The first morning after the deal, Serik woke with aching ribs, a swollen cheek, and a stubborn fire in his chest. He barely touched breakfast, too focused on what waited outside. His footsteps were light but tense as he walked into the yard where Rudren stood with his hands bound, glaring resentfully at the dirt.
The moment Rudren saw Serik, he clicked his tongue. "Round three, kid?"
Jons gave a single nod. That was all either of them needed.
Serik rushed forward, more confident than the day before. His footwork slid diagonally, not straight in. He kept his eyes on Rudren's shoulders like Jons had trained him. When he punched, Rudren parried, but Serik followed instantly with a kick. Rudren dodged, but the boy's timing shook him.
Good, Jons thought, watching carefully from behind. He is beginning to understand momentum.
Rudren narrowed his eyes. "Not bad. You're learning."
"Of course I am," Serik shot back, voice tight with effort.
Rudren came in with a horizontal slash. Serik ducked, rolled, and came up behind him. He threw a jab that Rudren barely avoided. The assassin swore under his breath and countered, but Serik blocked using his forearm, just like Jons had drilled into him.
The fight went longer than always. Serik still lost—Rudren managed to pin him again, dagger at his neck—but Rudren's breathing was rough. Sweat dripped down his jawline.
Serik, knocked down and panting, smiled anyway. "I lasted longer…"
Rudren rolled his eyes. "Barely."
That night, two assassins came quietly through the back gate. Jons dispatched one instantly with a precise blow to the heart. The other he found "usable" enough to imprison in the cellar. Neither survivor nor corpse was seen by Serik.
The first week passed like this. Serik lost every fight, but each defeat lasted longer. He learned to identify feints, to block using his forearms, to pivot on the ball of his foot instead of stepping flat. Rudren began to frown during matches, uneasy at how quickly Serik adapted.
One morning at the end of the week, the assassin muttered as he stretched his arms, "How the hell is this kid still learning? He's supposed to be dead by now…"
Jons said nothing, though a faint, invisible smile touched his mind. Fear will sharpen you too, Rudren.
On the seventh day, Rudren sighed before the fight even began. "Let's get this over with…"
Serik stepped forward. "Scared already?"
Rudren's glare sharpened. "You're getting cocky."
"No," Serik said, lifting his fists. "I'm getting better."
The second week brought another surprise—seven assassins arrived together, a coordinated squad. Jons faced them alone, and the fight lasted barely a minute. Four died swiftly with broken necks and crushed throats. The remaining three he knocked unconscious and dragged into the cellar, chaining them beside the others.
"Useful," he murmured, locking the door.
Serik knew nothing about this. He only knew that Rudren showed up every morning looking more tired, more tense, more hollow-eyed than before. The assassin's confidence shrank every day as Serik continued improving.
Midway through the second week, Serik landed a clean punch on Rudren's ribs—so clean that Rudren coughed sharply and stumbled back.
Serik stood firm. "I'm getting faster."
Rudren snapped, "Stop bragging!" but even he knew the kid was right.
That afternoon, Rudren rubbed his rib with a grimace. "You hit harder than you look."
Serik blinked. "Was that… a compliment?"
"No," Rudren growled. "It was a warning."
By the fifteenth day, Serik had become dangerous in simple, subtle ways. He didn't waste movement anymore. He breathed through his attacks. His dodges were tight enough that Rudren sometimes missed by inches instead of feet.
The fights became real fights.
Rudren sometimes limped back to the cellar, clutching his side.Serik sometimes fainted from exhaustion before he even reached his room.
Jons watched them both with unreadable eyes. Soon, he thought, one will surpass the other.
The third week changed everything. Serik stopped reacting—he started anticipating. He read Rudren's shoulders before slashes came. He ducked low and countered instantly. He learned to aim his strikes at weak points, not just wherever he could reach. Rudren was forced to try harder every day.
One morning, Rudren wiped sweat from his forehead and muttered, "Kid… you're starting to piss me off."
Serik wiped his lip. "Good."
Rudren scoffed. "That wasn't a compliment, idiot."
"Didn't sound like one," Serik said, advancing again.
Sometimes, after a fight, Serik would collapse on the grass.Rudren collapsed too—just not close enough to be seen.
On the twenty-seventh day, one of their battles turned into a rolling scramble through the dirt. Serik nearly disarmed Rudren; Rudren barely regained control. Both were sweating, both bleeding, both shaking.
Rudren let out a breathless laugh as he dodged Serik's elbow. "You're relentless."
"I have to be," Serik answered. "I don't get to run away."
Rudren stopped laughing.
Serik went down only after an exhausting struggle.
Rudren leaned on his knees afterward, wheezing. He didn't look victorious.He looked relieved.
Jons folded his hands calmly behind his back. His expression gave nothing away.
By the final day of the month, the yard felt like an arena that had seen too much. The grass was worn down. The dirt was packed flat from dozens of falls and footwork drills. Even the air felt heavier.
Serik walked out first. His bruises were fading into yellow, but his stance was upright, focused, fearless. Rudren stood across from him, dagger in hand, barely recognizing the boy he'd fought a month ago.
"Damn," Rudren muttered. "You really changed."
Serik inhaled steadily, calming himself. "You did too."
Rudren snorted. "Not for the better."
He twirled his dagger once, though his palm trembled slightly. Serik flexed his fingers, grounding himself.
They stepped forward.
Neither said a word.
The tension settled between them like a weight — thick, electric, oppressive.So heavy that even someone far away would feel it pressing through the air.