~When an Heir Forgotten Is Seen by a Blade~
The training ground awoke before the sun.
A thin layer of frost covered the old stones, crackling softly beneath each breath of icy wind. The sky above still bore traces of night; a faded constellation or two lingered faintly, like dying embers unwilling to retreat from dawn.
Kel von Rosenfeld stood in the center of the clearing.
His black training attire clung to his frame, tightened by the cold, the thin fabric tracing along every defined movement of muscle and bone. His hair, tied back by a plain dark ribbon, had loosened slightly during his exertions—the ends whipping gently with each controlled breath.
He held a wooden sword.
Not raised in aggression.
But in discipline.
Every swing was silent, yet laden with purpose. His breathing was too controlled for a boy his age—especially one with a body that had been collapsing from mere exertion only weeks prior.
The air moved differently around him.
And if one looked closely…
…snowflakes curved ever so slightly as they approached him.
The aura sphere pulses even now.
Each inhale synchronized with that faint red glow deep within, the energy gathering in his root before being dispersed subtly through his limbs.
He stepped.
Cut.
Pivot.
Exhale.
Again.
Cut.
His movements were not fast.
No flash for the eye to follow.
No aggression.
He moved like someone memorizing the language of the world through stillness.
As though each stroke asked a question.
And each breath answered without words.
At this hour, the estate was nearly silent.
Except for one man.
He was no noble.
He had no crest embroidered upon his cloak.
His coat was plain gray wool, worn from years of use, speckled faintly with frost that clung to it as he had come from outside. His boots were muddy from early patrol around the grounds. His beard was short, trimmed not elegantly but efficiently.
But his eyes…
His eyes were sharp.
Duke Arcturus employed him not for discipline, but for skill.
He was Samuel Grent, master of swords for the Rosenfeld military branch.
A man who had trained hundreds of knights.
Taught sword to dozens of prodigies.
And discarded twice as many failures.
At dawn, he usually walked the perimeter before knights assembled.
Which was why, as he crossed the western path…
…he passed the quiet training field.
And stopped.
His steps froze.
Eyes narrowed.
Breath caught.
That… is the cursed boy.
Kel did not hear him.
He was too immersed in breath.
Samuel watched.
Kel stepped forward—
Controlled landing of pressure on frost.
Sword cut.
Not efficient.
But… aligned.
That shouldn't be possible, Samuel thought, frowning.
Kel transitioned into the second motion.
Left foot forward.
Spinning draw.
Freeze mid-turn.
The boy didn't shiver.
His posture was disciplined.
His stance… that's the Rosenfeld steel form sequence… fourth variation?
No.
Modified.
He corrected the draw angle to reduce backlash on core muscles.
No one taught him that.
Not in his condition.
"…Impossible." The whisper left the instructor's lips before he realized.
Kel continued.
Every motion slow.
Precise.
Almost ceremonial.
Samuel's brows furrowed deeper.
A boy who vomited blood if he so much as tried to carry training wooden blades last year… is now executing core stability forms?
Not perfectly.
Not effortlessly.
But with intentional control.
He watched Kel reach the twelfth move.
And did not collapse.
Samuel's fingers gripped the cold railing by the path—knuckles whitening.
He kept watching.
Kel exhaled slowly.
He didn't yet know he was no longer alone.
His next movement came—
And Samuel's eyes sharpened suddenly.
Kel shifted his stance slightly to reduce the angle strain when pivoting.
A change only someone deeply attuned to bodily mechanics would register.
A change that—
Reduces muscle tearing under prolonged exertion…
Slow breath.
Sword up.
Cut.
…That's a correction only made by high-ranked swordsmen after hundreds of hours breaking their body to understand the angle of pain.
Kel is twelve.
And cursed.
Samuel's heart pounded once.
Then stilled.
What are you?
He did not notice the instructor yet.
His mind was quiet.
Focused inward.
Aura sphere—holding resonance.
He tested breath.
Pain sparked in his left rib.
He shifted slightly, accommodating.
His inner monologue flowed quietly.
Good. Adaptation is faster. Stamina holding longer.
He adjusted wrist angle.
Grip stability improved.
He exhaled.
Curse interference minimal.
His eyes opened—
And for the first time, he felt…
…not alone.
Someone was watching.
He did not look.
He did not change speed.
He let his next movement fall naturally.
He allowed silence to remain.
He allowed time to choose what would break it.
It took six heartbeats.
On the seventh—
Samuel stepped forward.
Snow crunched beneath his boot.
Kel's blade slowed.
But did not lower.
His posture reflected no alarm.
Only awareness.
Kel turned his head slightly—early morning light casting a cold highlight across his cheekbone.
Eyes sharp.
Expression unreadable.
Their gazes met.
The air stilled.
Between them—
No greeting.
No recognition.
Only the quiet acknowledgment of mutual perception.
Samuel Grent did not immediately approach Kel.
Instead, he stopped beneath one of the stone arch pillars that bordered the training grounds—a weathered column bearing the faint carving of the Rosenfeld crest. He rested his shoulder against it, arms folded, posture deceptively casual.
But his eyes…
His eyes were the only part of him truly awake.
Cold. Analytical. Sharpened from decades of observing swordsmanship.
Kel continued his repetition of forms.
The frost crunched gently beneath his feet. His breathing remained measured. Even as his limbs carried threads of exhaustion, his movements held intention—not fake discipline, but structural purpose.
Samuel shifted his stance against the pillar, fingers grazing the rough stone.
He is not practicing to swing a blade.
He is practicing to keep standing.
Kel adjusted his center of gravity by a fraction.
Samuel noticed.
That stance compensates for internal strain. Not muscle fatigue. Something deeper…
Kel didn't look at him yet.
He kept practicing, but Samuel could see it now—Kel was no longer training like a noble child or fragile heir.
He was moving like someone fighting something unseen, every second.
As if he must build strength faster than something inside him breaks it.
Samuel inhaled quietly.
Not from shock—but professional intrigue.
There's someone there.
His senses picked up Samuel's presence in the way the air shifted—just enough for him to notice without confirming outwardly.
He did not react immediately.
He moved through another sequence.
Sword up.
Breath.
Step.
Normal movements only.
He intentionally stopped channeling any hint of aura.
The faint red sphere at his root chakra dimmed slightly, held in suppression.
Good. He shouldn't sense it.
No one condenses aura at the root. In every game iteration, aura cultivation begins higher—core, heart, or solar channel.
Root chakra condensation is unheard of.
He stepped, mind quiet but guarded.
If he sees it now… he'll ask how.
And I am not prepared to answer that.
He exhaled. Frost scattered.
He adjusted foot placement deliberately incorrectly this time—slightly off the optimal vector.
Testing.
There. He deliberately misaligned that step.
He's hiding something.
He straightened his back against the pillar, eyes narrowing further.
He thinks I won't catch that adjustment. But he's checking whether I do.
He noticed me.
Kel continued, slow swing.
His face remained emotionless.
His breathing calm.
But Samuel felt it now—the intentional restraint.
Not showing his full movement.
Not revealing how precise he can truly be.
Samuel's jaw tightened slightly.
This was no frightened child pretending strength.
He is not hiding weakness.
He is hiding progress.
Kel lifted his eyes for the first time since beginning this set.
He did not turn fully, only shifted his gaze just enough to acknowledge the presence near the pillar.
Samuel's figure stood partially obscured by shadow, arms folded, his neutral expression betraying nothing.
Their eyes met.
Kel's stare was steady.
Not challenging.
Not submissive.
Measuring.
He saw.
Kel exhaled with faint effort—more from decision than strain.
He lowered the practice sword.
His chin dipped slightly in silent greeting.
Not out of courtesy.
But out of strategic awareness.
This one notices too much.
After a measured pause, Samuel pushed himself off the pillar.
His boots crunched against frost as he took three slow steps forward.
He did not speak like a teacher.
Nor like someone warning a noble child.
His voice was low.
Weathered.
"…You're not holding that blade to win matches."
His eyes pierced through the morning chill.
"You're holding it as if the only alternative is dying."
Kel did not answer immediately.
A faint breath left his lips.
His body remained still.
Only his fingers tightened around the sword's hilt.
Samuel stopped just a few meters away.
He didn't push further.
He had no intention of frightening the boy.
Only understanding.
Kel finally spoke.
Quiet.
Measured.
"…Then you see accurately."
No expression. No elaboration.
Samuel studied him.
Acceptance without denial.
That's when he understood.
Samuel looked at Kel, not as a teacher watching a student—but as a soldier observing someone preparing for war alone.
His fingers flexed at his side.
This child is not training to improve.
He is training because survival demands it.
Not tomorrow.
Not in years.
Now.
Samuel inhaled slowly, cold air scraping along ribs.
"…You're preparing," he spoke softly, more to himself than to Kel, "not for a duel."
His eyes narrowed with something between disbelief and respect.
"But for something that intends to kill you."
The wind passed through the training ground, sweeping frost from the earth.
Kel didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
He only turned back toward the center of the clearing…
…and raised the wooden sword again.
As though the conversation never happened.
As though truth had merely been confirmed.
Samuel watched, silent.
He felt something settle.
Old.
Uneasy.
Something he hadn't felt in years.
He spoke only once more, barely audible—
"That child is training like someone preparing to survive death… not win a duel."
And that was how the day began.
With one man watching—
…and one boy continuing.
As if the sky itself had nothing left to teach him.