Chapter 8 – Training Ground
After their tea—
(Or rather, after Ignes had drained the last drop of his chocolate milk)—
Ignes and his father walked toward the estate's primary training grounds.
It was a vast, open space, paved with weathered stone and packed earth, where the Heart knights had gathered for generations. But as they stepped onto the field, the silence was striking.
The grounds were quiet. Too quiet.
There were fewer knights than Ignes remembered from his scattered childhood memories. The mages' spire in the distance seemed equally hollow.
The war between demons and humans had not just ended; it had consumed. It had been a slow, grinding machine that had taken far too much from both sides. Had the ceasefire not been signed, there would have been no one left to declare a winner. Both civilizations were standing on the precipice of extinction.
Now, there was time.
Time for "new blood."
Ignes walked beside his father, his hands tucked into his sleeves, his mind drifting.
New blood…
He paused, a bizarre image flicking through his mind.
I used to think that meant the new soldiers had to cut their palms and let their blood flow into a collective pool to join the army…
The thought spiraled.
…Why did my brain imagine a literal river of blood? With eyeballs hanging from the trees? That isn't recruitment—that's a nightmare. Stop. Wrong direction.
He shook his head slightly, clearing the mental gore.
Alexander stopped in the dead center of the field.
The wind whipped across the open space, tugging at the Duke's heavy cloak. He turned to face Ignes, his expression unreadable.
"Your brother will handle your formal training starting tomorrow," Alexander said, his voice echoing in the emptiness.
"But today, I will see what you are made of."
Ignes straightened his back, his red eyes focusing.
"If you want to walk the path of a swordsman," Alexander continued, "you need a vessel that can withstand the weight of your spirit. A strong body."
He gestured toward the horizon of the training field.
"Push-ups. Sit-ups. Jumps. Running laps."
"Five hundred each."
Ignes blinked once. He waited for the punchline, but it never came.
"Start now."
Alexander's tone was as cold as a winter morning.
"I want to see you finish everything before the sun touches the horizon. And you are not allowed to use even a spark of magic to strengthen your limbs. This must be your own strength, and nothing else."
Ignes smiled slightly.
The "challenging spirit " in him seemed to appreciate the sheer, brutal logic of the task.
"Alright."
"Sounds like a challenge."
"Let's start."
At first—
It looked like a performance.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Explosive jumps.
His movements were steady, fluid, and terrifyingly controlled. There was no shaking in his muscles, no strain in his expression. He moved like a puppet being pulled by invisible, perfect strings.
He didn't even break a sweat.
Alexander watched silently from the shade of a nearby pillar, his arms crossed over his chest.
Halfway… and he's still breathing as if he's reading a book.
But slowly—the mortal limits of a fourteen-year-old body began to assert themselves.
Things began to change.
Ignes's breathing grew heavier, the air rasping in his throat.
His arms started to tremble during the push-ups, the earth beneath him seeming to push back with newfound weight.
Each lap around the field felt longer than the last, his boots thudding heavily against the dirt.
Sweat began to map his face. Droplets slid down his neck, soaking into his collar. His pearl-white hair, usually so pristine, began to clump together, sticking to his damp forehead.
Still—he didn't stop. He didn't even slow down.
More time passed. The shadows grew long.
Now, his hands were shaking violently as he pressed himself up from the ground. His legs felt like lead, unstable and treacherous.
Each movement was a battle. Each breath was a deep, searing gulp of air.
But his eyes…
His eyes remained eerily calm. Focused. They were the eyes of a man watching a storm from behind a window, even as the storm raged inside his own muscles.
Alexander watched with a deepening intensity.
This kid…
Did the explosion two years ago change the nature of his physical shell? Or… does he truly possess a monster's talent for the sword?
The Duke narrowed his eyes.
That kind of resilience—that refusal to acknowledge pain—was exactly what a swordsman needed to survive a demon's blade.
A mage needed the mind to shape reality. Ignes had that in abundance. But this? This was the grit of a warrior.
Alexander exhaled slowly, a cloud of mist forming in the cooling air.
At least… no one outside these walls knew the truth.
No one knew that Igna was a mage of terrifying potential.
He had chosen the sword. For now, that was the safest path. He needed to bury his magic, to keep it hidden from the prying eyes of the capital.
Even with the "divine protection" his status afforded him—it meant nothing. The world was full of men blinded by greed and rot. Men who would not hesitate to snuff out a light like Ignes out of pure, venomous jealousy.
Back on the field—
Ignes completed another set.
His arms dropped for a second, his chest heaving as he fought for air. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, darkening the dust between his hands.
But then—
He forced his spine straight. He wiped his face with a trembling hand.
And he continued.
The sun began its slow, golden descent toward the horizon.
And the training—
Was far from over.