The training field looked exactly as it always did, its familiar layout unchanging despite the passing days.

At its center, Arthur and Alex sparred with a kind of focused enthusiasm that had, by now, become almost mundane to Jacob, a daily ritual as reliable as sunrise, though not one he ever found particularly inspiring.

The clash of steel rang out again and again, an ever-present rhythm that echoed across the empty yard, each blow sharp and precise, filled with energy and intent that he could observe but not quite admire.

To him, it was routine, tedious even. But to the knights stationed across the estate, the scene unfolding before him might as well have been theatre. In fact, a handful had gathered just beyond the boundary of the field, maintaining the illusion of casual loitering while sneaking glances at the duel, their faces carrying the sort of reverent admiration one reserved for myths and champions. Some leaned slightly forward, as though the very act of watching would bring them closer to understanding how to emulate that skill, that fluidity, that power.

Jacob also watched, but not out of awe. His interest was clinical, dispassionate, rooted in practicality. He was here to study, not the form or the flair, but the fundamentals.

He watched the way Alex pivoted, how he transferred weight during each parry, how Arthur compensated for the length of his opponent's reach with speed and footwork. These were things Jacob might never fully replicate, of course not without years of practice, not without strength he didn't yet have, but that didn't mean they weren't worth observing. Somewhere in those movements were things he could adapt, even if only partially.

Of course, he was skipping several important steps in that thought process, chief among them being that he still couldn't swing a sword properly, let alone fight with one. But that, he reminded himself, was a problem with tools, not will.

The training rack, as usual, was filled with the kinds of swords knights favoured: longswords, straight swords, broadswords, heavy things, each demanding strength just to lift, let alone wield effectively. They weren't made for someone like him. They weren't made for someone who needed precision over power.

What he needed was something different. Something light. A weapon that didn't require brute strength but allowed for control, speed, and finesse. A rapier, perhaps, thin and elegant, more suited to dueling than battlefield carnage. But even as he thought that, Jacob hesitated. The rapier didn't quite suit his temperament, not entirely. There was something about it that felt foreign to him, not culturally, but ideologically. He didn't want to fence like a noble; he wanted to survive like a realist.

There was another option, though, something he'd read about, originating from a continent far across the sea. A curved blade called a katana. It was said to be light, fast, and deadly in the hands of someone who understood its motion.

A slicing weapon, not a bludgeoning one. The stories were vague, more myth than manual, but they intrigued him. He would need to see one first, hold it in his hands before making any assumptions, but it seemed closer to what he needed than anything on the rack in front of him.

"I should start," Jacob muttered to himself, exhaling through his nose. Then, without waiting for the duel to end or for anyone to acknowledge his presence, he stepped out onto the field.

He no longer needed Alex's guidance, not for the basic parts, anyway. His regimen was set: stretches, warm-ups, followed by a series of exercises he'd adjusted and re-adjusted over the past weeks to match his limits. It was still grueling, still humbling, and far from impressive but it worked. Today, though, he would be adding something new. Sword drills.

Even if his arms ached. Even if his grip trembled. Even if, right now, he could barely swing a blade with any force behind it.

That would change. Slowly, painfully, but it would.

He had trained for five straight hours before finally letting himself rest, five hours of steady exertion, slow repetitions, and stubborn effort that left his body aching and his clothes soaked with sweat.

When he finally dropped to the ground, it wasn't graceful or composed, it was a collapse, heavy and uncoordinated, arms spread wide as he lay on the hard-packed earth and struggled to catch his breath. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, and after a moment, he grabbed the bottle of water at his side and drank.

He told himself he would rest for a few minutes, just long enough for his pulse to settle and the burning in his muscles to ease, then he would get up and do the hardest thing he had planned for today: he would try to swing a sword. That part, he already knew, would be miserable.

Not because it would hurt, although it would, without question, but because it would be humiliating. He wasn't delusional enough to think otherwise. He would fail. He would swing poorly, off balance and uncoordinated, arms too weak to control the motion, posture too stiff to adjust mid-strike. And worst of all, it would be public.

Not just in front of Arthur and Alex, who would at least pretend not to be amused, but in front of the small gathering of knights who had made a habit of lingering nearby whenever he trained, their curiosity barely concealed behind forced neutrality.

He would look foolish, and they would laugh, or if they didn't laugh outright, they would think it, and that quiet, smothered mockery would be even worse.

The knowledge of that fact annoyed him, just a little. Not because they were wrong, but because he knew he was giving them exactly what they expected. Still, it wasn't as though he had anyone else to blame.

He let out a slow breath, then pushed himself to his feet with a weary groan. His legs felt unsteady, his arms no better, but he forced them to move as he walked over to the weapons rack, lined as always with its array of heavy steel tools. Without looking away, he muttered, "Belemir, get me a katana when you can. Light as possible. Doesn't need to be fancy, just cheap and usable."

There was no reply, not a sound, not even the flicker of acknowledgement in his mind but he knew the man had heard him. He always did.

He scanned the rack and picked what looked like the lightest blade among them. It wasn't light. Not truly. Not by his standards. His fingers tensed as he lifted it from its place, arm flexing under the strain of weight that was bearable but entirely impractical, something he might carry for a moment, but never swing in combat. Still, he held it. That was the first step.

He took a stance, awkward, untested and brought the blade to his side. Then, with a breath, he swung.

It was a mess. A slow, wobbling motion that dragged across the air without power, control, or direction. His balance faltered halfway through, and his hand trembled under the strain, as though the weight of the weapon was mocking him with every inch of movement. He finished the swing and stood there for a second, sword lowered, arms burning.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

It was a failure, plain and simple.

'Where is that talent I used to have?' he wondered, staring down at the sword in his hand with the faintest trace of bitter amusement.

Of course, he wasn't being serious, he hadn't really expected anything different. Talent, no matter how real, couldn't manifest from thin air. It had to be built upon something, strength, experience, knowledge, and right now he had none of those. Zero multiplied by anything still equaled zero. Even magic couldn't escape that truth.

It was a sobering thought, more disappointing than he wanted to admit. But what made it worse, far worse, was the sound he began to hear behind him: soft laughter, the kind people thought you couldn't hear if they stood just far enough away. Not loud, not mocking to your face but present all the same.

He clenched his jaw and said nothing.

'I don't care about them,' he told himself, gripping the sword again. He adjusted his stance and tried to swing once more. The motion was no better. His shoulder ached halfway through. His grip slipped. Pain shot down his arm. Still, he kept going.

Again. And again. And again.

Each attempt worse than the last, each movement a small defeat. And all the while, the laughter in the background grew just a little louder, just a little bolder, like they were testing the line of how far their ridicule could go without consequence.

None of them would dare speak to him that way directly. None of them would laugh to his face or come closer and risk his name, the weight of what it carried.

But that only made it worse.

Because he knew that if he weren't Jacob Skydrid, if he didn't have that name, that family, then there would be no restraint at all.

They would laugh freely. They would mock him like anyone else. They might even tell him to quit.

And, right now, a part of him wasn't sure they'd be wrong.

At first, he ignored them, he truly did. For the better part of thirty minutes, he kept his focus, swallowed his irritation, and let the distant noise wash over him like so much background chatter.

But the laughter didn't stop. It didn't taper off or grow bored of him. If anything, it became more frequent, more pointed, like a steady percussion behind each of his failures. And with every swing of the blade, awkward, unbalanced, and painful Jacob's patience thinned, and the quiet heat in his chest began to build into something heavier, something sharper.

Eventually, he could bear it no longer.

He turned his head sharply, the rest of his body slow to follow, and stared toward them with eyes red from exertion, sweat trickling into the corners, stinging more than he expected. His voice, when it came, was rough and clipped.

"What are you laughing at?"

There were about a dozen of them, young men mostly, roughly his age, maybe a little older, all of them dressed in worn leather and faded cloth, the kind of cheap gear that marked squires or junior knights who hadn't yet earned their place.

They carried weapons at their sides, swords, axes, the occasional short spear, but more noticeable than any of that were their grins, wide and unrepentant, as though they'd been waiting for the moment he finally snapped.

One of them, standing slightly ahead of the others with an easy posture and a scuffed blade resting lazily over his shoulder, was still laughing openly, doubled over slightly as though the sight of Jacob struggling was the funniest thing he'd seen all week.

That boy didn't quiet down when Jacob called out, in fact his laughter seemed to echo louder in the silence that followed, drawing every nearby gaze, including Arthur's and Alex's.

He turned to his companions with a look of feigned confusion, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Eh? Why'd you stop? Just 'cause he looked at us?"

Then, with the theatrical swagger of someone who was far too used to being watched, he turned back to Jacob. He raised his sword, held it loose in his grip, and let his arm tremble dramatically, fingers shaking with exaggerated effort. He took a stumbling step forward, swung the blade in an uncoordinated arc, nearly lost his footing, and gave a little gasp of mock exertion. Laughter rippled behind him like a wave, and this time none of them tried to hide it.

"Look at that," the boy called, grinning widely, "that's the famous Jacob Skydrid, real noble blood and everything. See that brilliant form? That perfect control? Genius stuff, really."

Jacob didn't respond. He didn't know how to, not in a way that would help.

He could shout, of course. He could invoke his name, remind them who he was, threaten them with consequences that would likely work in his favor. But that route felt hollow. Cowardly, even.

Using the weight of his lineage to silence a few jeers wasn't strength it was a crutch. And a duel? The more traditional solution? That would only end with more embarrassment. He could barely hold a sword, let alone fight with one.

But walking away wasn't an option either. That would be seen for what it was: retreat. An admission. A quiet surrender. And that, somehow, felt worse than losing.

So he drew a long breath, steady, slow, a deliberate act of composure and turned away. His hands closed around the hilt of the sword once more, his posture forced into something resembling readiness. He raised the blade and swung. It was still too slow. Still imbalanced. His arm ached before the movement was even halfway complete.

The laughter behind him didn't stop. If anything, it seemed to multiply.

He kept swinging.

Same motion. Same errors. Same result.

Again.

And again.

And the noise behind him only grew louder, like it was feeding on his failure.

His teeth pressed together, tight enough that his jaw hurt. His vision blurred slightly from sweat. His chest felt knotted, not just from the strain of training, but from the quiet shame that was now boiling somewhere beneath the surface of his skin.

He was angry, furious even, but more than that, he was humiliated. They were laughing at him, and there wasn't a single thing he could do to stop them. He couldn't fight them. He couldn't silence them. All he could do was keep failing while they watched.

And in that moment, with every swing that fell short, he felt, more than anything else completely and utterly pathetic.

He swung the sword again, but the motion was unsteady, his grip uncertain, and his focus had already slipped, so when the force of the swing shifted through his arms and down his spine without proper control, his footing collapsed, and he tumbled sideways onto the ground in a graceless heap.

For a brief moment, there was only silence, no laughter, no muttering, not even the sound of swords clashing elsewhere in the training field. And then, as if someone had set off a spark, the silence fractured into laughter, louder, sharper, more vicious than anything they'd thrown his way before.

It came in waves, overlapping voices trying to outdo each other in sheer amusement, and the sharp ring of it burned more than the bruises on his back.

"There's no way…" someone gasped between laughs. "There's no way he actually fell, just from swinging a sword. Is that even possible? Can someone our age really be that weak?"

Another voice followed, quieter but no less cruel, trying, and failing to sound like it wasn't joining in. "Dawson, I think he's sick or something. I mean, this can't just be normal weakness, right? He has to have some kind of condition…"

Dawson. That seemed to be the name of the one in front, the boy who'd led the mockery with that easy swagger and theatrical gestures, the one still grinning as though this whole scene had been choreographed for his entertainment.

"Why don't we just ask him?" a girl's voice called out from behind him, dry and amused.

Dawson turned toward Jacob, who was still on the ground, his back against the warm dust, one hand gripping the sword and the other resting over his ribs. He squinted up at the boy looming above him, and Dawson smiled like someone indulging a child.

"Hey," he said, cocking his head. "You're not… sick, are you? Like, genuinely unwell? Because if that's the case, I'd feel really bad about all this." His tone was mock-sincere, his voice carefully balanced between apology and condescension. "I mean it."

Jacob didn't answer. He didn't move. He just lay there, eyes fixed on the sky, blue and cloudless and impossibly wide, a quiet contrast to the tight knot forming somewhere deep in his chest.

Fuck, he thought, not because of the pain in his arm or the bruising ache along his spine, but because he had finally realized, viscerally, undeniably another truth about being weak: when you had no strength, people could do whatever they wanted to you. They could laugh, prod, mock, insult, and not a single thing in the world would stop them. And wasn't that just another form of pain?

This too was pain. It was just wearing a different face.

His pride, his dignity, whatever scraps of it he had left, were being trampled under laughter and idle cruelty, and there was nothing to catch it. No defense. No authority. No power. And it made something in him twist, because he didn't want this. He didn't want to suffer on his way to becoming strong. He didn't want to endure this as part of some noble path. He didn't want this at all.

He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing as he looked up at the boy above him, Dawson, with his sword and his smug grin, and in that moment, the laughter was no longer background noise. It was a wall, pressing in on him, crowding the air from his lungs. He hated it. He hated him. He hated the way they all looked down at him with amusement instead of contempt, as if he didn't even qualify for real hatred.

And the hatred that bloomed inside him, quiet, cold, and surprisingly clear spoke before his caution could intervene.

He pointed a hand, fingers trembling not with fear but exhaustion and fury.

"You," he said, voice hoarse and raw, "I challenge you to a duel."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.