A week passed.
The days blurred together in a rhythm of pain, silence, and healing light. Reivo had spent each moment enduring Lira's healing magic—her gentle hands countering the agony that twisted through his broken body. Bones reset. Flesh knit itself anew. It wasn't perfect—he would never be the same—but it was enough.
Today was the last of those days.
He stood quietly in the corner of his room, gazing into a tall, polished mirror. The person staring back wasn't the boy who once lived in a small village under the Ridge Wall.
Now he stood tall—1.93 meters of hardened muscle and silent steel. His body bore the evidence of battle and brutality: scars like pale cracks on a worn blade, marks that told stories of survival and loss. His brown-black hair had grown longer, brushing just below his shoulders, messy but strong. His eyes—green once like fresh spring—had turned deeper, sharper. They no longer looked at the world with wonder, but with warning. Piercing, calm, and cold.
He rolled his shoulder, grimacing as the joint cracked. Then he bent forward, slowly beginning his stretches. The stiffness was still there, and the pain, but he welcomed both. It meant he was alive. And he had felt worse.
Much worse.
Suddenly, a rhythmic tapping reached his ears—heels against the stone corridor. He paused mid-stretch. It wasn't Lira. Her steps were lighter, softer. This sound was more precise, firmer, colder.
The door opened.
Standing framed in the doorway was Meira. She wore a dark maid uniform, her brown hair trimmed into a neat bob that stopped at her jaw. Her brown eyes were stern, focused—not unkind, but definitely not warm.
"The princess has sent me to inform you that today, you will begin your training," she said flatly. "Master Baker is waiting at the training grounds. Follow me."
Reivo didn't speak. He simply grabbed the long coat hanging nearby, slung it over his bare upper body, and fell into step behind her.
The fortress corridors were austere, built with practical stone, but wide and clean. Reivo caught glimpses of patrols—soldiers moving with purpose. Unlike the village men who'd fought with what they had, these warriors bore uniform gear, disciplined posture, and steel eyes.
After a few minutes, they emerged into a large open yard surrounded by stone walls and weapon racks. Training grounds.
Several young soldiers were already at work—sparring, running drills, swinging blades. But Reivo's eyes immediately caught one man who stood apart.
He was massive. Built like a bear, weathered with age, but no less imposing. His left arm ended at the elbow, wrapped in leather straps. His right held a thick, gnarled cane like it was an extension of himself. His short gray hair was matted, and a faded scar slashed across his cheek.
His gaze turned toward them, locking eyes with Reivo.
Meira stopped and bowed slightly.
"Master Baker," she said, voice respectful. "This is the young man the princess spoke of."
The old warrior took a long look at Reivo—eyes running from the scars across his chest to the cold glint in his expression.
"I see," Baker muttered. His voice was deep and hoarse, like gravel dragged across iron.
Without another word, Meira turned and left, her boots clicking again as she vanished back inside.
Baker gestured with his cane to a shaded bench. "Sit, boy. Let me look at you properly."
Reivo obeyed.
Baker sat opposite, watching him for a moment in silence. Then he leaned forward slightly, resting his hand on the cane.
"So you're the survivor"
Reivo didn't answer.
Baker studied him further. "You've seen real war. More than most of these pups out here."
Reivo's lips twitched. "I've seen slaughter."
"Same thing. Except one teaches you how to kill. The other teaches you why."
Silence again. Baker leaned back, exhaling through his nose.
"You want vengeance?"
Reivo's voice was low, steady, but cold as winter steel.
"I want them to suffer. I want every last one of those monsters dead. And the ones who let it happen—I'll burn their world down too."
Baker stared at him for a moment, then slowly nodded.
"Good," he said. "That's the kind of fire you don't fake. Let it burn hot—but control it. Vengeance is a sharp blade. Use it right, and it cuts through anything. Use it wrong, and it guts you."
The old man stood up, towering over Reivo despite the missing arm. "I trained knights before you were born. Kings, even. But most of 'em died like fools anyway. You? You might live. If you shut up, listen, and bleed when I tell you to."
Reivo stood too, towering at the same height. "I've bled more than enough."
Baker grinned. A tooth was missing. "Then you'll fit right in."
He turned, pointing to the training ring. "Today, we test the basics. I need to see what your body remembers—and what it's forgotten."
Reivo followed him into the ring, boots crunching on sand.
"Pick a weapon," Baker said, motioning to a rack of worn blades and staffs. "Let's see how your father raised you."
Reivo's hand hovered for a moment—then grasped a long wooden staff, slightly heavier than usual. Balanced.
He twirled it once in his palm. "This one."
Baker raised a brow. "Staff? Thought you'd go for a sword."
"Swords kill. This… teaches."
"Hmph." Baker cracked his neck. "Then let's teach."
Without warning, he lunged forward—despite the cane and age, his movements were fast, precise. Reivo reacted on instinct, swinging his staff to block.
CRACK!
The two clashed in a spray of sand. Reivo stumbled slightly, adjusting to the pain flaring in his ribs. Still not healed fully. But he didn't step back.
Baker grinned again. "Not bad. You've got fire. Let's see if it lasts."
The next hour passed in a blur of movement and pain. Baker never went easy, striking without hesitation, testing his endurance, his balance, his instincts. Reivo responded with focus, each movement refined from years of training with his father—yet dulled by weeks of immobility and trauma.
He slipped. He fell. But he always stood back up.
When Baker finally called for a break, both men were breathing heavily.
"You've got the bones of a fighter," the old master said, handing him a waterskin. "But you're still raw. You fight like someone who thinks pain is the price of victory."
Reivo drank, sweat trailing down his back. "Isn't it?"
"No," Baker replied. "Pain is the lesson. Victory is what you earn after you stop being surprised by it."
Reivo sat down on the edge of the ring, watching the younger soldiers drill nearby. For the first time in days, he didn't feel numb. He felt alive.
Training had begun.
And it was only the beginning.