The sun had barely risen when a loud knock echoed through Ragnar's room.
He opened his eyes to find Edwin standing in the doorway, dressed as neatly as ever. The old butler carried a wooden practice sword beneath one arm and a folded set of training clothes in the other.
"You have five minutes."
Ragnar rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
"Five?"
Edwin nodded.
"A knight who wakes late dies early."
Without another word, he placed the clothes on the bed and left.
Ragnar sighed.
"I guess that's my alarm now."
The morning air was cool as Ragnar stepped onto the training grounds behind the manor. A thin layer of mist hovered over the grass while dozens of knights were already sparring, their wooden swords clashing in steady rhythm.
Cedric stood in the center of the field with two practice blades resting on his shoulder.
"You made it."
"Barely."
Cedric tossed one of the swords toward Ragnar.
He caught it awkwardly.
"Today isn't about winning."
Cedric planted his own sword into the ground.
"It's about surviving."
Ragnar frowned.
"Aren't those the same thing?"
Cedric smiled.
"Not in a real battle."
The first lesson wasn't swordsmanship.
It was balance.
For the next hour, Ragnar stood on a single wooden post no wider than his foot while Cedric circled him.
Every few minutes Cedric shoved the post with his boot.
Ragnar fell.
Again.
And again.
By the twentieth attempt, his legs burned.
By the fortieth, his knees shook uncontrollably.
When he climbed back onto the post for the fiftieth time, Cedric finally spoke.
"Good."
Ragnar wiped sweat from his forehead.
"I've barely stayed up there."
"Exactly."
Cedric crossed his arms.
"But every time you fell..."
"...you climbed back up."
After a short break, the training changed.
Cedric drew a circle in the dirt with his sword.
"Step inside."
Ragnar obeyed.
Cedric picked up several smooth stones from the ground.
"What are those for?"
Instead of answering, Cedric threw one.
Ragnar barely managed to duck.
Another followed.
Then another.
Soon stones flew from every direction.
Ragnar stumbled backward, raising his arms to shield his face.
"Stop thinking."
Cedric's voice echoed across the field.
"Move."
A stone struck Ragnar's shoulder.
Another hit his ribs.
He gritted his teeth.
His eyes followed Cedric's hands.
No...
That wasn't right.
The stones weren't random.
Each throw followed a pattern.
Cedric shifted his weight before every throw.
His shoulder moved first.
Then his wrist.
Ragnar focused.
Another stone flew.
This time...
He sidestepped.
It missed.
Cedric smiled.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The beginning."
They continued until midday.
By the end of training, Ragnar's body ached so badly he could barely lift his sword.
Edwin approached carrying two cups of water.
"You've improved."
Ragnar laughed weakly.
"It doesn't feel like it."
"Improvement rarely does."
The old butler handed him a cup.
"The greatest mistake young warriors make is believing strength comes before discipline."
He looked toward Cedric.
"Your instructor understands that."
Ragnar glanced across the field.
Cedric was already sparring with three knights at once.
Despite being outnumbered, he moved effortlessly, avoiding every strike before disarming all three opponents within seconds.
Ragnar watched in silence.
One day...
He wanted to move like that.
That afternoon, Lady Elara found Ragnar sitting beneath a large oak tree overlooking the gardens.
A thick book rested in her hands.
"You look exhausted."
Ragnar chuckled.
"I think every bone in my body hurts."
She sat beside him.
"It gets easier."
"You've trained too?"
Elara nodded.
"Every member of House Sternroar learns to fight."
"I thought noble ladies only attended parties."
She laughed softly.
"You've been listening to Cedric."
Ragnar smiled.
For a moment...
Everything felt peaceful.
Elara opened her book.
"You still know very little about Blood Arts."
"I know almost nothing."
"Then let me help."
She turned the book toward him.
The pages contained detailed illustrations of glowing veins running through the human body.
"Blood isn't simply magic."
"It's memory."
Ragnar frowned.
"Memory?"
"Our ancestors believed every bloodline carries the experiences of those who came before us."
She pointed toward a drawing of crimson veins.
"That's why Blood Arts grow stronger with experience."
"They remember."
Ragnar stared at the illustration.
"So..."
"My blood can learn?"
Elara smiled.
"Exactly."
Before Ragnar could ask another question, a sudden pain shot through his right hand.
He gasped.
The scar left by the shattered Blood Chamber began glowing crimson.
Tiny droplets of blood floated into the air.
Elara immediately stood.
"Ragnar."
"I..."
"I can't stop it."
The blood spun around his hand faster and faster before shaping itself into a small crimson bird.
The creature flapped its wings once.
Then flew toward the forest beyond the estate.
Ragnar instinctively chased after it.
"Wait!"
The bird disappeared between the trees.
Without thinking, Ragnar followed.
Branches whipped against his face as he ran deeper into the woods.
The crimson bird remained just ahead, almost as if it wanted him to follow.
Finally...
It landed.
In the center of a forgotten clearing.
Half-buried beneath centuries of moss and vines stood a massive stone statue.
A king.
One hand rested upon the hilt of a great sword.
The other reached toward the sky.
The face had been deliberately destroyed long ago.
Only the crown remained untouched.
As Ragnar stepped closer, ancient crimson symbols spread across the statue.
A deep voice echoed through the clearing.
"You have returned..."
Ragnar froze.
The forest fell silent.
The statue's empty eyes began glowing red.
"Bearer of the Crown."
Far away, hidden among the trees, a hooded figure watched everything.
The stranger slowly lowered a silver mask.
"So..."
"It has finally awakened."