The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but the manor grounds were already stirring with motion. The air was crisp, laced with the scent of dew-drenched earth. Caelan stood in silence for a moment, watching mist drift lazily over the field. Exactly seven days remained until the duel with Seren.
As he walked toward the training grounds, voices echoed from behind one of the barracks near the edge of the path.
"Tch. That failure dares to challenge the prodigy?"
"You mean the one who used to faint if a spar went too long? What was his name again—ah, right. The disgrace of House Dorne."
"I heard the Patriarch trained him personally. Can you believe that?"
"Hah, I bet he spread that rumor himself just to gain sympathy. Typical."
Caelan paused just short of the bend, out of their line of sight. His fingers twitched slightly, but he didn't move.
"What a joke. He's just trying to act tough before Seren crushes him. That duel will be over before he can even draw his sword."
He exhaled slowly and stepped away before they saw him, heading toward the field.
"Man… what a headache," he muttered under his breath. Don't they get tired of this?
But then, his eyes narrowed, and the wind stirred around him ever so faintly.
"It's fine. After the duel, I'll prove it. I'm not the same fragile, weak boy anymore. I'll prove it by strength—and earn respect, not pity."
The training field stretched wide before him, and at the far corner—where the equipment racks stood—he saw a familiar figure.
Luken, standing with a wooden sword in hand, quietly swinging through a basic form. His motions were careful but hesitant, as if fear still lingered behind his recovery.
Caelan walked toward him, his footsteps crunching softly on the gravel.
"Hello," he said with a small smile.
Luken turned, blinking in surprise. "Young master Caelan…! Where were you these last few days?"
"I was in private training," Caelan replied, reaching for one of the training swords. "For enlightenment."
Luken's brow furrowed. "Enlightenment? Does that mean…"
Caelan nodded, smirking faintly. "I've reached the peak of the 3-Star Stage."
The sword slipped from Luken's hand.
"P-Peak of the 3rd… stage?" he stammered, his face paling. "But… but you've only been here for three months…"
Caelan noticed the color drain from Luken's face. He tilted his head. "What's the matter?"
Luken clenched his fists, his voice low. "I've been training here for three years. Every day. I've never missed a session. I've studied, sparred, pushed myself past injuries. And yet… I'm still stuck at Apprentice level. I'm not even close to the 2-Star Stage."
His shoulders trembled as the words spilled out.
"I thought maybe if I kept trying, I'd catch up one day. That if I worked harder than anyone else… I could stand on the same ground."
There was a pause.
Caelan looked at him steadily. "So? Will you give up, then?"
Luken looked up sharply, eyes wide. "No. Never. Even if it takes half my life, I'll keep trying. I'll push every day—without failure."
Caelan smiled gently.
"Good," he said. "Because effort like that… eventually leaves even geniuses behind.
Caelan placed a hand on Luken's shoulder, his expression turning thoughtful.
"Let me check your body first," he said calmly.
Luken blinked. "I'm already fully recovered, young master. The healer said—"
"I don't mean injuries," Caelan interrupted. "I want to check if there's anything wrong with your body. But… let's move to another training ground first."
He glanced around. Several of the knights who had been whispering earlier still lingered, their eyes darting toward Caelan now and then, filled with judgment, curiosity, or outright dismissal.
"There are too many eyes here," Caelan muttered.
The two made their way across the estate grounds to an old, unused section of the training fields—a quiet corner where weeds pushed through the cracked stones, and the weapons rack stood mostly empty. No one trained here anymore.
As soon as they arrived, Caelan asked Luken to sit on a low bench and began observing him more closely.
His eyes narrowed.
Dark circles under the eyes. Pale skin. Hair brittle at the ends. Nails chipped and fragile…
"I see," Caelan said under his breath, then looked Luken in the eye.
"Tell me. Do you feel frequent bone aches? And do your clothes seem looser lately—ones that used to fit well?"
Luken's mouth opened in surprise. "Yes! I—how did you know?"
Caelan's gaze turned serious.
"That's the reason you're not getting stronger," he said plainly. "Your body is malnourished. You don't rest enough. You're probably skipping meals—or eating whatever comes first. You train every day, but your body doesn't have the fuel or recovery time to grow."
Luken stared at him in stunned silence.
"W-What…?" he finally whispered. "I thought… if I just worked harder…"
Caelan shook his head. "Your heart's strong, Luken. But your body is dying to catch up. Come with me."
They returned to the main building, and Caelan led Luken through the quiet halls until they reached his chambers.
Standing outside was Gregor, the ever-reliable steward.
Caelan turned to him. "Gregor. Can I ask a favor?"
The man gave a respectful bow. "Whatever you ask, young master."
Caelan nodded toward Luken. "Make sure he eats the same meals I do—every one of them. Watch him closely. No missed portions."
"Understood."
"And he is not allowed to train. Not even touch a wooden sword. For one full week."
Luken immediately tensed. "Y-Young master, I… I can't stop training. Not for a whole week—"
"Luken," Caelan said firmly, "Do you want to grow stronger?"
"I do."
"Then listen. You have to heal first. Or do you not believe in me?"
Luken bit his lip, then bowed deeply. "I believe in you, young master. Truly. More than I believe in myself."
Caelan smiled, stepping back. "Good. Gregor, take him for a proper bath first. Let his body breathe. No training until I say otherwise."
"As you command."
As Gregor guided Luken inside, Caelan turned to leave—but Gregor suddenly spoke up behind him.
"Young master—one more thing."
Caelan glanced back.
"Master Thrain sent word. Your tools and sword… are ready."
Caelan's expression lit up faintly.
"Finally."
Caelan crossed the estate's outer grounds, the forges visible in the distance. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, and the smell of iron and flame filled the air.
He called out toward the workshop, voice calm but eager.
"Sir Thrain! I've come to receive my tools and sword!"
A voice responded from behind him.
"Oh, you're here," came the familiar rasp of the old blacksmith.
Caelan turned—and there stood Thrain, arms crossed, a slight smirk playing across his soot-marked face.
Thrain wiped his hands on a thick cloth, the scent of iron and smoke clinging to him like an old friend. With a grunt, he stepped over to a nearby basin, washed the soot from his face, and patted it dry with a towel that had clearly seen better days.
"You're lucky, lad. I finished it all just last night," he muttered, already turning to a large oak chest on the side table.
He opened the box slowly, reverently—revealing a neatly arranged set of medical tools. The golden glint of scalpel blades caught the afternoon light. Beside them were fine clips, retractors, surgical scissors, and curved suture scissors, all glimmering faintly with enchantment.
Caelan's eyes widened. "Gold? You really used gold for this?
"Gold alloy," Thrain corrected. "Strong, moldable, non-reactive. Ideal for what you asked."
Caelan leaned closer, noticing a faint rune carved on the inside of the box lid. It shimmered subtly.
"What's this rune?" he asked.
Thrain grinned, pride showing through his usually stoic features. "That's a dwarf rune. I carved it myself. It preserves the sterility of the tools, as long as they're cleaned before placing them inside."
Caelan blinked, genuinely impressed. "Sterility maintained without alcohol or flame…"
Finally, he thought. A reliable way to keep the environment sterile. I was planning to soak them in alcohol. This saves so much time and risk.
Thrain chuckled. "Thought you'd like that."
Then, without another word, he turned and brought out a long velvet-wrapped object. With one smooth motion, he unraveled it, revealing a gleaming sword—sleek, balanced, and with a faint bluish sheen running along the blade's edge.
Caelan could feel the hum of mana through it.
"This sword has a high mana conductivity," Thrain explained. "You can channel both spells and aura through it. Fluidly. It's built for someone who doesn't separate magic from the blade."
Caelan reached for it with care, testing the weight, the flow of energy. It was perfect.
Yet Thrain raised an eyebrow. "You seem more excited about those tools than this sword."
Caelan laughed softly. "I'm just… equally excited to see both."
"Pfft. You're a strange one," Thrain muttered. "Whatever. Just make sure you come back if anything needs tuning."
As Caelan turned to leave, Thrain suddenly shouted behind him, "Wait!"
He jogged after the boy, holding something in his soot-stained hands—a small silver disk embedded with a crystal core.
"A subspace pocket?" Caelan asked in surprise.
"You're going to walk around carrying both a tool chest and a sword?" Thrain snorted. "Take this. You can access the contents whenever you need."
Caelan's eyes widened. "No, sir… this is too valuable. I can't accept—"
"It's just gathering dust on my desk," Thrain waved off. "Better you use it than I trip over it."
Caelan bowed. "Thank you, Sir Thrain. Truly."
As he walked back to the mansion, Caelan held the subspace disk in his palm, pushing a strand of mana into it. The disk glowed briefly—and with a pulse, the toolbox vanished from his hand, safely stored away in the invisible pocket.
Neat.
The sky was painted in streaks of violet and orange when Caelan reached his chambers.
Inside, he saw Luken, now dressed in clean clothes. The difference was striking—no longer in his rugged, fraying shirt, the boy stood taller, more relaxed, even if still confused.
Caelan placed a hand on Luken's shoulder, his expression turning thoughtful.
"Let me check your body first," he said calmly.
Luken blinked. "I'm already fully recovered, young master. The healer said—"
"I don't mean injuries," Caelan interrupted. "I want to check if there's anything wrong with your body. But… let's move to another training ground first."
He glanced around. Several of the knights who had been whispering earlier still lingered, their eyes darting toward Caelan now and then, filled with judgment, curiosity, or outright dismissal.
"There are too many eyes here," Caelan muttered.
The two made their way across the estate grounds to an old, unused section of the training fields—a quiet corner where weeds pushed through the cracked stones, and the weapons rack stood mostly empty. No one trained here anymore.
As soon as they arrived, Caelan asked Luken to sit on a low bench and began observing him more closely.
His eyes narrowed.
Dark circles under the eyes. Pale skin. Hair brittle at the ends. Nails chipped and fragile…
"I see," Caelan said under his breath, then looked Luken in the eye.
"Tell me. Do you feel frequent bone aches? And do your clothes seem looser lately—ones that used to fit well?"
Luken's mouth opened in surprise. "Yes! I—how did you know?"
Caelan's gaze turned serious.
"That's the reason you're not getting stronger," he said plainly. "Your body is malnourished. You don't rest enough. You're probably skipping meals—or eating whatever comes first. You train every day, but your body doesn't have the fuel or recovery time to grow."
Luken stared at him in stunned silence.
"W-What…?" he finally whispered. "I thought… if I just worked harder…"
Caelan shook his head. "Your heart's strong, Luken. But your body is dying to catch up. Come with me."
"Young master," Luken asked, almost sheepishly. "Am I really not allowed to train?"
"No," Caelan replied firmly. "Not even a single swing."
"But—"
"You want to grow stronger, right?"
Luken nodded.
"Then rest. Trust me. That's an order."
Luken lowered his head but smiled faintly. "Understood."
That night, the two sat down together for a quiet dinner. Gregor had ensured their plates were hearty—roasted meat, steamed vegetables, buttered root slices, and a thick broth. Luken ate hungrily, though he paused now and then, still adjusting to this sudden kindness.
Caelan's expression remained gentle. He walked to the table and placed the subspace disk down carefully, then sat on the edge of his bed, thoughtful.
"You know," he said after a moment, "when I first came here... I felt like the walls were watching me. Every whisper, every glance—felt like a judgment."
Luken's eyes widened slightly. He hadn't expected such honesty.
"But the thing is," Caelan continued, "I don't plan to keep proving myself to them forever. After the duel, they'll have to see me differently."
He glanced out the window. The sun was nearly gone now, casting long shadows over the estate. "And when they do, I'll make sure those who follow the same path I did—won't walk it alone."
Luken swallowed hard, emotions welling in his throat. "Then... then I'll follow you. Wherever you lead. No matter how far behind I am, I'll catch up."
Later, Caelan retired to his bed, tired yet fulfilled.
Luken was shown to the guest room just across the hall, a spare but comfortable space Gregor had personally prepared. As he curled under fresh sheets, something he hadn't done in years, Luken whispered to himself—
"I will not waste this chance…"