THE SHADOW OF DISCIPLINE

Rael disappeared from the eyes of the academy.

After walking away from sword training, rumors spread that he had given up, that the "mercenary whelp" had finally realized his place. The nobles mocked him, believing he had accepted his fate as the weakest among them.

They couldn't have been more wrong.

While they slept, Rael trained.

Late at night, when the academy halls were silent, Rael pushed himself beyond his limits.

His mornings were spent enduring regular training, blending in, keeping up the facade. But as soon as the sky darkened and the nobles retreated to their beds, his true training began.

In the depths of the academy's lower grounds, where few students ventured, he found an old storage area—dusty, forgotten. Here, he built his personal battleground.

With no master to guide him, he trained his body through sheer force of will.

- Push-ups until his arms shook.

- Squats until his legs burned.

- Running through the empty corridors, pushing his endurance to the brink.

Every muscle, every fiber of his being, he reforged through pain.

The nobles trained with tutors, refining their swordplay in comfortable practice halls. Rael trained alone, in the cold and darkness, carving strength into his bones.

The spear became an extension of his body.

At first, his movements were wild—sloppy swings, poor control. But with every hour, every night, he adapted.

Unlike a sword, the spear thrived on reach, speed, and unpredictability. Rael didn't just practice the standard thrusts and sweeps—he reinvented how to fight.

- He learned to spin it fluidly, striking from angles no swordsman would expect

- He trained his reflexes, dodging imaginary attacks, countering with swift, precise strikes.

- He studied his past battles, remembering his mistakes, correcting them.

The rigid footwork of swordsmen? He abandoned it. Instead, he used constant movement, staying light on his feet, always shifting, never allowing an opponent to lock him down.

And as his body grew stronger, his speed increased. His reflexes sharpened. His spearwork became something unnatural, unpredictable—his own.

This training came at a cost.

His hands blistered from gripping the spear too tightly. His muscles screamed from overwork. His body was covered in bruises from self-inflicted mistakes.

But he never stopped.

Each time he collapsed, gasping for breath, he forced himself back up. Because if he didn't, he would never catch up.

The nobles trained with comfort. Rael trained with desperation.

And desperation always birthed monsters.

Weeks passed. The nobles carried on, unaware of the storm that was building beneath their noses.

Rael never returned to the sword.

He never sought permission.

He simply became something else.

A warrior not bound by tradition.

A force growing in the dark.

And when the time came for him to step back into the light—they would all see the difference.

Back in the mercenary camp of the Black Hounds