The dawn in Northgard Province was as harsh as ever, where the icy winds devoured the warmth from bones and froze the breath in throats. Before the sun could rise and chase away the remnants of darkness, Arian emerged from his quarters, wearing rough leather garments suited for training.
As he crossed the outer corridor leading to the lower courtyard, the sounds of frivolous laughter and clinking goblets reached his ears. On one of the balconies overlooking the courtyard, his two brothers, Jorah and Colin, were lounging in warm, fur-lined silk garments, with two of the castle's beautiful maids wrapped around them.
It was a known fact within the Oswald family that sons backed by their mothers' influence did not mix with the commoners in training. Jorah, being the son of Lady Morgana, and Colin, the son of Lady Rowena, enjoyed private instructors from the elite knights, who came to them in closed, warm arenas, far from the mud of the open courtyard. This was a privilege Arian had never enjoyed; his mother was nothing but a maid who died after his birth, leaving him nothing but a sword and an outcast's reputation.
The moment Jorah's eyes fell upon Arian, his lip curled into an arrogant smile and he shouted loudly: "Look who woke up early to play with the pigs in the mud! It seems our little hero is off to wallow in the dirt with the rest of the scum."
Colin tried to share in the laughter as usual, but the instant his eyes met Arian's, the laugh froze in his throat. He remembered that terrifying pressure in the dining hall, and settled for swallowing hard and looking away.
Arian's features did not change. He did not stop, nor did he even blink. He walked past them as if they were mere stone statues, completely ignoring their existence. This absolute disregard was a more severe insult than any retort, causing Jorah's face to flush with anger as he slammed his goblet against the balcony's edge.
"Let him go," Colin whispered in a shaky voice he tried to hide. "He'll die in that camp anyway."
When Arian reached the great muddy courtyard, the fifty men who had survived Sir Gared's test yesterday had already lined up. Their faces were pale, and their bodies still bore the traces of exhaustion and terror from the aura that had crushed them. The moment Arian stepped among them, eyes turned toward him, laden with a mixture of malice and awe.
Suddenly, the ranks parted and a young man around seventeen years of age stepped forward. It was the recruit "Baren," the boy Arian had saved by stopping the Royal Knight's sword yesterday.
Baren bowed slightly and spoke in a tone filled with deep gratitude and respect: "Young Master... I did not have the opportunity to thank you yesterday. My life owes you a great deal."
Arian looked at him coldly and said in a low voice that only he could hear: "I am not your master, and I do not collect followers. What happened yesterday was merely a passing whim. Focus on your training and do not be a burden."
Arian tried to walk past him, but Baren followed him with steady steps and stood beside him in the line, saying with a stubborn insistence that contradicted his calm nature: "The wolf does not forget who fed him, and blood does not forget who preserved it. You may not consider me your follower, but I consider you my master from this moment onward, whether you want it or not."
Arian sighed inwardly. *"The mentality of loyal warriors... annoying, but sometimes useful."* This internal monologue was cut short by the sound of approaching hooves and wooden wheels groaning under an immense weight. A young knight entered the courtyard, wearing light silver armor that reflected the gloomy dawn light, his eyes as sharp as a sword's blade. He was called "Sir Vance," one of Northgard's elite knights, known for his unconventional combat methods.
Behind Sir Vance was a line of carts filled with massive leather bags bound with iron chains.
Vance stopped in front of the recruits, sweeping them with a quick, evaluating look, then said with a faint smile devoid of any warmth: "I am Sir Vance. And by the orders of the Lord and the Captain of the Knights, I will be your personal hell from this moment on. Whoever survives me might just deserve to be called a knight."
He gestured with his hand toward the carts. The servants stepped forward and began throwing those massive leather bags at the recruits' feet. The bags hit the ground with a muffled thud indicating their terrifying weight. They were stuffed with wet sand and chunks of iron.
"Each of you will wear one of these," Vance said in a calm voice. "And today... you will climb to the peak of the 'Mountain of the Dead' that overlooks the province. And whoever does not reach the summit and return before sunset... will find no food waiting for him tonight, and will be expelled from the camp by tomorrow's dawn."
A stunned silence fell over the courtyard, before a wave of grumbling erupted among the grown men.
"This is madness!" shouted one of the heavily built mercenaries. "Climbing that cursed icy mountain without any weights is grueling enough, so how do you expect us to carry these rocks on our backs? This isn't training; this is torture!"
Hesitation began to spread like an infection among the recruits. They knew Sir Vance was not joking, and the aforementioned mountain was notorious for its harsh slopes and thin air that tore at the lungs.
Amidst this chaos and hesitation, the sound of iron chains scraping was heard.
Everyone turned to find Arian, the youngest in the courtyard, stepping forward with absolute calm. He bent down and grabbed one of the bags, which was nearly half his body weight. The muscles of his small arms tensed frighteningly as he lifted it, then he slipped his arms through the leather straps and secured it to his back.
And without uttering a word, or looking at anyone, Arian began to walk toward the courtyard gate leading to the mountain.
The mercenaries and adult men swallowed their complaints all at once. How could they grumble and protest when a nine-year-old child—a noble, presumably pampered—shouldered the weight and began the task without batting an eye?
"Damn this pride," the huge mercenary muttered as he angrily picked up his bag. Baren followed him immediately, and then the rest began to don the weights one after the other, driven by the shame a child had inflicted upon them.
The ascent was a literal embodiment of hell.
After the first two hours, the paved paths vanished, replaced by slippery rocks and steep, snowy trails. The leather bag was not just extra weight; it was a monster sapping their energy. The leather straps dug into their shoulders until they bled, and the cold air struck their lungs like tiny knives.
Men began to fall. Some were vomiting from sheer exhaustion, while others crawled on their hands and knees, crying from excruciating muscle pain.
At the front, Arian was suffering more than anyone. His childlike body was screaming, begging him to stop. His bones groaned under the pressure of the weight, and his heart pumped blood at a maddening speed that threatened to tear his veins. But his eyes were terrifyingly calm.
*"Pain is merely a nerve signal... The body is a servant, and the will is the master,"* Arian repeated this ancient military tenet in his mind. He began using a precise breathing technique, controlling the flow of his weak aura within his body to concentrate it in his joints and knees, preventing them from collapsing. He placed his foot with absolute steadiness with every step, wasting no excess energy in swaying.
Behind him was Baren, watching Arian's movements and steps, trying to mimic his breathing pattern. Baren was astounded by the sheer willpower this child possessed. *"He is not walking with his body... he is walking with his soul,"* Baren thought as he gritted his teeth and continued the climb.
After hours of pure agony, they finally reached the summit.
Out of fifty, only forty recruits made it. They collapsed onto the snow upon arrival, panting, crying, and thanking the gods that this torment was over. Arian himself sat on a nearby rock, his eyes closed, regulating his breath with extreme difficulty, his shoulders bleeding beneath the straps.
There, Sir Vance stood leaning against a rock, watching them with a faint smile.
"Well done," Vance said in a calm, provoking voice. "You have proven that you are not complete scum. Catch your breath..."
The men smiled, believing the worst was over.
"...Because now you will descend, with those exact same bags."
The recruits' breath hitched. A stifling silence prevailed before one of them yelled: "Are you joking with us?! Descending with these weights on our exhausted knees will tear our joints apart! Aren't there carts for the return?"
The smile vanished from Sir Vance's face, his eyes turning into sharp blades, and he roared in a voice that shook the mountain peak: "On a real battlefield, there is no rest after slaughtering your enemies! You must carry your wounded and retreat! If your knees cannot bear this weight, then break them and crawl! Descend now, or I will throw you off the edge of this mountain one by one!"
He wasn't joking. Everyone knew it.
Arian stood up first. He knew exactly the purpose of this training. Descending with heavy weights is the harshest training for building muscular balance and strengthening ligaments. *"Classic military training... this Vance isn't just some foolish instructor,"* Arian thought, and began the lethal descent.
The journey back was far worse. Knees trembled, and some rolled and fell, receiving brutal bruises. When they reached the bottom of the mountain at sunset, half of the men were limping, and the other half were being carried by their comrades. They succeeded, but they were closer to corpses than living men.
The following day, in the same muddy courtyard, the recruits stood once more. Exhaustion had carved dark shadows beneath their eyes, and every movement cost them terrible pain.
Sir Vance brought out hard, carefully weighted wooden swords and tossed them their way. "Today, we will not run. Today, we will learn how not to die by the sword. I will show you the fundamentals that separate someone who swings a piece of iron like a peasant, from someone who uses the sword as an extension of his soul."
Vance began explaining defensive movements and basic stances. While the recruits practiced, striking their wooden swords with difficulty due to the pain in their shoulders, Arian was sparring with Baren.
"Young Master... how did you manage to endure yesterday? At one point, I thought you had stopped breathing entirely just to keep walking," Baren asked as he blocked Arian's wooden strike.
Arian replied as he delivered a swift, precise strike that bypassed Baren's defense and lightly tapped his shoulder: "Your body lies to you, Baren. It tells you it's collapsing so that you will stop and protect it. But the truth is, you can push this body three times further before it truly dies. Controlling that dividing line... is what makes the difference."
Sir Vance was watching the duo from afar. He approached with slow steps, gestured for Baren to step back slightly, then stood before Arian, who lowered his wooden sword out of respect for the instructor.
Vance looked into Arian's deep eyes and said in a low voice meant only for them: "You are the Lord's son who killed Rolf in a death duel. I have heard much about your composure. I have a question that's been bothering me since yesterday... why?"
Arian raised an eyebrow slightly: "Why what?"
"Why are you here? Wallowing in the mud with these mercenaries and peasants, carrying weights that tear your back. As a son of the Oswald family, you could have stayed on the warm balconies, used your family's influence to get a private instructor, or even bought a knighthood with money and politics like your older brothers do. Why choose hardship when the easy path is open to you?"
Arian looked at Sir Vance. There was no mockery in the instructor's eyes; rather, there was genuine curiosity—the curiosity of a warrior trying to understand another warrior.
Arian lowered his wooden sword, looked toward the peak of the mountain they had climbed yesterday, and said in his cold, measured voice: "Titles bought with gold or influence... are stripped away just as easily. I am not here to collect titles so that nobles can applaud me in ballrooms. This body is weak, and it needs to be shattered and torn apart so it can be rebuilt as an unbreakable foundation. The pain we feel right now is the only currency death recognizes on a real battlefield. To me, this training is more important than any knightly title the family could bestow upon me."
Sir Vance's eyes widened slightly. These words were not the words of a nine-year-old child, nor were they even the words of a noble seeking glory. They were the creed of a pure warrior, a commander who understood that true power is seized, not granted.
A genuine smile, devoid of any deceit, formed on Sir Vance's face. He turned to go back to observing the rest of the recruits, but he whispered as he left, with words carrying deep respect: "You are completely different from the rest of your brothers, Arian."