The Knight Village had stood for a thousand years. Its purpose was simple: train warriors, kill the Demon Queen, protect humanity. Every child born within its walls understood this truth before they could walk.
But understanding and acceptance were different things.
The boy was eleven years old. His hair was the color of cherry blossoms, a shade so unusual that people stared whenever he passed. He wore a plain trainee uniform, dirt-stained and torn at the sleeves. The sword in his hands was too large for his small frame, but he swung it with precision that would shame knights twice his age.
His name was Pinky.
He did not choose the name. In the Knight Village, children received their masks at three years old, and their names came later, given by the village elders based on their most notable feature. Pink hair was rare. The name stuck.
Pinky did not mind. He did not mind most things. He simply trained.
The sword he held was not standard issue. It was heavier, older, its blade nicked from battles he had never witnessed. It had belonged to his father. Five years ago, his father had been sent to slay the Demon Queen. He never returned.
Three years later, his mother followed. She took up the blade, kissed Pinky on his masked forehead, and walked out the door. She never came back either.
Pinky was nine when he became an orphan. He did not cry. He did not speak. He simply picked up his father's sword and began to train.
He had not spoken a single word since.
***
The scream cut through the morning air like a blade.
Pinky stopped mid-swing. His masked face turned toward the forest at the edge of the training grounds. The village elders always warned trainees to stay away from those trees. Monsters roamed there, low-level beasts that had slipped past the patrol knights.
Another scream. Higher this time. Desperate.
Pinky did not hesitate. He ran.
The trees swallowed him within seconds. Branches whipped at his mask; leaves crunched beneath his feet. He followed the sound, weaving between trunks, jumping over roots. His breathing remained steady. His grip on the sword remained firm.
He found her in a clearing.
The girl had silver hair, cut short above her shoulders. She wore the same trainee uniform as Pinky, though hers was cleaner, newer. Her mask was white and unique. She lay on her back; arms raised in a futile attempt to shield herself.
The wolf monster stood over her. It was twice the size of a normal wolf, its fur matted with blood from previous kills. Its muscles tensed, preparing to leap.
Pinky moved.
His foot connected with the wolf's ribcage before the beast could react. The impact sent it tumbling sideways, crashing into a tree with a satisfying crack. Pinky landed between the wolf and the girl, sword raised, body low.
The wolf snarled and scrambled to its feet. Its red eyes fixed on this new threat. It circled slowly, testing, analyzing.
Pinky did not move. He watched. Waited.
The girl behind him scrambled backward, her breathing ragged. She tried to speak, to warn him, but only gasps came out.
The wolf lunged.
Pinky sidestepped, brought his sword down in a clean arc. The blade bit into the wolf's neck. Not deep enough. The beast twisted, claws slashing. Pinky leaned back, felt the rush of air as razor-sharp talons passed inches from his mask.
He countered. Thrust. The sword pierced the wolf's shoulder. It howled, snapped at him. He withdrew, circled. The wolf favored its injured leg now. Slower. Angrier.
It charged again, all fury and desperation. Pinky stood his ground. At the last moment, he dropped to one knee and drove his sword upward. The blade entered beneath the wolf's jaw and exited through its skull.
The beast collapsed. Dead.
Pinky pulled his sword free and wiped the blood on the wolf's fur. He turned to the girl.
She stared at him. Through the crack in her mask, he could see one wide, trembling eye.
He extended his hand.
She took it.
***
"You're hurt."
The girl's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. She pointed at his arm. Blood seeped through a tear in his sleeve. One of the wolf's claws must have grazed him.
Pinky looked at the wound. Shallow. Nothing serious. He shrugged.
"I can help," the girl said. She rummaged through a small pouch at her waist and produced a roll of bandages. "Sit. Please."
Pinky sat.
She worked in silence at first, cleaning the wound with water from a small flask, wrapping it with practiced hands. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her movements were precise.
"My name is Zilvie," she said without looking up. "I'm ten. A trainee. Like you, I think."
Pinky nodded.
"What's your name?"
He pointed at his hair.
"Pink?" She tilted her head. "Pinky?"
He nodded again.
"Why don't you talk?"
He touched his throat and shook his head.
"Oh." She finished tying the bandage and sat back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
Pinky shrugged. He did not mind.
Zilvie looked at the dead wolf, then back at him. "You saved my life. I was so scared. I thought... I thought I was going to die." Her voice cracked. "My parents didn't want me to become a knight. They're just normal villagers. They said it was too dangerous, that I wasn't strong enough. But I wanted... I needed..."
She trailed off.
Pinky waited.
"I saw you training once," she admitted. "Months ago. In the early morning, before anyone else was awake. You moved like... like nothing I'd ever seen. So focused. So determined. I thought, if I could be like that, maybe I could prove my parents wrong. Maybe I could protect people instead of needing to be protected."
She laughed, a bitter sound. "Look how that turned out."
Pinky reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder. She looked up, startled.
He pointed at her, then at himself, then made a motion like swinging a sword.
"You want to train... together?"
He nodded.
Zilvie stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile spread behind her mask. Blushing. He could see it in the way her eye crinkled.
"Okay," she said. "Okay. I'd like that."
She stood, brushed the dirt from her uniform, and looked at him with that single visible eye.
"Pinky," she said, her voice suddenly serious. "When we grow up, when we become real knights... will you marry me?"
Pinky froze.
"It's tradition, right?" she continued quickly. "Knights can only show their face to someone they love. Someone they'll commit to forever. I've decided. I'm going to become strong enough to stand beside you. And when that day comes, I'll remove my mask for you. And you'll remove yours for me."
She extended her hand, palm up.
"Promise?"
Pinky looked at her hand. He thought about his father, who had removed his mask for his mother. He thought about his mother, who had done the same. Both were gone now, swallowed by the mission that every knight eventually faced.
But Zilvie's eye held no fear. Only determination. Only hope.
Pinky placed his hand in hers.
***
The footsteps came crashing through the underbrush moments later.
A man burst into the clearing, sword drawn, breathing hard. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with blond hair that fell past his ears. His mask was plain white, unmarked, but the armor he wore bore the insignia of a senior knight. His movements spoke of decades of experience.
He stopped when he saw the two children. Then his eyes fell on the dead wolf.
"Impossible," he breathed.
He approached slowly, examining the corpse. His fingers traced the wounds, analyzing the cuts, the precision, the technique.
"This was my fault," he said, more to himself than to them. "It slipped past my patrol. I came as fast as I could when I heard the screams." He turned to face the children. "Which one of you did this?"
Zilvie pointed at Pinky.
The man stared. "You? Alone?"
Pinky nodded.
"How old are you?"
Pinky held up both hands, fingers spread. Then one more finger.
"Eleven." The man's voice was flat. Disbelieving. "An eleven-year-old killed a Class-C monster. Alone. With that sword."
He looked at the blade in Pinky's hand. His posture shifted.
"That sword," he said slowly. "I recognize it. It belonged to a knight who went to face the Demon Queen years ago. A good man. A skilled fighter." His voice dropped. "Your father?"
Pinky nodded.
The man was silent for a long moment. Then he knelt, bringing himself to eye level with the boy.
"My name is Izak," he said. "The village calls me 111. I hold the record for the fastest growth rate in our village's history. But you..." He shook his head. "If you killed this beast at eleven, with no formal training beyond what you've taught yourself, then you have potential I've never seen before."
He turned to Zilvie. "And you. You didn't run. Even when facing death, you stayed. That takes courage."
Zilvie shifted uncomfortably. "I was too scared to run."
"No," Izak said. "I've seen grown knights flee from lesser threats. Fear is normal. What matters is what you do with it." He stood and looked between them. "Both of you have something. I'd like to help you develop it."
He extended his hand to Pinky.
"Train under me. Both of you. I'll make you into knights worthy of the name."