Time began to distort in the training yard.

Days merged into dawns and dusks, and the dry sound of wooden swords became the rhythm of the routine—a sound that was already part of the air.

Every morning, before the sun touched the hills, Damon was already there. The ground still damp with dew, the biting cold of dawn, and him, in a simple shirt, his body marked by bruises that seemed never to disappear.

And always—always—Caerth was already waiting for him.

The veteran didn't praise.

He didn't encourage.

He only observed.

He walked around Damon, arms crossed, his gaze precise as the edge of a blade.

"The blow starts from the ground," he would say, without emotion. "You're raising your shoulder."

"Your left foot is too far forward."

"Your center of gravity is unbalanced."

Each correction was a needle prick.

Each word, an invisible blow.

But Damon didn't complain.

He just listened, adjusted, repeated.

A thousand times, if necessary.

At a certain point, even Caerth began to notice.

That blond boy who, weeks ago, barely knew how to hold a sword, now moved with an unsettling naturalness.

There wasn't refined technique yet—but there was something more dangerous: instinct.

In combat training, Damon learned from his mistakes as if his body craved adaptation.

He saw the blow once—and the second time, he reproduced it almost perfectly.

Caerth noticed this, but never said anything.

Instead, he made the training harder and harder.

The blows faster.

The clashes longer.

The weight of the swords increased, the instructions decreased.

And Damon remained standing.

"Again," was all Caerth said.

By the fourth week, the servants of the mansion began to avoid passing through the courtyard. The sound of the swords had become too brutal—the clash of wood sounding like steel, the rhythm too intense for simple training.

It was as if a silent war was being waged there.

One morning, the sky was still gray when Caerth interrupted Damon's movement with a quick block.

The force of the impact made Damon's sword vibrate.

He tried to regain his balance, but Caerth had already moved—a low spin, an upward strike, the tip of the wooden sword stopping an inch from his chin.

Damon froze.

"You thought before you reacted," Caerth said, without moving the weapon away. "That's good at a council table. But in combat, thinking is dying."

Damon stepped back, breathing heavily. "So you want me to fight without thinking?"

"I want you to feel.

Feel the weight, the wind, the sound of your enemy. Thinking is for the living. We fight not to die."

Damon looked at him for a long moment.

Then, he simply nodded.

And attacked.

The blows came fast, impetuous. Caerth defended, parried, tested—but he realized something had changed. Damon was no longer reactive.

He anticipated.

Each blow from the veteran met an almost immediate response.

The wooden swords hissed in the air, cutting the wind with increasing speed and precision.

The dry sound echoed against the stone walls of the courtyard.

Caerth took a step back, then another, measuring the young man before him.

Damon's body no longer moved like that of a beginner—there was balance, weight, rhythm.

He no longer relied on brute force; each blow flowed from the hip, each retreat took advantage of the previous momentum.

Then Caerth changed his approach.

He began to attack with everything he had.

The blows became merciless—and Damon responded with equal intensity. The courtyard transformed into a whirlwind of movement, the sound of impact mixing with the resounding breaths of the two men.

Damon was hit once, twice, three times, but he didn't stop.

He blocked the fourth blow, twisted his wrist, and counterattacked.

The impact made Caerth take a step back.

For a second, silence dominated the place.

Damon, breathless, held the wooden sword pointed at Caerth's chest.

A bead of sweat trickled from his chin, falling onto the cold ground.

Caerth looked at him with that inscrutable gaze—the expression of a man who never smiled, but also never lied.

Then, slowly, he lowered the sword.

"Again," he said, simply.

And Damon understood what that meant.

It wasn't contempt.

It was recognition.

From that day on, the training changed.

Caerth began to teach the true fundamentals.

Ancient stances, forms of attack and defense, precision strikes, the use of the environment, reading the opponent.

Each lesson was accompanied by a practical demonstration—and, invariably, a beating.

But what left Caerth speechless every time was the speed with which Damon assimilated everything.

He didn't need to hear it twice.

One observation, one adjustment—and the movement was already his.

There was something abnormal about that ability.

A kind of dangerous intuition.

As if every battle Damon had fought in life had left scars that now served as instruction.

One night, while he was training alone, Caerth watched from afar.

The courtyard was bathed in moonlight, and Damon moved with an almost hypnotic fluidity.

Each blow was followed by a clean step, a turn, a perfect recovery.

The wood whizzed through the air, cutting the silence.

"A monster…" Caerth thought, without malice, just a statement of fact.

"Not an ordinary warrior. This boy… he was born fighting."

But, as always, he said nothing.

Tomorrow, the training would be worse.

Faster. Harder.

And Damon would still be there.

Falling, getting up, bleeding—and learning.

Until one day, perhaps, Caerth would no longer be able to defeat him.

But that day had not yet arrived.

For now, the dry sound of swords echoed in the cold morning air, and the veteran's hoarse voice cut through the silence like steel:

"Again, Damon."

"As long as you can move… again."

The courtyard was silent that dawn. The sky, covered in a pale shade of gray, seemed to foreshadow rain—and perhaps it was appropriate, for it would be a stormy day.

Caerth was there even before the first rays of sun appeared. The wooden sword resting on his shoulder, his gaze calm and cold. He waited for Damon.

And when the blond man finally appeared, coming from the side of the mansion, something in his posture made the veteran raise an eyebrow.

Damon walked with firmness, his body erect, his shoulders relaxed—but there was no arrogance. There was control.

His gaze, previously scattered and impulsive, was now sharp.

"No warm-up today?" Damon asked, stopping in the center of the courtyard. Caerth gave a half-smile. — Today you're the warm-up.

He threw him a training sword. Damon caught it in mid-air, spinning it once to feel the weight.

"With everything you've got," Caerth said, positioning himself. "That's what I want to see."

"Everything?" Damon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"If it's not enough, I'll knock you down."

Damon chuckled softly. "Then I hope you're ready to fall too."

Caerth didn't answer. He simply leaned slightly forward, in a guard stance.

The silence stretched on.

Not even the wind stirred.

And then, Damon advanced.

The first blow came diagonally — fast, firm, without hesitation. Caerth blocked easily, rotated his wrist and redirected the force, but Damon didn't retreat. He used the momentum of the defense to spin his body and strike the veteran's flank.

Clack!

The sound echoed through the courtyard.

Caerth took a step back, eyes narrowed. "Hm. You've learned to use the retreat to gain reach."

"You taught me that" Damon replied, already coming with the next blow.

This time, Caerth attacked first — a quick, horizontal cut. Damon lowered his torso, felt the wind of the blow pass over him and, in a single movement, rotated his hips, delivering a counterattack that forced the veteran to move.

The two engaged. Blows, steps, spins, the clatter of wood echoing like drums.

But Caerth soon noticed something: Damon wasn't just reproducing what he had learned — he was adapting.

Each block transformed into an opening.

Each retreat into an attack.

He fought like someone who had deciphered the rhythm of the world.

The veteran blocked another blow and, this time, noticed something different.

There was a strange vibration in the wood. A cold, cutting energy. "—Hm...?" he murmured, before Damon stepped back and, in a fluid movement, focused his breathing.

The temperature around them dropped.

The air exhaled a white mist.

Damon's sword began to glow light blue, small cracks of ice forming on the surface of the wood. A sharp, crystalline sound spread as the ice molded itself to the blade.

Caerth narrowed his eyes. "So that's it... you've decided to mix mana into your training?"

Damon looked up, steam rising from his lips. "It wasn't on purpose. It just... happened."

He advanced.

The next blow split the air in two.

When Caerth blocked, a cold wave coursed through the hilt of his sword, freezing part of the wood at the point of impact.

The veteran quickly retreated, breaking the ice with a dry crack.

"Interesting. You're channeling the mana through the flow of the sword... using your body as a conductor."

Damon didn't answer. He simply continued.

Faster, firmer.

Each blow now carried a trail of ice in the air—thin, shimmering.

The courtyard began to freeze in small patches, with every step, every impact.

Caerth dodged, blocked, but with each clash he noticed something more: Damon wasn't just infusing mana into the weapon—he was controlling the release, metering the energy according to the movement.

It was something that warriors took years to master.

The veteran grunted, forced to retreat under the increasing pressure of the attacks.

Damon was tireless, as if the cold strengthened him.

Finally, Caerth jumped back, his feet sliding on the frost.

— Enough.

But Damon didn't stop.

His gaze was fixed, determined, wild—and the sword, now covered in ice up to the hilt, radiated a faint light.

Caerth raised his hand. — I said enough, boy!

Damon froze in place. The sound of the wind filled the void.

The ice on the sword cracked, breaking into fragments that fell like bluish dust.

His breathing was heavy, visible in the cold air.

For a moment, Caerth just watched him.

And then, he walked towards him.

The veteran reached out and touched the young man's shoulder. The touch was heavy, but there was something different there—respect.

"You really have no idea what you're doing, do you?" said Caerth, in a grave tone.

Damon blinked, confused. "I just... followed what you taught me. The flow, the movement, the center of strength coming from below. The mana just... came along."

Caerth snorted a short laugh. "It just came along," he says. Do you have any idea how many idiots lose their arms trying to channel mana into physical weapons without preparation?

"Well... my arm is still here." Damon raised his fist, somewhat embarrassed.

Caerth watched him in silence for a few seconds, then took a step back. — You are mixing two schools of combat that should never coexist. The physical and the spiritual.

"But it's working" Damon replied, still catching his breath.

"Yes, it is." Caerth looked at the frozen ground around them. "But not because of the technique. It's because of you."

Damon frowned. "What do you mean?"

Caerth crossed his arms. "Your body... it doesn't reject the icy mana. On the contrary, it absorbs it. Transforms it. It's as if you were made for this."

"Made to freeze things?" Damon laughed, but Caerth's gaze remained serious.

"Made for war." He turned his back, walking towards the center of the courtyard. "You have the kind of talent that destroys masters and creates monsters."

Silence hung in the air for a moment. Damon still felt the cold coursing through his arm, but there was something inside him—a strange feeling of completeness.

Caerth stopped, still with his back to him.

"Tomorrow, bring a real sword."

Damon looked at him, confused. "I thought wood was enough to teach me."

"It was," Caerth replied, without turning around. "Now, you need something that can actually kill you. Only then will you learn how far you can go."

And then he walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.

Damon was left alone in the courtyard, the sword still releasing small fragments of ice that slowly melted on the ground.

The wind blew, carrying away the white mist.

He looked at his own hands—marked, cold, trembling slightly—and smiled.

"So this is how power truly begins..." he murmured.

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