same cold concentration no matter who stood before him.
That alone changed everything.
"He doesn't care who you are," a soldier said one evening. "Only how you fight."
"He listens," another added. "Actually listens."
After each spar, Aurelian asked questions.
"How did you handle demon charges on the frontier?"
"What mistake did I make when I overcommitted?"
"How do you control breathing during prolonged combat?"
At first, soldiers were hesitant.
Then proud.
They shared stories—of border skirmishes, demon raids, comrades lost and victories barely won. Aurelian listened silently, absorbing every word. His memory was frighteningly precise. He never asked the same question twice.
Instructors noticed.
So did the Hall Master.
Days blurred together.
Weeks vanished.
Each passing day sharpened Aurelian further.
His footwork grew smoother. His timing improved. His body adapted unnaturally fast—muscles strengthening, endurance expanding, balance refining beyond expectations.
Veterans shook their heads in disbelief.
"At this rate…"
"He's not growing. He's transforming."
Rumors spread beyond the Sword Hall.
Throughout the Blackthorne Dukedom, whispers traveled from soldier to servant, servant to noble, noble to envoy.
The Blackthorne heir trains like a madman.
He spars with common soldiers as equals.
He's terrifyingly calm.
Other noble houses began to take interest.
Some out of curiosity.
Some out of concern.
Some out of fear.
Occasionally, an unmistakable presence would appear at the edge of the training grounds.
The Duke of Blackthorne.
Alaric von Blackthorne stood silently, black hair unmoving, black eyes emotionless. He never announced himself. Never interfered.
He watched.
Observed.
Judged.
When Aurelian noticed his father, he did not freeze or panic. He simply straightened his posture and continued training with even greater focus.
Once, after a particularly intense session, Alaric approached.
"Your stance collapses when exhausted," he said coldly. "Fix it."
Aurelian nodded. "Yes."
Another time: "You rely too much on prediction. Leave room for chaos."
Again: "Understood."
That was it.
No praise.
No criticism.
Yet those few words carried more weight than any applause.
The soldiers noticed something else.
Whenever the Duke watched, Aurelian's movements became sharper.
As if he were unconsciously trying to reach a standard that stood impossibly high.
Evenings often ended with conversation.
After training, soldiers and instructors gathered near the hall's edge, cleaning weapons, sharing meals. Aurelian often sat among them, listening.
A mercenary-turned-soldier recounted fighting a Demon Captain.
An instructor spoke of losing comrades during a retreat.
Another spoke of fear—and learning to move despite it.
Aurelian listened.
Not with childish fascination.
With understanding.
"Fear sharpens awareness," he said quietly once. "But hesitation kills."
Silence followed.
Then nods.
That night, someone said softly, "He's already thinking like a commander."
Three months ago, they had seen a child enter the Sword Hall.
Now, they saw something else.
A presence.
A future lord who did not demand loyalty—
—but earned it.
As the sun set beyond the black stone walls, Aurelian stood alone, practicing slow, deliberate cuts beneath the fading light.
Each swing carried weight.
Each breath held purpose.
The Blackthorne Sword Hall had not softened him.
It had forged him.
And unknowingly, every soldier who watched felt it—
The future of Blackthorne was not merely strong.
It was inevitable.