The morning air was colder than usual.
A thin layer of mist hung over the yard, clinging to the grass and drifting lazily between the trees. Arin stepped outside, rubbing his hands together, his breath visible in the chill.
He barely had time to stretch—
"You're late."
Arin froze.
His father stood in the center of the yard, already holding a wooden sword. His posture was straight, unmoving, as if he had been standing there for a long time.
"I'm not late," Arin protested. "It's just—"
"You're late," his father repeated calmly.
"…Yes, Father."
Arin quickly grabbed his training sword and stepped forward. His heart was already beating faster. Training with his father was never easy… but today felt different.
Maybe because now—
He was officially a Warrior.
A Different Kind of Training
"Show me," his father said.
Arin blinked. "Show you what?"
"What a 'Warrior' looks like."
Arin swallowed.
"…Right."
He took his stance, just like he had practiced yesterday. Feet steady. Grip firm. Eyes focused.
Then he moved.
A clean forward step—
A sharp swing—
Another—
Faster now, more controlled.
He finished with a final strike, stopping just before his father.
Silence.
"…Well?" Arin asked, slightly nervous.
His father tilted his head slightly.
"…Better than before."
Arin's shoulders relaxed a little. "Really?"
"But still useless."
"…What?"
Before Arin could react—
Crack!
Their wooden swords collided, and Arin felt a sharp force run through his arms. He stumbled back, barely holding his grip.
"What was that?!" Arin exclaimed.
His father stepped forward slowly. "That… was reality."
Arin tightened his grip again. "I wasn't ready!"
"You won't get time to be ready."
Another strike came—faster this time.
Arin barely blocked it.
"Too slow," his father said.
Another.
"Too stiff."
Another.
"You're thinking too much."
Arin gritted his teeth, stepping back again and again. His arms trembled under the pressure.
"This isn't fair!" he snapped.
"Fights aren't fair."
Their swords clashed again.
Arin tried to push forward this time, swinging back with all his strength.
But his father deflected it easily.
"Strength alone won't save you," he said. "A Warrior who relies only on power… is already defeated."
Breaking Point
Arin's breathing grew heavier. His grip tightened.
Why… why can't I land a single hit?
He stepped forward again, faster now, frustration building.
Swing—
Blocked.
Swing—
Dodged.
Swing—
Stopped completely.
His father's sword rested lightly against his shoulder.
"…Dead," he said calmly.
Arin froze.
Silence filled the yard.
His chest rose and fell rapidly. Sweat dripped from his chin.
"I…"
He looked down at his hands. They were shaking.
"I trained… I got the Warrior class… I even fought a mana beast yesterday…"
His voice tightened.
"Why am I still this weak?"
For the first time, his father didn't attack.
Instead, he stepped back.
"…Because you're still a beginner."
Arin clenched his fists.
"That's not—"
"It's the truth."
The words hit harder than any strike.
"You think one ceremony changes everything?" his father continued. "A title doesn't make you strong. A mark doesn't make you skilled."
Arin stayed silent.
His father walked closer, placing the wooden sword on his shoulder—not as an attack, but as weight.
"Strength is built. Slowly. Painfully. Repeatedly."
Arin looked up.
"You felt it, didn't you?" his father said quietly.
Arin's heart skipped.
"…Felt what?"
"That moment," he said. "When your body moved better than you expected. When your instincts kicked in."
Arin hesitated.
"…Maybe."
His father nodded. "Good. That means you're learning."
Arin blinked.
"That's… a good thing?"
"It's the only thing that matters."
A Shift
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then his father stepped back, raising his sword again.
"Again."
Arin took a deep breath.
This time… he didn't rush.
He adjusted his stance. Slowed his breathing. Watched carefully.
Don't think too much… just feel it…
His father moved.
And this time—
Arin reacted.
Not perfectly. Not fast enough to win.
But… better.
Their swords clashed again, but Arin didn't stumble as much. He moved with the strike instead of against it.
"Good," his father said.
Arin blinked mid-fight. "Wait, really?"
"Don't talk. Focus."
"…Right."
A small grin formed on Arin's face despite the exhaustion.
I'm getting it… slowly… but I'm getting it.
The Hidden Pulse
As the training continued, that familiar warmth returned.
Subtle at first.
Then stronger.
Arin's movements became smoother, more precise. His reactions sharpened.
For a brief moment—
He almost matched his father's speed.
Almost.
Then—
He stopped himself.
The feeling faded instantly.
His father paused.
"…Why did you stop?"
Arin looked away. "I… lost my balance."
His father studied him for a moment, but didn't press further.
"…Then fix it. Again."
"Yes, Father."
End of Training
By the time the sun rose higher, Arin collapsed onto the grass, completely exhausted.
"I… can't feel my arms…" he groaned.
His father stood nearby, calm as ever.
"You'll get used to it."
"I don't think I will…"
"You will."
Arin laughed weakly.
After a moment, his father turned to leave.
"Rest," he said. "We continue tomorrow."
Arin raised a hand lazily. "Yeah… tomorrow…"
Alone
Once his father was gone, Arin sat up slowly.
His gaze dropped to his hands.
That warmth…
That hidden strength…
It had almost come out again.
"…Not yet," he whispered.
He clenched his fist.
"I'll use it… but on my terms."
His eyes sharpened.
"For now… I'll grow as a Warrior."
A small smile appeared on his face.
"And when the time comes…"
He stood up slowly, picking up his sword again.
"…I'll show everything."
The wind passed through the yard once more, quiet and steady.
And in that silence—
A boy continued to train, step by step, toward something far greater than anyone could see.