Raiden groaned, rolling over on his bed with a muffled grunt. Every muscle in his body screamed at once.

"Ughhh… what fresh torture is this?"

The answer came in a dull throb radiating from his shoulders, his back, and somehow even his fingers. His sword hand ached like it had been used as a training dummy itself. Then again… it had.

He sat up slowly, hair sticking in every direction, grimacing at how stiff his body felt. Yesterday's training had been — in his personal estimation — an act of cruelty disguised as mentorship.

Then it hit him.

"Oh no… I forgot to heal myself."

He slapped his forehead with a groan. Of course he had. He'd come home, eaten, complained, gone to bed — and completely forgotten he had the [Healing Touch] skill for this exact reason.

"Genius, Raiden. Absolute genius."

He sat cross-legged on his bed, pressing his palms together as he activated the skill. Soft, warm mana began to gather between them.

"[Healing Touch]," he murmured.

A pulse of soothing warmth spread through his arms, sinking into sore muscles. The ache in his shoulders began to ease, then his back, then his legs. He sighed with visible relief, eyes closing briefly as his body finally stopped screaming at him.

"Ahhh… bliss," he whispered. "Sweet, sweet magic."

In less than a minute, the pain faded completely. He stretched his arms over his head, grinning triumphantly. "Alright. Good as new. Maybe Leonard didn't break anything after all."

But the thought of going back out there still made him wince. He flopped backward on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Do I have to go again?" he muttered.

A pause.

Then the system's cool, neutral tone echoed faintly in his mind.

[Active Mission: Sharpen the Blade]

[Progress: 3%]

[Pending Rewards Available Upon Completion.]

Raiden's expression flattened. "Right. The reward."

He sat up again, brushing his messy hair out of his face. Three discounted C-Class skills. Twenty to forty skill points. That was enough motivation to drag himself through another day of punishment.

"Okay," he said aloud, slapping his cheeks lightly. "We're doing this. For the rewards. And for pride. But mostly for the rewards."

He took one last deep breath, straightened his shirt, and headed downstairs for breakfast.

The smell of baked bread and roasted eggs met him before he even entered the hall. His stomach growled in anticipation — a hopeful sign that today might start better than yesterday.

But the moment he stepped through the door, his optimism died a swift, merciless death.

Sir Leonard was waiting.

The head guard stood near the table, arms crossed, posture perfectly straight — crisp uniform, expression unreadable, and eyes that somehow managed to radiate both calm patience and subtle menace.

Raiden froze mid-step.

"Oh… good morning, Sir Leonard," he said carefully. "You're up early. Haha…"

Leonard's gaze flicked toward him like a blade being unsheathed. "I could say the same, young master. I trust you slept well?"

Raiden's forced smile faltered. "Define 'well'."

Leonard ignored the sarcasm. "Good. You will need the rest."

"Need it for what exactly?" Raiden asked, edging toward the table, eyeing the warm rolls and fruit plates.

Leonard extended one gloved hand toward the door. "Training. Immediately."

Raiden blinked. "Now? But I haven't even—"

"Breakfast can wait," Leonard interrupted calmly. "You will train on an empty stomach. Stamina must come before comfort."

Raiden's jaw dropped. "But—empty stomach? That's cruel!"

Leonard's gaze didn't waver. "It's discipline."

"No, it's villainy," Raiden muttered under his breath, but Leonard had already turned toward the courtyard.

Ten minutes later, the once-proud youngest son of House Goldheart was running laps around the estate's main building barefoot, dusty, and starving.

Leonard's calm voice echoed across the courtyard. "Keep your form steady, Master Raiden. Breathe through the nose. Count your steps."

"Count my—?! I lost count at four!" Raiden gasped, dragging himself past a hedge.

"Then start again," Leonard said, walking behind him with perfect composure. The man didn't even look winded. "You will continue until you reach twenty-five laps."

"Twenty-five?!" Raiden wheezed. "That's—that's like an hour!"

"Then you will have an hour well spent."

The servants tending the garden paused occasionally to glance at the sight — the young master staggering like a man escaping doom, while his instructor glided along like a shadow.

By the tenth lap, Raiden's hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. By the fifteenth, he was muttering incoherently about rebellion. By the twentieth, he was bargaining with unseen gods.

"Just… five more," he rasped. "I can do five more.

Around the twenty-second lap, Lord Cedric and Lady Elise emerged from the manor for a morning stroll. They were mid-conversation when Raiden's voice — hoarse but dramatic — rang out.

"Father! You stand there smiling while your dearest son suffers?!"

Cedric paused mid-step, turning to see his youngest dragging himself across the courtyard like a wounded soldier. Leonard followed calmly a few paces behind.

Lady Elise raised an amused brow. "Oh dear. Is this… part of training?"

"Apparently," Raiden groaned, slowing to a walk. "Tell him I've learned my lesson. All of them. I even feel sorry for stealing the brooch!"

Cedric chuckled quietly. "I told you, that had nothing to do with this."

"Lies!" Raiden shot back. "This is vengeance disguised as mentorship!"

Leonard's voice cut through. "If you have enough energy to argue, Master Raiden, you have enough for three more laps."

Raiden's head dropped. "Gods, please preserve me…"

Elise hid her smile behind her hand. Cedric gave her a knowing look, his expression softening. "He'll thank Leonard someday."

"Perhaps," she said gently, "if he survives him first."

By the time Raiden finished, the sun was high, and he collapsed against a wall, drenched and gasping. Leonard stood beside him, not a speck of dust on his uniform.

"Well done," the man said. "You lasted longer than expected."

Raiden squinted up at him. "Is… that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?"

"A statement," Leonard replied smoothly. "Now, your body is warmed up. Time for the next phase."

Raiden's head thudded back against the wall. "No. More. Phases."

But there was no mercy. Moments later, Leonard handed him a practice sword and gestured to the training field.

"Stance," he ordered.

Raiden groaned, dragging himself upright. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

Leonard's expression didn't change. "Not particularly. But it is necessary."

Raiden muttered something unflattering and shuffled into his stance. His arms trembled as he raised the sword, and the first few swings were pitiful at best. Leonard corrected him every few seconds, each word a quiet critique.

"Too wide. Adjust your grip. Watch your center. Again."

The word again became Raiden's personal nightmare. By the hundredth repetition, his form improved slightly. By the two-hundredth, his arms burned. By the four-hundredth, he felt like his spirit had left his body entirely.

From across the courtyard, under the shade of a willow, Kent Goldheart sat quietly watching his brother. His own morning training with Captain Baren had ended an hour ago — disciplined and predictable.

Now, he watched Raiden swing with everything he had left, his hand unsteady, sweaty, and himself stubborn.

He smiled faintly. It was messy, but there was progress. Raiden had lasted far longer than Kent expected.

Leonard's voice carried faintly through the air. "Again."

Raiden's shaky reply followed. "If I swing one more time, I'll turn into dust!"

Kent chuckled softly, leaning back against the tree trunk. "You'll get used to it, little brother," he murmured to himself.

By noon, Raiden's arms barely obeyed him. Sweat trickled down his temples. Every breath came in ragged bursts. But beneath all that exhaustion, there was something else — something Leonard noticed even if Raiden didn't.

Determination.

Each swing might have been uneven, each stance flawed, but the boy refused to quit. There was no quitting, no running — not this time. Just grit.

"Enough," Leonard said finally.

Raiden's sword dropped instantly. "Thank the Gods."

Leonard regarded him silently for a moment. Then, to Raiden's surprise, the man gave a faint nod. "You improved."

Raiden blinked. "I—what?"

"Marginally," Leonard added, because heaven forbid the praise be too generous. "But improvement nonetheless."

Raiden, panting, tried to smile. "I'll… take it."

Leonard turned, gesturing toward the shade where Kent sat. "Go rest. Eat. Then return tomorrow. We begin earlier."

Raiden made a strangled noise. "Earlier?! I'll die!"

"Then you'll learn faster," Leonard said simply, walking away.

Raiden stumbled toward the shade, collapsing beside his brother. For a moment, both boys sat in silence, the courtyard filled with nothing but the chirping of birds and the faint hum of the midday breeze.

Kent offered him a flask of water without a word. Raiden took it and gulped it down greedily.

When he finally caught his breath, he looked sideways at his brother and groaned, "Tell me you at least got hit once today."

Kent smiled. "Twice."

Raiden threw an arm over his face. "Unbelievable. You're supposed to suffer with me."

Kent laughed softly. "You'll get there."

Raiden's voice was muffled through his sleeve. "Not if Leonard kills me first."

But even as he lay there complaining, Raiden couldn't deny it — the ache in his body wasn't all bad this time. Somewhere between the exhaustion and the humiliation, there was a spark of pride.

He was learning. Slowly. Painfully. But learning.

And for the first time, the idea of training tomorrow didn't feel like punishment. It felt like progress.

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