Days blurred into each other.
Not because they were the same—
but because Rion refused to let even a single day pass without breaking something:
his limits, his breath, sometimes his bones, occasionally his sanity.
The training grounds of the Golden Fang—a vast open plain scarred by old battles—had grown familiar with the sound of a boy falling and rising again.
Sword practice at dawn.
Spell crafting by noon.
Reading until the candles died.
Hunting monsters after twilight—drinking their blood, refining their cores, returning only when exhaustion dragged his feet like iron weights.
The others called him fearless.
But to Rion, it always felt like running away from something unnamed.
Still, in these months, he changed.
He fought without hiding.
He spoke without trembling.
And for the first time, he revealed his face to the new recruits.
That alone nearly caused a riot—
apparently the new members had collectively assumed their masked comrade had the face of a cursed ancient hermit or a swamp ghost.
Rion still regretted that moment.
---
The sky was pale when Rion planted his feet before the massive boulder—the one that had laughed at him for weeks.
He exhaled slowly.
His stance shifted.
No hesitation.
No competing thoughts.
Just motion—fluid and sharp with the clarity only countless failures could shape.
He swung once.
The earth broke first—thin cracks spreading like roots before erupting outward.
Then the boulder split neatly, the two halves sliding apart with surgical grace.
Rion's breath caught.
"...finally," he whispered. "I… mastered it."
He expected triumph, but instead felt only the quiet weight of relief.
Father took seven years. And I…did it in less.
But then something seized his chest—a deep, invisible pull as if something inside him wanted to wake.
Rion stumbled, clutching his side.
The pull intensified—
a pressure that wanted to burst, to roar—
Then vanished.
Like a dream swallowed by morning.
"Again…?" Rion murmured.
He stared at his palms, flexing them slowly.
Something is trying to awaken…
Then why does it hide?
---
An older swordsman approached—beard wild enough to fear anyone.
He snorted. "Your resonance again?"
"So you felt it?"
"Kid, even a blind mole underground could feel that fluctuation." He folded his arms. "Incomplete resonance behaves like that. It tries to awaken… then chickens out."
"So I'm close to breaking into Arc Master stage?"
"If your resonance ever decides to stop playing tag with itself, then yes."
Rion frowned. "But why does it collapse? It feels… confused."
The older man shrugged. "Something in you disagrees with something else. No idea what. But the answer always shows up when you least expect it."
He slapped Rion's back, earning a wince.
"Anyway—you're leaving for the academy today, aren't you? Good luck. Don't worry about the guild. We'll handle them. You trained harder than a starving ogre chasing a goat."
Rion smiled behind the mask. "Thanks."
"Well then—tell me. When you join the academy, will you start from zero? Or flaunt your knowledge like a peacock?"
Rion opened his mouth to answer—
And the world around him flickered.
His feet were no longer on cracked earth.
His hand no longer held a sword.
Instead, he felt grass under his palms—soft, warm, full of summer.
A wooden ball rolled gently beside him.
His father's axe struck wood in steady rhythms.
"Why are you so happy today?" Paul asked without looking up.
Young Rion—round-faced, hair messy, eyes bright—kicked the ball lazily.
"Because my studies end soon! I'll finally be free!"
Paul sighed the sigh of a man who accepted that raising children meant enduring daily nonsense.
"So after that, what will you do?"
Rion flopped onto the grass dramatically.
"Teach others, maybe? And if I feel like it, I'll take the academy exam."
"And if you pass?"
"Then I'll study! Father, why are you asking weird questions while chopping wood? You're not interviewing me."
Paul leaned his axe on the stump.
"Rion… when you go… will you start from zero? Or carry your knowledge?"
Rion blinked.
"What does that mean? Speak normally."
"Sometimes knowledge makes us proud," Paul said slowly. "Pride blinds us. A blinded child thinks he understands the world before he even sees it."
Rion stared as if watching a frog recite poetry.
"So start from zero," Paul concluded.
"Then just say that!" Rion groaned. "Why are you talking like a poet trying to flirt with bees?!"
Paul coughed. "I… was speaking normally."
"No you were not."
But his father only laughed softly and ruffled his hair.
"A zero means a road only you can forge, Rion."
The axe struck wood again.
The plain reappeared.
Rion blinked—and whispered,
"I'll start… from zero. Mark my word father."
The older guildmate nodded. "Good. That's the right answer."
---
Evening came quietly.
Rion packed his luggage—careful, steady, the way someone packs when they know they're leaving a piece of themselves behind.
The Golden Fang members gathered.
Some grinned.
Some pretended they weren't emotional.
Some stood awkwardly, like chickens unsure whether to cluck or cry.
Bram—the giant axeman—scratched his beard.
"So… you're leaving."
"Seems like it," Rion said.
"You better not become fancy and forget us."
Saria elbowed Bram. "Fancy? This kid? Last week he tripped on thin air."
"That was one time," Rion muttered.
"And it was impressive," someone added.
A young recruit dashed forward holding a wrapped bundle.
"I made this for you!"
Rion unwrapped it.
It was a knife.
A horribly made knife.
The blade crooked.
The handle uneven.
The metal trembling with self-doubt.
Rion stared at it.
"Well…?"
"…It's beautiful," Rion said with the seriousness of a priest delivering last rites.
The guild burst into laughter.
He put the knife gently in his pack.
"I'll remember you," he said.
The boy's smile nearly split his face.
Jorin stepped forward last.
"Kid," he said softly, "your road will be rough. But forge it well."
Rion nodded.
A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips.
"Thank you… all of you."
He turned.
Took a breath.
And walked.