The training field was still damp with morning dew as the cadets gathered. Some wiped their faces with cold water, others stretched to ease lingering back pain, while the rest simply stood still... waiting.
Ren, Kiel, and Arto took their positions in the middle of the formation. They stood straight, eyes forward, though their bodies still remembered yesterday's pain all too well.
Soon, heavy footsteps echoed from the edge of the field.
Gideon appeared—his leather jacket half-open, arms crossed, his single eye sweeping over the ranks like an invisible spear.
He stopped before the cadets, exhaled deeply, then spoke in a firm, commanding tone.
"Morning."
No one answered.
"Good. Means you're not strong enough to talk yet," he continued without pause. "Yesterday, you learned the basics. How to stand, how to hold, and some of you even learned what it feels like to fall."
His gaze lingered briefly on Ren before moving on.
"Today, you'll learn... what it's like to move when your body refuses every step."
He strode to the side of the field and pointed at a pile of metal weights—flat circular plates meant to be strapped to their bodies.
"Today's training starts with twenty laps around the field—with weights strapped to you."
Some cadets' eyes widened. Others glanced left and right, as if confirming they hadn't misheard.
"Too much? Go home," Gideon added expressionlessly. "But if you're still standing here, you accept it."
He gestured to the pile of iron plates. "Take one each. Strap it to your waist. We start in one minute."
Ren exhaled slowly, trying to steady his already erratic heartbeat. Beside him, Kiel could only let out a dry laugh.
"This is insane. Absolutely insane," he muttered, trudging toward the weights.
Arto grabbed a large plate and strapped it to his belt without a word.
Ren held the weight in his hands—cold, heavy, rough.
Then, he fastened it to his body.
One minute later, Gideon stood at the field's edge, arm raised high.
"Begin!"
And the sound of footsteps thundered across the field—heavy, synchronized, painful.
They started running.
First lap... still manageable.
Second lap... breathing grew labored.
Third lap... legs began screaming.
And Gideon said nothing.
He just stood at the sidelines like a looming shadow, ensuring none of them had room to complain.
Ren ran with ragged breaths. Sweat drenched his clothes. His chest felt like it was being hammered from the inside. But... he kept going.
Lap after lap passed... yet it felt endless.
The cadets' breathing grew harsher, their steps wobblier. Some stumbled, others nearly vomited from the nausea churning in their stomachs.
But not one of them dared to fall.
Because everyone knew—
Those who collapsed... wouldn't be given rest.
Gideon had made it clear before they started:
> *"If you think about dropping and resting... don't expect mercy.*
*Here, those who fall will train twice as hard as the others."*
It wasn't an empty threat. It was the law under his watch.
Ren gritted his teeth as he rounded the field's curve. His legs felt filled with lead. His vision blurred. Even his arms went numb from the belt digging into his waist.
Beside him, Kiel panted hard, sweat flooding his face, but his lips still curled into a grin. "Damn... This... is... hell..."
Ren wanted to reply, but his throat was too parched to form words.
A few meters ahead, Arto maintained his rhythm. His pace wasn't fast, but steady. His breathing heavy, yet controlled. Like a bull that knew stopping meant death.
"Ren!" Arto called over his shoulder. "Don't think about the laps left. Focus on the step in front of you!"
Ren nodded, though his knees nearly buckled. He fixed his eyes on the ground and forced his body forward.
One more step. One more breath.
At the field's edge, Gideon stood like a stone statue, arms crossed, face unreadable. His single eye scanned each cadet, waiting to see who'd be the first to drop.
And when one cadet tumbled to the ground, his expression darkened instantly.
"UP!" he barked, his voice like a whip.
The cadet struggled to rise, hands trembling, face pale. But Gideon was already striding over.
"You want rest? Then you'll repeat after this session. A hundred push-ups, then five more laps. Alone."
Ren saw it and immediately lowered his head, pushing himself harder even as his chest burned.
*No.*
*I won't fall.*
Because here... those who stopped would be buried deeper.
And Ren—
He'd rather die running...
than die under extra weight.
Step by step, the world narrowed for Ren. His vision blurred, leaving only the endless loop of dirt ahead. Sweat poured down his temples and chin, dripping onto the ground in an erratic rhythm.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his body no longer obeying commands.
*Just a little more... a little more...*
But as he rounded the 17th lap—
His foot caught a small dip in the ground.
His balance faltered.
*Thud!*
Dry grass and dust scattered as Ren hit the dirt. His knees and elbows struck hard, the dull sound echoing faintly among the other footsteps.
"Damn it..." he muttered, face pressed to the ground.
His fists clenched, gripping the hard earth as if it could channel the frustration boiling inside him.
*Why now...?!*
The other cadets kept running past him. Some glanced back, but none dared to stop. Because everyone knew—if you stopped for another, you'd fall with them.
From the sidelines, heavy boots approached fast.
Not running.
But hammering the earth with every step.
Gideon.
"REN!"
His voice boomed like a storm. Ren could feel that gaze—cold, sharp, merciless.
"YOU THINK YOU CAN REST MID-TRAINING?!"
Ren gritted his teeth. His hands pushed against the ground, knees shaking, the weight at his waist dragging him down. But... he forced himself up.
"One more second on the ground... and you restart. Twenty laps. Alone. Double weight."
It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.
Ren groaned softly, eyes squeezing shut briefly. His body resisted. But his mind—didn't.
*Not here. Not like this.*
With a choked, wordless cry, Ren shoved himself up on trembling legs, standing despite the violent tremors. His breath came in ragged bursts, one hand clutching his side.
He looked ahead—the laps weren't done.
There was still distance to cover.
There was still... a version of him that hadn't given up.
And though his body nearly crumbled...
Ren started running again.
Slow. Dragging. But still moving.
Because in this world—
those who stopped...
would be left behind forever.
---
Ren swung his leg forward one last time, crossing the finish line for the twentieth lap, his body shaking violently, breath exploding in his lungs, every muscle screaming in protest. He planted his final step, then staggered and nearly collapsed—but caught himself, crouching to grip his wooden sword, slapping the ground as his final mark.
A brief silence fell over the field as all eyes turned to him. He knew... he was the last. The other cadets had already gathered at the rest area, watching with their own exhaustion. Gideon stood at the center, hands on his hips, his gaze cold but not entirely without empathy.
Ren bowed his head, steadied his breathing, then slowly straightened. His hand went to his waist, he inhaled deeply, and then... stood tall, eyes forward.
"Congratulations... you finished," Gideon's voice cut through the quiet, softer than usual. "Dead last, but you... stood."
Gideon stepped forward, clapping Ren's shoulder with his calloused hand. "That... is what sets you apart."
Behind Ren, Arto and Kiel rose, clapping quietly. Kiel sighed in relief, while Arto simply gave a firm nod.
Kiel called out, half-teasing, half-praising, "Hey, last place! But damn, you're insane, bro. Respect."
Ren turned and saw their smiles. Something warm spread through his chest.
Gideon straightened, addressing the others. "Today's training is done. Rest up and prepare for sword techniques this afternoon."
A chorus of relieved shouts followed, some cadets sprinting off to remove their weights. Ren unbuckled his belt, letting the iron plate clatter to the ground, then slumped onto a wooden bench.
Kiel immediately slapped his back. "You're crazy, Ren. Twenty laps! I puked twice, but you kept going."
Arto handed him a piece of dried bread from his belt pouch. "This might help."
Ren took it, looked at them both, then took a slow bite. The salty, chewy texture soothed his battered body slightly.
The sun climbed higher, its warmth piercing the humid air. The second day of training had passed—with sweat, silent tears, and resolve tested to its limits.
Ren sipped the last of his water from a wooden cup, then gazed at Crossroads' horizon. He no longer feared defeat... because he knew, as long as he kept standing and running, he'd keep growing stronger.
And in Midgard's harsh world,
standing at all... was already the greatest victory.
---
That afternoon, the sun dipped westward, bathing the training field in fading golden light. The breeze carried the damp scent of sweat and unsettled dust from the morning. The sounds of footsteps, sharp shouts, and clashing wooden swords filled the air again.
The afternoon sword technique drills began with endless repetitions of basics—vertical slashes, horizontal cuts, diagonal strikes, blocks, then repeat.
Ren's body still ached from the twenty laps earlier. Yet he kept swinging, balancing strength, precision, and breath. Nearby, Kiel still grumbled every time Gideon corrected his posture.
But as everyone sank into the rhythm of training, something happened.
*Thwack!*
A sharp, resonant strike echoed from the field's right side—cleaner, heavier, unlike the usual wooden clatter.
All heads turned at once.
Under his usual tree, Leon, the silver-haired man, stood alone. He wasn't performing flashy or exaggerated movements. Quite the opposite—his motions were calm. His sword swung slowly, like a controlled dance.
Yet...
The wooden sword in his hand... glowed.
A faint shimmer enveloped the blade, an unnatural silver gleam, as if light seeped from within his body into the weapon. The aura pulsed softly, flowing with Leon's movements—forming energy patterns nearly invisible to the untrained eye.
The entire field fell silent.
Even the distant birds seemed to vanish.
Gideon, who had been standing with crossed arms, widened his eye. He stepped forward slowly, squinting at Leon.
"...Hoh," he murmured, his deep voice carrying clearly in the quiet. "Seems... we've got a rare one here."
Some cadets stared in awe and fear.
"That's... that's aura, right?" whispered one.
"He... awakened it," another choked out.
Ren stood frozen, his chest tight—whether from exhaustion or something deeper, he couldn't tell.
*He's... already that far?*
Leon remained composed. He finished one final swing, lowered his sword, and in an instant, the glow vanished—as if it had never been.
He didn't look at anyone. Didn't smile. Didn't boast.
He simply turned and walked away from the attention... as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
But everyone who witnessed it knew—they'd just seen someone step into... a different world.
*Only two days...*
That thought echoed in Ren's mind as he watched Leon's retreating figure return to his usual solitary spot.
Only two days of training... and he was already there.
*Aura*—something even Gideon said took months, maybe years to master. Even veteran adventurers didn't all wield it well.
But Leon...
He did it as if it were second nature. As if his body was made for battle. As if he'd never been a beginner like the rest of them.
Ren tightened his grip on his wooden sword, his breathing heavy not from fatigue, but from the emotions churning inside him.
Awe... mixed with envy.
He knew he shouldn't compare himself to Leon. But how could he not?
*Why is he so fast? Why does it look so... easy for him?*
Ren lowered his head, staring at his still-red palms. The blisters on his fingers, the ache in his wrists, the soreness in his shoulders—all seemed to mock how hard he'd worked... and how far behind he still was.
Kiel sidled up beside him, also watching Leon under the tree.
"...Insane," he muttered. "Two days, and he's like that. Is he even human?"
Ren didn't answer.
Kiel nudged his shoulder lightly. "Hey. We can only do what we can. He might be one in a million. Doesn't mean we can't get where we want."
Ren nodded slowly, but inside, the storm still raged.
Not just envy.
But drive—a whisper in his heart.
*If he can... then I have too.*
Not just to catch up to Leon. But for himself. To prove... he wasn't brought to this world just to stand in someone else's shadow.