Thunk, thunk!
Wooden swords collided against the training dummies of the camp from the training of the four knight cadets, under the supervision of a senior knight.
In the far end, metal swords clashed with one another, as official knights have formed pairs and clashed against each other.
Simply put, the training camp has served its purpose.
But.
In that busy camp, even including the four of the enrolled knight cadets, only the young lord looked like a neophyte.
He was being trained by the vice commander Heinrich himself.
"Kiaaaai!"
Fwoosh!
Seven's wooden sword slashed the air.
"Hah-ah. That one marks the hundredth strike. Nine hundred more to go, damn it."
A thousand cuts.
Heinrich had instructed Seven to perform that fundamental practice every knight in history had experienced, noting repetition was the fastest way to grow familiarity with the weight and balance of the sword.
However.
"Kiaaaai!"
Fwoosh.
Heinrich also instructed to never slow down until the number is met.
"Easy there, young lord. Do not hasten. Make sure to maintain a regular cadence, as quality matters more than quantity."
"Yes. Kiaaai!!"
Fwoosh!
Seven had tried his best to execute each strike perfectly. Focus on precision. Each one of the strikes must be executed perfectly.
However, such precision was never meant to abandon the most crucial thing:
"Keep the force behind every cut and ignore the fatigue building on your arms. The battle is not over until the opponent is not defeated. They won't let you breathe just because you are tired."
"Kiaaaii!"
Fwoosh!
Heinrich expected the young lord to give up pretty much soon, but that expectation was shattered after the five hundredth strike.
To add, that look he recognized on the young lord's eyes never wavered, not even once.
"Kiaaai!"
Even after making him shout that word, that battle cry, mainly to maximize physical power and maintain mental focus.
It contracted the abdominal muscles to force a sudden exhalation, which tightens the core and channels maximum kinetic energy into the strike.
Though the most notable purpose of this is to intimidate the opponent and also disrupt their rhythm which can break their concentration.
'Fudge. My muscles are asking me to die at this point. They are starting to feel numb.'
"Kiaaaaaai!"
Droplets of sweat kept on falling from his chin, melting the snow beneath. His soaked long sleeve was almost see-through, revealing the frail pattern of his ribs.
Some of the knights paused their training. It had been some time since they heard the young lord's battle cry, and he was still going at it.
They formed a line to watch him like a damn cinema, and some even placed a bet. It was a useless gamble, as he had already reached the seven hundredth strike at the moment.
Still, they believed that even three hundred more with that kind of physique just seemed impossible.
The four cadets under the supervision of the senior knight, however, did not stop. They have duels to fight the day after this one.
"Kiaai!"
Fwoosh!
Seven could now feel his smooth palms being split open with every strike, the handle of the wooden sword painted with a light red hue.
But.
Fwoosh!
Fwoosh!
…
…
'…Nine hundred ninety-nine.'
His arms trembled violently, vision blurring around the edges but he still forced one last swing.
"Kiai!"
Fwoosh!
It took roughly an hour, but the wooden sword cut through the air one final time before he collapsed backward into the snow.
A flake fell onto his face.
"Hah-ah-ah. I… I did it. I did a thousand strikes, damn it."
The snowfall has grown lighter now.
Earlier it looked like a snowstorm might arrive, but the clouds had thinned, leaving only gentle flakes drifting lazily down, typical of that as the second day of winter.
Thanks to the scorching hot potato stew and the warmth of Iria's magic wrapping around his skin, the cold never crept into his bones.
"Do I even still have my arms? Still, those days came in good use, eh."
If he had not mimicked swinging a sword inside his room back in South Korea for two years, even with a terrible form, he would never have survived this.
Back then, he did it a hundred times a day.
Heinrich placed his hand against his chin, quietly observing the young lord lying in the snow.
Even when he collapsed from tiredness, he still held the wooden sword.
'Perhaps I have pushed him too hard.'
Heinrich exhaled.
"Let us proceed in baby steps, young lord."
"Again."
Heinrich paused.
Seven slowly forced himself upright.
His legs were shaking violently as he stood, his movements stiff and sluggish, looking more like a corpse being dragged back to life than a young lord.
"That wouldn't be a good choice, young lord. Driving your body to its limits too often brings little benefit. We should—"
"Again."
Seven shifted his grip on the wooden sword.
Just then, a girl appeared a few steps behind Heinrich.
Her hair was tied in twin ponytails that swayed gently in the winter breeze, its thin strands dancing across her cheeks as the snowflakes settled lightly upon them.
Suddenly, that girl had radiant, angelic wings that shimmered faintly beneath the pale winter sky. Each feather that glowed as if touched by sunlight.
Tiny butterflies also appeared and circled her shoulders, as well as danced around her hair.
It was a breathtaking sight.
Except.
None of that was real.
Seven's mind had begun to drift somewhere between reality and dream. The radiant wings dissolved and the butterflies then scattered into nothingness.
Only the girl remained.
Seven shook his head and forced his gaze back toward Heinrich.
"Agai—"
Before he could finish the word, the world suddenly tilted sideways and his body began to fall forward.
Step.
Heinrich closed the distance in a single stride and caught the young lord by the shoulder before his body collapsed into the snow.
At the same moment, the girl that remained in Seven's vision rushed forward, followed by a green hue that bloomed from her palms.
That gentle light then spread slowly across his exhausted body.
Little by little, the tension in his trembling arms eased as the faint radiance wrapped around him.
"Sigh. You really are a stubborn one, my lord. I remember telling you not to push yourself too hard."
— – - 777 - – —
3rd day of Bruma, Year 769.
The knights had a formation in the training ground, forming a wide square space in the middle.
Eagerness was etched on each of their faces.
Step, step.
Seven arrived shortly after, accompanied by the vice commander.
Having just finished running ten laps around the manor's courtyard, his hair was still damp and messy.
Iria attempted to stop him from going after pushing himself to his limits yesterday, but sigh, even she couldn't do much against his stubbornness.
"The atmosphere here is quite heavy. Say, is there an event happening today worthy of this tension, Heinrich?"
"If I am not mistaken, this morning is reserved strictly for the bouts of the cadets."
Heinrich replied, calmly.
"It is a monthly obligation, and an opportunity for the knight cadets to display the skills they have acquired during their weeks of training."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
Looking at the space formed by the watching knights again, the four cadets were standing inside that formation. Their gazes looked fierce, as if they could devour each other on the spot.
'A chance for the knight cadets to showcase their learnings. In another perspective, this is also a chance for me to learn something from them. Interesting.'
A faint smirk formed on Seven's lips.
"Is there any reward for the victor?"
Seven asked, as sometimes, even a little bit of a reward is one's greatest motivation.
"I cannot give you an exact answer regarding the prize, young lord. I am stationed at the gate at all times, and this happens to be my first time watching the duels in person."
"I see."
"If you truly wish to know, I shall ask one of the knights nearby. They should have a definitive answer."
"Forget it. I don't really mind that much."
"At your words, young lord."
Step, step.
By the time Seven and Heinrich reached the formation of the knights, the knights parted instantly like Moses and the red sea, offering the young lord a privileged front seat.
But.
Seven refused.
Instead, he turned around and climbed onto a stack of crates beside one of the cabins then perched atop it like a bird.
This position, although he chose it because it was a better position to watch the bouts and observe in detail, most of the knights thought it was simple because the young lord refused to be on the same eye level as them.
Heinrich stood below the crates. Due to his height, he could observe the formation space without any trouble.
Step.
"Cough! Well, look at that. The last bouts happened a month ago, but it felt like yesterday."
A senior knight, the one instructing the cadets the day before, walked into the center of the space.
"Cough! For the next four days, you kids are back at it with another sparring tournament. And lucky for you, Thierry Brissac, will still be the one running the show."
That got the watching knights murmuring.
"Rules haven't changed. You'll still use wooden practice swords. Cough! The match is only over the second once your opponent gets disarmed, knocked flat on their back on the ground, or cries uncle. Simple, right?"
Theirry held up two fingers, letting out a small sigh.
"It's a double-elimination. You lose twice, and you're out. Bag ten pieces of bronze cito, but the training is over for you."
Theirry then looked over the four cadets, each one looked eager.
"However."
A brief silence settled over the square.
"This time, the last person standing among you four isn't the winner. For the true final match—"
Thierry coughed yet again, for the fourth time.
By a strange thread of fate, Thierry pointed toward the stack of crates all of a sudden, to the person sitting casually atop it.
"—will be against the young lord himself."
All of the knights were caught off guard. They turned toward the young lord with a mix of emotions, with amused grins, and with deep anticipation.
Seven, unlike the knights watching him, only had a single response:
"...The fudge!?"