The morning after the fight felt strangely silent. Not peaceful. Just… empty. Serik woke with a dull ache running from his ribs to his shoulders, a tight sting in his throat where Garron's fingers had pressed, and a faint ringing in his ears. When he tried to sit up, every muscle complained, but he pushed through it anyway. There was no room left for weakness.
He stepped outside, expecting Jons to call him to training, but the butler raised a hand before Serik could speak.
"No."
Serik blinked. "What do you mean 'no'?"
"You will not train this week," Jons replied calmly.
A strange frustration swelled in Serik's chest. "I can still move. I can—"
"If you push any further," Jons said, voice firm but not unkind, "you will break."
The quiet weight behind those words hit harder than any strike Garron had thrown. Serik closed his mouth and nodded, even though something in him hated the thought of resting for that long.
But Jons was right. His body felt stretched thin, like any wrong step could tear something inside him. So he took the week. He didn't like it, but he obeyed.
He used each day like a man desperate to heal. He lay still when he needed to. He iced the bruises. He drank Jons' bitter concoctions until his tongue felt permanently stained by the taste. He stretched carefully, never pushing too far. He practiced slow breathing exercises, letting air fill the sore spaces in his ribs. Even walking became a form of training, a way to keep his balance with minimal strain.
At night, he lay in bed listening to his own heartbeat. Sometimes slow. Sometimes quick, when thoughts of Garron's grin crept back in. He imagined the look Garron would have the moment Serik finally landed a real blow. He imagined the shift in those hollow eyes. He imagined the day the man would fall.
On the fourth night, exhaustion overtook him so deeply he didn't hear the soft steps outside his room. Didn't hear the door open. Didn't hear the figure enter. Jons stood in the dark for a long time, watching the boy sleep. His breathing. The tension in his muscles. The faint way his fingers twitched, as if dreaming of violence even in rest.
Jons moved closer, silent as a shadow, examining something he didn't speak of. When he turned to leave, Serik didn't stir. The door closed behind him with barely a whisper.
The week passed slowly. Pain dulled. Movement returned. His breath steadied. By the seventh morning, Serik woke with a strange blend of stiffness and strength, like his body was finally catching up with his resolve.
He walked into the kitchen expecting breakfast, expecting maybe the start of training — expecting normalcy. But Jons stood at the table with his hands folded, gaze deep and unreadable.
"Young master," he said, "sit."
He obeyed.
"There is a way," Jons began quietly, "for you to surpass your current limits."
Serik froze.
Jons didn't raise his voice. He didn't dramatize it. He simply continued, "A way for you to beat Garron. And kill him. With ease."
The words struck Serik like lightning. His heart leapt. His hands gripped the table.
"…What is it?" he breathed.
"It is a power," Jons said, "that every person has. A force inside the body and mind. Once awakened, it sharpens everything — strength, speed, perception, instinct."
Serik's breath quickened. "Then why didn't you teach it to me earlier? I could've used it—"
Jons lifted a hand. Not to silence him — just to calm him.
"You were not ready."
The answer stopped Serik cold.
"I needed you to build a foundation first," Jons explained. "A body strong enough to endure it. A mind disciplined enough to control it. A will sharp enough to guide it."
Serik looked down at his bandaged arms, remembering every bruise, every loss, every gasp of pain.
"People who awaken this power too early," Jons continued, "often depend on it too much. They stop training. They lose form. They forget discipline. They burn out — or they become something uncontrollable."
Serik swallowed.
"You thought I would rely on it instead of improving," he said softly.
Jons nodded. "I waited until you could contain it. Until it would not consume you."
The silence that followed felt heavy.
Serik breathed out slowly."…Jons."
"Yes, young master."
"I trust you more than anyone in the world."
Jons' expression barely shifted, but something in the air softened.
"If you say it's too early, then it's too early."
Serik straightened, fists tightening with quiet determination.
"I'll beat Garron without it. I want to win this fight with my strength and my hard work."
Jons bowed his head slightly, a gesture both respectful and proud.
"As you wish."
Serik hesitated, then asked the question that weighed on him currently:
"When I'm ready… will you teach me?"
"When the time comes," Jons answered, "I will open the door. But once you cross it… your life will never be the same."
Serik stood up and walked outside into the morning light. The yard waited for him — the dirt, the marks, the place where he had fallen again and again. He stepped to the center and took his stance.
He punched once. Twice. His muscles still ached, but the movement felt right.
Inside the house, Jons watched him through the doorway, silent.
You chose a difficult path young master, Jons thought. The path of hunter. The path of endless adventure. The path that most people can only dream of.
Outside, Serik closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
With a bright smile, she turned toward Jons and said,"Jons, let's go. I can't wait to start training again."
Jons bowed impeccably, hiding his smile as he replied,"As you wish, young master."