~When Steel Acknowledges Blood, and Blood Must Face Its Origin~
The wind moved coldly across the practice ground, scattering the frost where Kel stood. Samuel Grent remained still for a last moment, his boots half sunk in the thin snow. The instructor's eyes, still fixed on Kel's back, reflected no outward emotion—yet something in his posture had shifted.
He exhaled once and spoke, voice quiet, roughened by years of command.
"…Well, kid."
Kel kept his wooden sword lowered, standing with measured stillness. He didn't turn, but he listened.
Samuel continued, his tone set somewhere between reluctant respect and unspoken resignation.
"I can't teach you."
The statement hung in the air like an old verdict.
"I was given strict orders by your father," Samuel said, shifting the sword instructor badge pinned at his side. "My instruction is reserved only for the second and third heirs of House Rosenfeld. Not the first."
Kel did not react visibly. Only his fingers tightened slightly around the wooden hilt.
Samuel gave a faint exhale that wasn't quite a sigh.
"But…"
That word caused Kel's eyes to narrow, just slightly.
"From what I've seen," Samuel said quietly, "you hold potential to wield the blade. Real potential. Not the kind inherited by name or demanded by pride."
He looked at the faded frost beneath Kel's feet.
"If you're improving this fast with no guidance, hidden from sight… If illness were not holding you back—" Samuel paused, expression hardened.
"—You would be the most promising of the Rosenfeld bloodline to train under me."
Kel blinked once.
Not in surprise.
In acknowledgement.
Samuel stepped away from the pillar and began to walk toward the exit of the grounds. His steps were slow, deliberate.
"Keep training," he said without turning back. "I've never seen you here before—not once. Nor heard of the Rosenfeld first heir training at dawn."
He stopped briefly, glancing over his shoulder.
"But if this is truly how you rise…"
His eyes held Kel's for the briefest moment.
"…others won't remain blind forever."
He walked away.
Only the echo of his boots remained.
Kel stared at where the instructor had stood, absorbing the words silently.
Not the kind inherited by name…
He lowered his gaze to his hand still clutching the wooden sword.
…but the kind forged despite it.
He did not smile.
He simply lifted the blade once more.
Kel resumed his drills.
The exertion pulled fire through his limbs, the new aura core pulsing mildly in his root. Each movement was slower than the last, fatigue grinding deep into muscle, but determination guided even faltering steps.
Sword cuts.
Step.
Breath.
Pain.
He repeated until the cold in his bones blunted even clarity of thought.
He only stopped when the wooden sword began slipping from his fingers—not from weakness, but because his body warned him that any one more motion risked tearing what little had been rebuilt.
Kel exhaled deeply and lowered the blade.
The practice ground was empty.
The first traces of dawn tinged the horizon.
The sky had lost the stars.
He walked away.
🛁 Back in His Room
The chamber greeted him with warmth—embers still smoldering in the fireplace from night heat. Morning light had not yet fully breached the curtains, casting only a sliver of pale glow upon the black-draped furniture.
Kel stepped inside slowly.
His legs ached, but he did not collapse.
He removed the training tunic with careful motion, hanging it beside the fireplace where frostwater dripped from its edges.
His skin was pale but less ashen than before. The faintest hue had returned to his cheeks—a whisper of recovery.
He walked into the adjoining bath chamber.
The bath had already been prepared earlier; Marine knew his habits.
Steam curled softly across the surface of the heated water.
Kel stepped in.
He did not relax.
His eyes moved to the window where morning light approached.
Three years before the Star Awakening Ceremony.
He submerged, letting warmth seep into each exhausted thread of muscle.
Three years… to break free.
After washing, he dried himself, moved to his wardrobe, and opened it.
Rows of attire lined the interior: formal coats with silver-thread trims, ceremonial capes, traditional Rosenfeld garments in black and deep burgundy, everyday noble clothing.
Kel ignored all but one.
A simple dark-grey attire with light internal padding—not fashionable, not impressive, but suited for movement.
Soft linen inner shirt. Black fitted trousers. A high-collared vest with tarnished silver buttons. A dark coat tailored for practical mobility, not display.
He wore them with careful precision, tightening each ribbon and adjusting sleeve length.
Then he faced his mirror.
A pale boy stared back.
Black hair tied neatly. Brown eyes sharp, not cold—but distant.
Not fragile.
Not yet strong.
Somewhere in between.
He fastened a small pendant at his collar. A minor emblem of House Rosenfeld. One of the very few he still chose to wear.
He sat on the sofa and reached for the manual beside him—
[Essence of Breath: The Beginner's Path to Sword Spirit]
He opened to the next line.
"When a blade first draws breath,
The body must accept pain not as enemy,
But as tide to be guided."
His fingers rested on the page.
He closed the book.
The curse did not rage this morning.
It observed.
A soft knock sounded.
"Enter," Kel said.
Marine stepped in, carrying a polished silver tray.
Steam rose from the morning broth. Light herbs, protein selection—on days after heavy training, she adjusted his meals without being asked.
She set the table.
"Young master, your breakfast is ready," she said gently.
Kel crossed the room, movements precise but slower than usual.
He sat.
Marine poured a mild tea infusion beside his bowl.
He began eating in silence.
Marine stood by the window, observing him subtly.
His pacing of bites, his posture, even the way he held the spoon—no longer heavy from exhaustion. Still careful, but more deliberate.
"You've improved, young master," she said quietly.
Kel looked up at her.
His gaze unreadable.
He didn't deny it.
He simply continued.
When he finished, he set the spoon down.
"Thank you, Marine."
She smiled.
It wasn't the bright, hopeful smile from before.
It was softer.
More assured.
As though she was no longer wishing for his health to improve…
…but witnessing it happen.
Marine began clearing the dishes.
Kel's eyes were halfway toward the sword manual when Marine spoke again.
"Young master," she said gently, "please prepare yourself for tonight's banquet."
Kel paused.
His eyes narrowed by a fraction.
"…Banquet?"
Marine looked momentarily surprised he didn't remember.
"It is in celebration of Lord Rosenfeld's return."
Kel slowly lifted his gaze from the manual.
Marine continued, her expression shifting to something more formal.
"Your father has been leading the army to subjugate the western monster swamps. Today, he returns. A banquet will be held in honor of his safe return and successful campaign."
Kel said nothing.
Marine added softly, "As his firstborn, your attendance is required."
Silence stretched between them.
Kel finally spoke.
"…Has he returned already?"
"No," Marine replied. "The Lord is expected to arrive by evening. The banquet will begin shortly after."
She watched Kel carefully.
His expression did not change.
But something in the air shifted around him.
The man who discarded me… returns tonight.
Kel nodded once.
"Understood."
Marine gave a small bow.
"I shall prepare the formal attire appropriate for the occasion."
She turned to leave.
Just before she stepped out—
Kel spoke.
"Marine."
She paused.
His eyes remained focused ahead.
"…Thank you. For informing me."
Marine bowed deeper this time.
"It is my duty, young master."
She left.
The chamber returned to silence.
Kel stared at the window.
Morning light had reached his reflection now—
stretching a long shadow across the floor.
Tonight, I face the roof of my origin.
His hand clenched softly at his side.
The man who gave me blood… but not strength.
He glanced once toward the training grounds beyond the window.
Then closed the manual.
And stood.
The chamber door clicked shut behind Marine, leaving Kel alone with the fading remnants of morning stillness. The silence that followed was not empty—it was the type of silence that stirred beneath the surface, like a storm gathering beneath calm waters.
He stood there, one hand resting lightly upon the back of the sofa where he'd been seated moments earlier, the other loosely holding the manual. His eyes were fixed upon the desk across from him, but his mind had already left the room.
Tonight…
The thought was quiet, almost detached.
The Duke returns.
My father returns.
Kel's grip tightened slowly around the manual, the leather binding pressing faintly into his palm.
In the fragmented memories of Kel von Rosenfeld—the original soul—there was a strange contradiction.
As a child of seven, he remembered his father standing beside him during a noble evaluation ceremony. The Duke had rested a heavy hand upon his shoulder, spoken something analytical but not unkind.
"Rosenfeld blood should walk upright."
Years later—after the curse manifested—Kel recalled seeing that same man, but standing much farther away.
Not out of contempt.
But absence.
Distance, like a wall.
His father had not yelled.
Had not insulted.
He had simply stopped walking toward him.
Kel inhaled slowly.
He was indifferent. And that…
…was worse than hatred.
Kel slid the manual gently onto the table and walked to the center of the room. The light had shifted—no longer dim silver morning, but a faint, warmer tone that implied the sun had fully risen.
He sat down cross-legged.
Closed his eyes.
His posture was straight, hands relaxed upon his knees.
Begin.
He inhaled.
His root chakra responded.
Pulse.
A faint warmth surged outward, following familiar paths through his limbs and spine like tendrils of slow-burning embers.
He exhaled deliberately.
The aura sphere contracted, condensing.
Expansion cycle—steady this time.
He began channeling aura again, guiding the energy in measured rotations—similar to breath cycling but more complex. Slowly, he shifted internal flow to test duration.
Five minutes.
Sharp ache in chest.
He continued.
Seven minutes.
Throat tightened. Muscles fought back.
He remained unfazed.
Pain is a marker, not an enemy. Keep guiding.
Nine minutes.
The curse tugged—sharp, intrusive, like claws scraping inward.
Kel steadied his breathing.
Not yet.
Twelve minutes.
Veins in his neck showed faintly. Sweat began forming at his temples.
He opened his eyes briefly.
The room's edges flickered at the edge of his perception—not from fear, not from panic.
But from resistance.
He closed his eyes again.
Fifteen minutes.
His fingers twitched.
Blood pressure rising. Aura sphere destabilizing.
Control loss threshold incoming.
Seventeen minutes.
Pain spiked sharply.
He clenched his jaw—but remained composed.
Nineteen minutes.
The wooden floor beneath him trembled faintly from aura resonance.
The sphere began flickering violently.
He released.
Not from collapse.
From decision.
He exhaled in one long breath.
Aura retracted.
Settled.
The faint red sphere dimmed again to that subtle pulsing warmth.
Kel wiped sweat from his brow.
Twenty minutes without destabilization.
A month ago, I barely lasted twenty seconds.
He rose slowly.
His body swayed—then corrected.
He walked to the mirror.
A faint warmth was visible in his complexion—a subtle vitality that would go unnoticed by most.
But he saw it.
The body moves closer toward rehabilitation.
Far too slow for a normal timetable… but fast for someone not meant to move at all.
He rebuttoned the cuff of his sleeve once.
He stopped looking at me the day he realized I would not become his sword.
Tonight, I meet him again.
He coolly watched his reflection.
"And I will stand."
Not to be accepted.
Not to be acknowledged.
Simply—
To remain standing.
Kel approached the wardrobe again.
This time, not for practicality.
For appearance.
He opened a separate wooden compartment reserved for formal attire, releasing a subtle scent of aged cedar and controlled luxury.
He withdrew a ceremonial high-collar suit of House Rosenfeld.
Deep obsidian in shade, trimmed with muted crimson threading that marked direct bloodline. A mantle rested beside it—short, not floor-length, indicating his status as unawakened heir. Both shoulders bore the sigil of the house: a silver dragon encircling a thorned crown.
He ran fingers across the fabric.
Silk-lined within.
Outer surface reinforced with thin weave resistant to climate.
He dressed slowly.
First the inner silk shirt—midnight grey.
Then the vest—black with near-invisible rosic stitching.
Finally the jacket—buttoned high along his throat.
He adjusted the mantle over his shoulders, letting it fall naturally. The mirror reflected a figure elegant in formal appearance but subdued in presence, as though half of him existed in shadow.
He fastened the final clasp.
A bloodline mark—silver-thread emblem resting just under his left collarbone.
He adjusted his gloves.
Leather, black, form-fitted.
His hair—untied—fell smoother than earlier, slightly damp from the bath, framing his face. He pushed it back only slightly, leaving strands to fall naturally. The effect gave him an almost fragile elegance.
His eyes lifted to meet his own gaze in the mirror.
Expression neutral.
Posture upright.
Only his eyes betrayed the storm.
A faint knock signaled Marine's return to clear remaining bath items. She paused at the entrance, observing him.
"Young master…" she murmured softly, slightly surprised. "You are prepared early."
Kel did not turn.
"I am."
Marine bowed.
"The banquet will begin at dusk. I will come when it is time to depart."
Kel inclined his head.
She left.
The chamber dimmed as afternoon began its slow descent toward evening.
Kel stood alone before the mirror.
Outside, distant horns sounded somewhere along the outer estate wall—
A signal.
The Duke's vanguard had reached Rosenfeld territory.
Kel closed his eyes.
This time… I will not look away.
He opened them again.
The light in the chamber had shifted.
Not quite day.
Not quite night.
That quiet, suspended moment in between—
when every shadow lengthens.
And something unseen begins to wake.