Five months had passed since Bereshith opened his eyes from his nine-month slumber.
The palace gardens, once merely a place for quiet walks, had become his training ground.
Not the mountain.
Not the forest.
Not the endless battlefield Lucas once forced him to conquer.
This time...
It was simply a long stone path beneath the morning sun.
The first month was not about becoming stronger.
It was about becoming stable.
Lucas stood several meters away while Bereshith slowly walked toward him.
One step.
Another.
Another.
His legs trembled.
Sweat soaked his clothes despite the cool morning breeze.
"...Good."
Lucas nodded.
"Again."
Bereshith turned around.
He walked back.
His breathing was already uneven.
"..."
"..."
Five laps.
Then ten.
Eventually...
Twenty.
No running.
No jumping.
Only walking.
Each day his posture became straighter.
Each day his steps became firmer.
The second month began.
Lucas finally allowed Bereshith to jog.
Not fast.
Just enough to keep moving.
The palace's circular garden became their track.
Lucas ran beside him instead of ahead of him.
"If your breathing becomes uneven..."
Lucas spoke calmly.
"Slow down."
"If your chest hurts..."
"Stop."
"If your vision becomes blurry..."
"Tell me immediately."
Bereshith nodded.
"I understand."
No shouting.
No punishment.
No impossible expectations.
Only patience.
Something Lucas himself had learned during those painful months when Bereshith slept.
One morning—
Bereshith slowed down.
"Haa..."
"Haa..."
"Haa..."
Lucas immediately raised a hand.
"Stop."
Bereshith obeyed.
Lucas walked toward him.
"You're breathing with your shoulders."
"..."
"Use your diaphragm."
Lucas placed his own hand over his abdomen.
"Not here."
He pointed toward his shoulders.
"Here."
He touched below his ribs.
"Expand your stomach."
"In through your nose."
"Slowly."
"Out through your mouth."
Bereshith copied him.
One breath.
Two breaths.
Three.
Little by little...
His heartbeat settled.
Lucas smiled faintly.
"Good."
"You recovered faster today."
The third month...
Walking became running.
Running became sprinting.
Not long distances—
Only short bursts.
"Ready?"
Lucas asked.
Bereshith nodded.
"Go."
The moment Lucas dropped his hand—
Bereshith dashed forward.
Not fast compared to his old self.
But far faster than the boy who couldn't even stand months ago.
Lucas silently counted.
"...Better."
He never compared Bereshith with anyone else.
Not Cyte.
Not Cyse.
Not even the old Bereshith.
Only with yesterday's Bereshith.
Afternoons became reflex training.
Lucas tossed small wooden balls toward him.
"Catch."
Bereshith caught one.
The second hit his shoulder.
The third struck his forehead.
"Ouch!"
Lucas couldn't help laughing.
"Hahaha!"
"You looked away."
Bereshith rubbed his forehead.
"...That hurt."
"Good."
Lucas picked up another ball.
"If it hurts..."
"You'll remember."
Again.
Again.
Again.
Soon...
One ball became two.
Then three.
Eventually...
Lucas threw them from different directions.
Bereshith no longer chased them.
He reacted.
His hands moved almost instinctively.
"...Excellent."
Lucas smiled proudly.
"Your reflexes are returning."
The fourth month...
Balance.
Lucas placed narrow wooden beams only a few centimeters above the ground.
"Walk."
Bereshith looked at them.
"...That's all?"
Lucas folded his arms.
"That's all."
The first attempt—
He stepped off after only three steps.
The second—
Seven.
The third—
He reached the end.
Lucas nodded.
"Again."
"But I already finished." Bereshith replied in confusion.
"Walked again." Lucas replied in firm.
Bereshith was about to open his mouth and asked: why?
However, before that happened Lucas answered him without a waiting question coming from Bereshith
"You didn't master it."
Again.
Again.
Again.
By sunset...
Bereshith could only walk forward...
Backward...
Even while turning around.
The fifth month arrived.
Lucas finally handed him something he had not touched in over a year.
A leather guantlet.
Bereshith stared at it quietly.
His fingers wrapped around the familiar grip.
"..."
It felt heavier than he remembered.
Much heavier.
His hands still lacked strength.
Lucas noticed immediately.
"No swinging."
"No sparring."
"No striking."
Bereshith blinked.
"...Then?"
Lucas smiled.
"wear it."
"That's today's training."
Bereshith looked confused.
"...Just... wear it?"
Lucas nodded.
"Your muscles have forgotten."
"So remind them."
Morning.
Afternoon.
Evening.
He simply wear the leather guantlet.
He grip his one right hand.
Sometimes with both.
Until his arms shook uncontrollably.
Then he rested.
The next day...
He did it again.
Weeks later...
Lucas finally spoke.
"Raise it."
Bereshith lifted his arm.
"Good."
"Lower it."
Again.
Again.
Again.
No flashy techniques.
No fighting stance.
Only controlled movement.
Each repetition awakened muscles that had slept almost as long as he had.
One quiet afternoon...
Lucas watched Bereshith finish another session.
The boy wiped the sweat from his forehead.
His breathing remained steady.
His posture was upright.
His eyes were alive again.
Lucas smiled.
"Do you know..."
Bereshith looked at him.
"...What?"
Lucas crossed his arms.
"When you first woke up..."
"You couldn't even lift a spoon."
Bereshith laughed awkwardly.
"...Please don't remind me."
Lucas chuckled.
"But now..."
"You can run."
"You can breathe properly."
"You can stand proudly."
"And soon..."
"You'll swing your arms again."
Bereshith looked toward the palace gardens, where the afternoon breeze gently swayed the flowers.
"...Father."
"Hm?"
"...Thank you."
Lucas looked away, scratching the back of his head.
"Hmph."
"I'm only doing what fathers do."
For a while...
Neither of them spoke.
They simply stood together beneath the warm afternoon sun.
Bereshith smiled quietly.
"I guess..."
"...Everything really does begin from the beginning."
Then...
The sixth month of Bereshith's recovery arrived quietly.
The heavy rehabilitation had already ended.
He no longer needed someone to support him every time he walked.
The trembling in his legs had disappeared.
The stiffness in his muscles had lessened.
Although he was still thinner than before, his body no longer looked like that of a child lying helpless in a hospital bed.
Life had finally returned to him.
This month...
Lucas did something unexpected.
Instead of waking Bereshith before sunrise...
Instead of standing beside him...
Instead of shouting instructions...
Lucas simply smiled.
"You already know what to do."
Bereshith blinked.
"Dad... you're not training me today?"
Lucas crossed his arms.
"No."
"...Then?"
"This month..."
Lucas looked directly into his son's eyes.
"...you'll train yourself."
Silence filled the courtyard.
Bereshith lowered his head before smiling.
"I understand."
Lucas turned around.
"I'll be watching."
"But I won't interfere."
"If you stumble..."
"Stand."
"If you fail..."
"Try again."
"If you're tired..."
"Rest."
"But don't stop."
Bereshith bowed.
"Yes, Father."
From that day onward...
Bereshith trained alone.
Not because Lucas had abandoned him.
But because every warrior...
Every believer...
Eventually had to learn to walk without someone holding their hand.
Before sunrise...
When the palace was still asleep...
Bereshith quietly walked into the royal garden.
He stood beneath the same old oak tree every morning.
Closing his eyes...
He inhaled slowly.
One breath.
Two breaths.
Three.
His chest expanded gently.
His shoulders relaxed.
His heartbeat slowed.
Months ago...
Simply standing for several minutes exhausted him.
Now...
He could remain perfectly still for nearly an hour.
Listening.
To the wind.
To the birds.
To his own heartbeat.
After meditation...
He stretched every muscle.
His neck.
Shoulders.
Back.
Waist.
Legs.
Ankles.
Every movement was slow.
Careful.
Controlled.
Lucas had repeatedly reminded him...
"A flexible body is harder to injure."
Then...
He began jogging.
Not fast.
Not far.
Only around the palace garden.
One lap.
Then another.
His breathing remained steady.
His footsteps were light.
Some mornings...
Yareach secretly followed him.
She would hide behind bushes while counting.
"Brother finished ten laps..."
"...eleven..."
"...twelve..."
She smiled proudly before running back inside whenever Bereshith almost noticed her.
When the jogging ended...
The real training began.
Bereshith planted both feet firmly on the ground.
He raised his fists.
No sword.
No spear.
No weapon.
Only his body.
Lucas had once told him...
"A weapon can be taken."
"But your own body..."
"...will always remain with you."
Bereshith never forgot those words.
His fists moved.
Straight punch.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Thousands of times.
Not for power.
For precision.
Every punch traveled the shortest path.
Every movement returned to guard.
Nothing unnecessary.
Nothing wasted.
Hooks.
Uppercuts.
Palm strikes.
Elbows.
Knees.
Every technique flowed into the next.
Sometimes slowly.
Sometimes explosively.
Invisible opponents surrounded him inside his imagination.
Every attack...
Every defense...
Existed only inside his mind.
Yet his body reacted as though they were real.
Sweat soaked his clothes.
His breathing grew heavier.
Still...
He continued.
When his punches ended...
He practiced footwork.
Forward.
Back.
Left.
Right.
Diagonal.
Pivot.
Step.
Turn.
Repeat.
He drew imaginary lines across the ground.
Never crossing his feet.
Never losing balance.
Lucas watched from afar.
A faint smile appeared.
"Good."
The afternoons became dedicated to reflexes.
He tied small wooden balls to ropes hanging from tree branches.
When pushed...
The balls swung unpredictably.
Left.
Right.
Forward.
Back.
Bereshith slipped beneath them.
Leaned away.
Blocked.
Stepped aside.
Sometimes...
They struck his forehead.
Sometimes his shoulder.
Sometimes directly on his nose.
"Ouch..."
He laughed.
Reset the ropes.
Started again.
Other days...
He practiced jumping.
Small jumps.
High jumps.
Side jumps.
Landing softly.
Lucas insisted every landing should be quiet.
"If the ground hears you..."
"...your enemy already has."
By sunset...
Bereshith's feet barely made a sound.
His evenings ended the same way.
A slow walk around the gardens.
Watching the sky change colors.
Listening to nature.
Thinking.
Praying.
Giving thanks.
Not because his recovery was finished...
But because he had lived through another day.
The palace servants began whispering.
"Young Master Bereshith trains every single morning."
"I've never seen him skip."
"Even when it rains."
Even the royal guards noticed.
"His movements become sharper every week."
"He's not strong yet..."
"...but his discipline is frightening."
One evening...
Lucas approached while Bereshith finished another session.
"You've improved."
Bereshith wiped sweat from his forehead.
"I still feel weak."
Lucas nodded.
"You are."
Bereshith laughed.
"That's honest."
Lucas smiled.
"But compared to six months ago..."
"...you're no longer recovering."
He stepped closer before gently placing a hand on Bereshith's shoulder.
"You're growing again."
Those simple words...
Meant more to Bereshith than any praise.
He looked toward the setting sun.
His fists slowly tightened.
"I'll keep going."
"No matter how long it takes."
Lucas nodded proudly.
"I know you will."
The evening breeze swept across the palace garden.
Father and son stood together beneath the fading sunlight.
Neither of them realized...
That while Bereshith's body had been rebuilding itself...
Far beyond the palace walls...
Others had also begun preparing.
And before long...
Bereshith's quiet days of recovery would come to an end.
As the seventh month arrived.
By now...
The frail child who had once struggled to lift a spoon no longer existed.
Every morning before dawn...
Bereshith woke before the palace bells.
He folded his blanket.
Made his bed.
Prayed.
Then quietly walked toward the royal gardens.
The routine never changed.
Stretching.
Breathing.
Meditation.
Jogging.
Running.
Shadowboxing.
Footwork.
Balance.
Reflex training.
Every movement had become natural.
Every breath had become controlled.
Every day ended the same way...
With gratitude.
His meals also changed.
Fresh fish.
Lean meat.
Eggs.
Vegetables.
Fruit.
Milk with honey.
Warm soups.
The palace physicians regularly examined him.
His heartbeat had become strong.
His lungs had recovered.
His muscles steadily returned.
His weight reached what it had once been before the attack.
The lingering stiffness disappeared.
Even the old scars from training became visible again beneath healthy skin.
Lucas smiled every time another physician left the room.
"He eats more than Cyte now."
Maria asked in genuinely curious.
"That's impossible! Really?"
Eva folded her arms and answered.
"...Actually."
"I counted."
"He's right."
Everyone laughed.
Weeks passed.
Training gradually became more demanding.
Lucas no longer watched every movement.
Instead...
He observed from a distance.
Bereshith ran through the palace grounds with smooth, even strides.
His breathing never faltered.
He leaped over low stone walls.
Landed silently.
Pivoted.
Turned.
His fists cut cleanly through the air.
Every strike stopped precisely where intended.
Nothing excessive.
Nothing wasted.
Only discipline.
One afternoon...
Lucas stood quietly beneath a tree.
Bereshith finished another long training session.
Sweat dripped from his chin.
His chest rose steadily.
Not desperately.
Not painfully.
Calmly.
Lucas smiled.
"Come here."
Bereshith walked over.
Lucas looked him up and down.
His posture.
His breathing.
His complexion.
His movements.
Then...
Without warning...
Lucas threw a quick punch.
Bereshith instinctively leaned aside.
The fist missed by only a few centimeters.
Before Lucas' arm could retract—
Bereshith stepped to the outside.
Redirected the arm with his forearm.
Then stopped his own fist just short of Lucas' chest.
"..."
Neither of them moved.
Lucas slowly looked at the fist.
Then toward Bereshith.
A broad smile spread across his face.
"Hahaha!"
"There you are."
Bereshith lowered his guard.
"...Father?"
Lucas placed both hands on his son's shoulders.
"You've recovered."
"No..."
He shook his head.
"You've returned."
For a long moment...
Neither of them spoke.
Then Lucas quietly pulled Bereshith into an embrace.
"I'm proud of you."
Bereshith closed his eyes.
"...Thank you."
That evening...
After everyone had gone to sleep...
Bereshith returned alone to the palace garden.
The moon illuminated the quiet courtyard.
He knelt beneath the same oak tree where he had prayed every morning for seven months.
He folded his hands.
"My Lord..."
"My God..."
"Our Father..."
"Thank You."
"I asked You to restore me."
"You chose another path."
"I understand now."
"If You had healed me in a single moment..."
"I would never have learned patience."
"I would never have understood weakness."
"I would never have known the love my family carried for me."
"So..."
"Thank You."
"For every difficult day."
"For every painful step."
"For never leaving me."
Silence answered him.
Not an empty silence.
A peaceful one.
The gentle wind stirred the branches overhead.
Then...
Without warning...
A warmth settled over his heart.
Not blazing.
Not overwhelming.
Gentle.
Like sunlight after a long winter.
Bereshith slowly opened his eyes.
The night around him appeared unchanged.
Yet...
Something within him had.
His breathing felt lighter.
The weariness that had quietly lingered through months of rehabilitation simply vanished.
A faint radiance seemed to dance across his skin for only a brief instant before fading into the night.
No voice spoke.
No visible figure appeared.
No miracle announced itself.
Yet Bereshith smiled.
He knew.
Not because he had seen.
But because he believed.
He placed a hand over his heart.
"...Thank You."
Far above the sleeping kingdom...
The stars shone a little brighter.
And though no eyes upon the earth could witness it...
The heavens rejoiced.
Not because a child had regained his strength...
But because that same child had remained faithful through weakness.
Bereshith slowly stood.
His posture was firm.
His steps were light.
The heaviness that had burdened his body for so many months was gone.
He walked back toward the palace with quiet confidence.
Not as the boy who had nearly died...
But as one who had been refined by suffering, strengthened through perseverance, and sustained by faith.
The road ahead would be longer than any he had yet traveled.
But for the first time since awakening from his long slumber...
Bereshith was ready to walk it.