The morning mist clung stubbornly to the estate grounds, turning the stone courtyards pale beneath the weak dawn light. Servants moved quietly through the outer halls while stable hands led restless horses toward the lower paddocks, but the training yard had already begun its usual noise long before sunrise.
Wood struck wood.
Armor rattled.
Men shouted.
And somewhere near the outer running track, the heir of House Valerius looked seconds away from collapsing into the mud.
Kael jogged with the exhausted pace of a man personally betrayed by his own lungs. His boots scraped against damp gravel in an uneven rhythm while cold air burned softly at the back of his throat. Sweat clung to the strands of dark hair sticking to his forehead, and every few breaths, he deliberately staggered just enough to sell the image of fragile exertion.
Behind him walked a young knight carrying two wooden practice swords and the expression of a condemned prisoner.
Jaron looked barely older than sixteen. He also looked deeply aware that he was not supposed to be here.
“My Lord,” he called awkwardly, trying to keep pace while wearing partial armor, “perhaps... perhaps slower breathing would help?”
Kael glanced sideways at him.
“You’re asking me,” he said between measured breaths, “as though you’ve never done this before.”
Jaron opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then wisely chose silence.
The situation had begun before dawn inside the Grand Knight’s office.
The Duke’s orders had been simple: Kael would begin formal martial instruction immediately. Not ceremonial lessons. Not performative appearances. Actual training. The Duke had specifically requested that the Grand Knight personally oversee it.
Which had lasted approximately three minutes.
“There is nothing I can teach the boy.”
The Grand Knight hadn’t even looked up from the reports on his desk when the messenger delivered the request.
The knight standing nearby stiffened carefully. “Your Grace specifically requested your direct supervision.”
“And I specifically have commanders to train, patrol reports to review, and soldiers worth teaching.”
The words came flatly. Matter-of-fact. Not even malicious enough to qualify as cruelty. Just dismissal.
“He cannot hold a sword properly. His lungs fail after climbing a staircase. Without foundational conditioning, there is no swordsmanship to teach.”
The messenger hesitated. “Then... should I inform the Duke—”
“No.”
The Grand Knight finally looked up.
“Assign one of the recruits to him.”
“A recruit, sir?”
“He needs legs before technique. Until then, instruction is wasted.”
And just like that, the heir of House Valerius had been handed to the newest available junior knight like an inconvenient errand nobody important wanted.
Kael had heard the entire exchange.
Not directly.
While servants talked, knights talked louder.
So now he jogged slow circles around the training grounds while several senior knights openly ignored him from nearby sparring rings. A few didn’t even bother pretending.
One laughed quietly when Kael stumbled slightly near the corner turn.
Another muttered, “Five silver says he vomits before ten laps.”
Jaron heard that one and nearly died from secondhand embarrassment.
Kael, however, remained strangely calm. Because while his body jogged through wet gravel and cold air, his mind walked elsewhere.
The garden paths unfolded beneath his thoughts in perfect order. Stone lanterns. Trimmed hedges. Flowing water. Each step of his physical pace aligned carefully against the internal rhythm of his palace. Information moved more easily through repetition.
Footwork anchored his memory.
Breathing maintained the sequence in his mind.
Even now, he was reorganizing yesterday’s medical observations from Chloe while pacing through the eastern corridor of his mental archive.
A dry scoff echoed behind him. Not from the yard. From within.
The old Murim master watched through Kael’s senses with mounting disbelief. The ghost stood with his hands clasped behind his back, spectral robes fluttering faintly despite the absence of wind within the mental world.
“This,” the old man said at last, “is their martial training regimen?”
Conditioning, Kael thought back, continuing his jog.
“They have you running in circles like livestock.”
Very inspirational.
Kael wheezed deliberately for effect as he passed two watching knights.
“They handed you to a child.”
The old master sounded genuinely offended now.
“And he holds the sword incorrectly.”
Right on cue, Jaron nearly dropped one of the practice blades while adjusting his grip.
The ghost stared at him in horror.
He truly does.
Kael lowered his gaze slightly to avoid smiling.
Another lap passed before Jaron finally worked up enough courage to speak again.
“My Lord... perhaps we should rest briefly?”
Kael stopped near the edge of the yard and accepted the offered waterskin.
“You look more exhausted than I am.”
Jaron looked devastated by the accuracy of that statement.
“It’s just...” He lowered his voice carefully. “I didn’t expect this assignment.”
“Neither did the Grand Knight.”
The boy nearly choked.
Kael drank calmly while nearby soldiers pretended not to listen.
“You heard about that?”
“Half the estate heard about that.”
Jaron looked ready to throw himself into the nearest well. Kael handed the waterskin back.
“It’s fine. I would probably refuse to teach me, too.”
“That isn’t true, My Lord.”
“It objectively is.”
Jaron opened his mouth again, closed it, then stared helplessly at the wooden swords still tucked under his arm.
“We should probably continue.”
“Probably.”
The young knight handed him one of the practice blades.
Kael accepted it carefully. The wood felt light compared to real steel, but his arms still carried the lingering ache of weakness beneath the sleeves of his tunic. His mind had improved since synchronization, yet his body remained frustratingly incomplete.
“Basic stance,” Jaron said nervously, then immediately glanced toward the main training ring where senior knights practiced advanced forms.
Kael followed his gaze.
Even from here, the difference was obvious.
Controlled footwork.
Precise angles.
Rotational efficiency.
Real martial structure.
Meanwhile, Jaron awkwardly demonstrated what looked like a farmer threatening wheat.
The Murim ghost watched in silence for several long seconds, then covered his face with one spectral hand.
“He is teaching you garbage.”
He’s trying his best.
“That is what concerns me.”
Jaron shifted uncertainly.
“Your feet should be... shoulder width?”
The ghost physically recoiled.
“Shoulder width?” the old master thundered. “What does that even mean? Which shoulder? His shoulders? Your shoulders? A swordsman’s centerline changes with weapon weight!”
Kael nearly coughed trying not to laugh.
Jaron mistook the noise for physical distress.
“My Lord!”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re pale.”
“I was pale before this.”
That, unfortunately, was true enough that Jaron couldn’t argue.
The training continued. Or rather, the performance of training continued.
Kael copied the sloppy stances, adjusted deliberately too slowly, and allowed his arms to tremble under extended holds. To every observer, he looked exactly like what the estate believed him to be: a sickly noble child struggling through lessons years too late.
Only the ghost inside his head noticed the truth.
Because, despite the absurdity, despite the incompetence, Kael was still watching everything.
Every stance demonstrated by the senior knights nearby.
Every weight shift.
Every transition.
Every movement.
The young recruit teaching him might have been hopeless, but the actual training yard around them was filled with experienced soldiers moving through real combat forms.
And Kael remembered all of it.
The Murim master slowly lowered his hand from his face.
He's not just observing the boy.
The murim master thought to himself.
He’s observing the others.
Kael adjusted his grip on the wooden sword.
Across the yard, two veteran knights exchanged fast strikes during sparring drills. Their footwork mapped instantly into his growing mental armory.
Deflection angles.
Hip rotation.
Timing shifts.
Stored.
Catalogued.
Filed under the garden space he just added to his mind palace.
The ghost stared at him for a long moment before a slow grin finally spread across the old man’s spectral face.
“Ah.”
Another clash rang across the yard.
“Now this”, the old master muttered under his breath. “This might be promising.”
The lesson dragged on for another hour, a meticulous dance of carefully managed failure. By the time the mid-morning sun managed to break through the stubborn gray clouds, Kael’s tunic was damp with sweat, and Jaron looked as though he had aged five years from pure anxiety.
When the horn finally blew to signal the morning rotation, Jaron looked visibly relieved. He bowed so low his forehead nearly touched his knees, muttered a frantic string of formal courtesies, and practically bolted back toward the safety of the barracks.
Kael watched him go, then tossed his wooden sword into the equipment rack. His arms were trembling, a mixture of genuine physical exhaustion and the lingering strain of holding back his true capabilities.
But as he wiped his brow with a linen towel, his expression remained perfectly serene.
“A terrible foundation,” the Murim master muttered, appearing beside Kael as he walked back toward the main manor. The ghost’s arms were tucked into his wide sleeves, his eyes still narrowed in lingering disapproval.
“To let such sloppy form be displayed in a warrior's courtyard... it is a miracle these people haven't been conquered by their neighbors.”
It serves its purpose, Kael thought back smoothly.
They haven’t decided what to think of me yet.
“Hmph,” the old man grumbled, though the small, sharp glint of pride in his spectral eyes betrayed him. “Fine. You have seen their forms.”
His gaze sharpened, yet at the corner of his mouth, you could see a smile subtly forming.
“But don't you want to see what real martial arts looks like?”