Chapter 10: Those Who Don't Smile at Winter, Will Never Laugh at Spring (5).
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The five unconscious ones lay crushed under the weight of gravity, suffocating beneath their thirst for blood.
What could they possibly do in such a situation?
Curse ? Scream? Resist?
Nothing.
Since the dawn of time until this very day, the weak have had no choice but silence.
Leon sat at a desk before the students, reading a book titled "What Talent Means." His expression was detached—distant, even.
Time passed quietly. Ten minutes later…
"Talent is a gift that makes one unique. But why?"
The words slipped calmly from his lips.
Because it symbolizes one's individuality—an individuality that can never be replicated.
Talent is as cruel as it is beautiful.
Everyone has a talent, that much is clear.
"But having talent in something doesn't mean it suits one's nature."
The students he had defeated slowly regained consciousness.
The first was Chae Nayun. She clutched her stomach, barely breathing, wiped the saliva from her lips, and glared coldly at Leon.
' I'll return this favor someday, swordless bastard! '
Next to awaken was Kevin, who received nothing but glares of hatred.
And why wouldn't he? He was the cause of it all.
That damned fool!
"Tsk."
Kevin frowned but didn't protest. Instead, his gaze shifted toward Stella, lying on the floor beside Luna.
Finally, he looked at Theodore, sprawled near Leon's desk.
There was nothing he could do.
Silently, he lifted Stella's head onto his lap, while Luna clung to his other leg.
What annoying friends… and an even more annoying sister. Tsk, tsk.
Then something struck him as odd.
' …Why isn't the gravity affecting us anymore? '
He stared into those crimson eyes, his expression conflicted.
Leon ignored the mischievous looks cast his way and turned another page.
Without realizing it, their minds began to follow his words.
He told of a young man who loved painting, born into a family devoted to calligraphy.
His family despised painters, their disdain born from an old feud with an official who valued painting more than the written art.
Among his kin, his handwriting was the most elegant—the most balanced—but his artistic creativity was nonexistent.
"Between his family's expectations, who saw him as a prodigy, and the reality of his lack of talent as a painter, the young man felt powerless."
In moments of helplessness, one tends to rely on their surroundings.
Since his family wanted to prove the official wrong, they worshiped his calligraphic talent without realizing it.
At the same time, they despised his fascination with painting.
"Calligraphy is the supreme art!"
That was the belief ingrained in him since childhood. And besides, painting without creativity was worthless.
"Situations like this are common. Some never discover their talent. Others reject it because it doesn't align with their dreams. And some find their life's purpose through their talent."
The young man belonged to the second kind.
Facing frustration, he sank into depression.
Leon walked across the classroom as the students groaned under the gravity's crushing weight.
"What… what is this bullshit!"
"He's insane… That bastard's insane!"
"Heeek! Hooook!"
It's hard to breathe when a solid weight presses against your chest.
Those whose bodies were weak escaped the crushing pull, but the strong ones suffered most.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. The only ones to blame are yourselves. If any of you had the strength to defeat me, this wouldn't be happening. This is your loss."
The loser has no right but obedience.
Kevin and Chae Nayun seethed at his words—daggers stabbing into their pride.
Because it was true.
The truth of their weakness.
And truth … always hurts.
Talents of the village? Hope of the future?
bullshit.
Reality spares no one—and neither did Leon.
The tale continued.
"So, torn between inner and outer expectations, the young man ran away from home—toward a park he often visited whenever he felt despair. There, he saw an old man."
The old man was holding a sheet of paper and a brush.
In those times, such tools were a luxury.
Despite what he held, his clothes were tattered.
Pitiful, Dirty, Disheveled.
So unsightly, in fact, that his ugliness seemed to wear ugliness itself as a cloak.
There wasn't a trace of beauty in him.
But unlike the young noble—clean, refined, and well-dressed—the old man's faint smile was beautiful.
Why?
"Because his smile was sincere. And nothing makes a person more beautiful than sincerity, even if he is farthest from beauty."
Leon's voice echoed through the air, like a lullaby's hum.
Unbothered by cold or hunger, the old man's hand moved with passion—painting as though it were his greatest joy.
The picture he drew was not particularly beautiful or grand, yet the devotion behind each stroke touched the young man's heart deeply.
Stella, now conscious again, didn't lift her head from Kevin's lap.
Her bright eyes fixed on Leon.
' Where am I…? '
Luna thought, lying on the floor. Then, as memories flickered back, she glared at Leon in irritation.
No one spoke.
"You devil! How dare you hit a beautiful girl like me!"
… The smarter ones, at least.
"Tsk."
Leon clicked his tongue and snapped his fingers.
Tak.
"I'll hit you back one da—"
Bam!
Her head slammed against the floor again, a loud thud echoing as she lost consciousness once more.
sigh.
Kevin and Stella shook their heads, staring at the girl—smiling idiotically, knocked out cold.
Leon's eyes flickered for a moment, and he went on with his story.
None of them noticed that the gravity crushing their bodies had eased.
"Teach me, said the young man, Who are you? The Old Man asked, How did the dreamer, broken between helplessness and thirst, answer that question? Simply, he said: I am a fool gathering the shards of my dream, striving to build a mirror once more. All I've seen from you is dedication—so please, be my master.'"
The young man offered a generous sum of money—reasonable enough that any poor old man would accept.
But the old man refused.
"I don't like being someone's escape from reality; I see no spark of desire or even hunger in you, Why should I waste my time?"
With that, the old man turned away, ignoring him.
The young man felt insulted and left in anger.
He spent the following days watching his family, only to realize what he hadn't before.
They didn't hate him, Their attempts to stop him from painting weren't born of contempt; On the contrary—it was a rational choice.
They did what they thought was best for him.
He understood that… but still, it suffocated him.
And so, he remembered the old man's words.
"The old man had been right. The youth feared risk. He hid within his comfort zone. He didn't see how others' expectations bound him. But two days later—he made up his mind."
He searched the city and finally found the old man again.
He watched him closely—every gesture, every movement—devouring it all with hungry eyes.
The old man's art had improved since last time.
Yet he still lacked the resources his talent deserved.
Immersed in himself, but cut off from his surroundings.
The young man, on the other hand, was the opposite — surrounded by wealth, but a dry well of creativity.
Immersed in his world, but cut off from his self.
"In this world, there are people who possess the missing pieces of others—and only through those pieces they can grow."
At times, the old man spoke his thoughts aloud, as if seeking inspiration from his own reflections — trying to understand his weaknesses, then accepting them calmly.
Days passed.
The young man returned to that same place daily, watching, imitating, learning.
The old man never drove him away, but never invited him either.
Each day, the youth would leave food for him before departing.
He began repeating the old man's murmured phrases, recalling his own past—his childhood, his calligraphic skill, his fears—all of it.
Then he painted.
The shapes he drew were strange, abstract—like his emotions.
And then, suddenly, he understood.
If the old man's missing piece was "Freedom", then his own missing piece was "Hardship".
The old man needed an environment that allowed him to paint freely.
The young man needed one that broke him, that made him feel despair.
His family tried to stop him many times,
but he threatened to cut off his own arms if they did.
He could write, or do anything else—but he refused to give up painting.
They accepted, reluctantly.
Other painter families invited him to join them, but he declined.
Why?
Because his uniqueness was born from despair— from growing through pain.
He didn't want a "safe" environment.
He created best when certainty disappeared — when he had no choice but to rely on himself.
He spent days talking to guards and travelers, even sleeping in the streets,
risking his family position — but he forced himself into hardship.
"And one day, while immersed in painting, he had a thought:
'What if I tried writing first—and then connecting the dots to make a painting?'"
It was a new idea, one he'd never had before.
Combining his gift and his passion to create a new path.
That was the essence of his idea.
Simple—but hard.
Blending desire and talent requires deep understanding of both, and a harmony between them.
It demanded disciplined repetition.
He honed his calligraphy, experimented, reflected on his thoughts, and drew inspiration from them.
He read extensively, wrote constantly, visited the old man, then painted.
Sometimes he deliberately challenged the old man's words to provoke discussion—absorbing his ideas, then adding his own creativity.
He even helped the old man with his resources.
If he grew through hardship, was that the only way?
Could others grow through freedom, too?
And so, his and the old man's growth mirrored one another—similar, yet different.
He repeated the process over and over.
He never neglected his talent — he used it as a tool for what he truly wanted.
The result?
A brilliant success.
After seven years of self-discipline,
the young man became one of the greatest painters of his era.
Leon's tone softened as he released the last remnants of pressure from the room.
"He became successful—exhilarated by victory; The talent he once rejected led him to his dream, Of course, he never forgot the old man who guided him, He later supported him with everything he had.
The old man's talent ignited the young man's; and the young man's success illuminated the old man's path."
"That's what harmony is—when things blend and influence one another."
A rapid evolution occurs between those who grow through self-immersion and those who grow through environmental immersion.
"Was his success due to never giving up? Or perhaps he was suddenly enlightened and discovered his talent in painting?"
The pressure vanished completely.
"…No," Chae Nayun said softly.
Losing hurts—but denial doesn't change reality.
She accepted it instantly, listening closely to Leon's every word.
Observing the strong sharpens the mind;
from their actions, the weak can learn.
"A strong will is just a strong will.
The world isn't kind to anyone.
No one gains talent easily."
Kevin replied.
"Exactly. Then what were the key factors behind his success?"
"....‟
Everyone could name reasons—but none with certainty.
In the end, they were only guesses.
"Tsk. I really need to crush that weakness out of you, brats."
He walked among them.
"...!‟
Their bodies recoiled instinctively, driven by fear of Leon's bloodlust.
Bloodlust—
that primal hunger to hunt and kill,
a searing desire to extinguish the flame of life.
A craving that corrodes the heart,
staining the world crimson, until emotions rot away and only one word remains:
Kill.
Those who can suppress their bloodlust and wield it at will — if they're not monsters, what are they?
This realization wasn't rational.
it was instinctive.
Etched deep into their genes.
A primal awareness beyond reason.
That was why their fear ran deeper than thought — their instincts moved before their minds.
Leon didn't mind, He wasn't even care.
"The right environment was his first catalyst for growth; The fierce competition among families gave him perspective.
His family's hatred for painters made him aware of his place. Then came the old man — who lived in harsher conditions.
And finally, himself — raised in a cocoon of safety."
Though exhausted from the earlier gravity, the students instinctively cleared a path as he walked by, smiling faintly.
"Then there are the motives, His desires clashed with his family's expectations, The painters he met never matched his ideal—they were mere arrogant traders, The old man placed no expectations on him, treated him like air, And finally, he was forced to face his own fragile will, his lack of true hunger for greatness."
"And then came risk — exile, the loss of his talent if he failed, confusion, despair, boredom — call it what you want, By pursuing what he wanted instead of what he was good at, he surrounded himself with danger."
Leon stopped near the door, his back to them.
Slowly, lightly, he turned his head.
A white slit gleamed within his red eyes,
and sparks of scarlet danced around them.
A feral smile bared his fangs.
"Most of you come from simple families—without power or influence."
bad Feeling.
A terrible feeling seized their hearts.
"I'll keep it brief, no bullshit, You have two hours, Anyone who doesn't step into the arena by then — I'll kill their family."
And unfortunately, that feeling was right.
"What! You fucking bastard!"
"I'll skin you alive! I'll drink your blood!
I'll hang your head above my house!"
"He's lying! This is a bluff—it won't work!"
Their cries of denial filled the air.
"Ha…"
A soft chuckle escaped Leon's lips.
"Haha… Hahahaha—!"
Then slowly, it grew louder.
A Strange laugh.
A Strong laugh.
A Crazy laugh.
"Hahahaha! Hahahaha—!!"
Then —
"Heeek!!"
"Wha—?!"
"Haaaaaaa!!"
A crushing weight descended again—no, a feral pressure that crushed their bodies mercilessly.
Everyone conscious felt dizzy—their breathing labored, their blood painfully surging through their veins.
"Insects! insects dare threaten me! Hahahaha!"
With that beastly smile still on his face, his glowing eyes swept over them.
"Two hours, That's all you have; If you don't believe me … stay."
The ordinary had no rights.
In this world, most people were like livestock.
Without strength, their fate was no different from animals.
Depend on the "law"?
Leon was the commander's son, No matter what atrocities he committed, his crimes would be judged according to his status.
Kill ordinary people?
He would not be punished.
That was what many believed — the commander's son would never be held accountable.
' I wonder… if they knew I wasn't really Carlos's son, would their reactions be any different? '
Leon didn't care for laws, nor had he ever followed them.
From childhood, he had been selfish — doing only what he "wish".
And if he wanted?
Erasing this village and everyone in it was easy.
Carlos, his family, the senate, the villagers, even these students.
Killing them would be effortless.
That was the gap between power and weakness!
Because the strong do as they please!
Perhaps these youths had lived too comfortably, sheltered in a peaceful hothouse.
They had forgotten this simple truth.
"Perception. Absorption. Extraction. That's the key to your survival; So do your best, little brats."
With those words, he left the door open and walked out.
"My chance!"
Kevin laughed, realizing the pressure was no longer crushing him.
He tried to stand and run, breaking away from Luna's limp body.
"Traitor!"
Stella, still half-pinned by the heavy gravity, glared at him.
The moment he let go of Luna and tried to sprint — his head slammed into the ground.
BAM!
"Fuck!"
A crack split the floor, blood dripped down his face — but he didn't lose consciousness.
"Heh, serves you right,"
Stella muttered between ragged breaths, crawling forward past Kevin, who lay face-down in pain.
Despite the blow, he didn't die.
An Ego Warrior's body was far from that of an ordinary human.
Their physical strength might be similar,
but their bones, muscles, blood, and energy were fundamentally different.
The vessel itself was far sturdier.
Still — pain felt the same.
"Aaagh! Damn it!"
A scream came from behind them.
It was Theodore, covered in blood, eyes bloodshot and wild.
He was dragging himself forward with all his strength.
"I won't let that bastard mock me!"
Crack!
His fingernails split, gouging into the floor as he pulled himself toward the door.
He was the closest to the exit — his desperate struggle sent chills through the others.
If even their strongest looked that desperate … then maybe …
Maybe Leon wasn't bluffing.
"His heartbeat… was calm."
The cold voice froze everyone.
Chae Nayun — crawling with a quiet fury blazing in her eyes — had spoken.
She wasn't born with Theodore's raw power, She didn't have Kevin's savage reflexes, Luna's physical control, or Stella's balanced precision.
So what did she have?
A unique sense of hearing.
She could hear things others couldn't — and when she focused, she could even detect the rhythm of a heartbeat.
Leon's heartbeat …
had been calm.
Almost inaudible — yet strangely strong.
Chae Nayun knew one truth: When someone lies, their heartbeat quickens — even slightly.
It's an absolute law.
His calm heartbeat could mean only one thing: He was serious.
"When he laughed," she said softly,
"his heart pulsed with pleasure.
As if he truly enjoyed our words."
She said nothing more and resumed crawling.
She had no family — no loved ones for Leon to threaten.
But still—
"He's terrifyingly strong," she whispered.
A tyrant whose might could drown the world.
If she could learn from him — she'd grow stronger.
He might not be a swordsman, but the path to power always began from the foundation.
And the foundation of a swordsman was his body.
The stunned students looked toward the open door.
Was Leon really …
going to kill their families?
Their parents?
Their homes — the people who had raised them?
No… no, he wouldn't!
Surely not!
But that power — the overwhelming pressure they'd felt: that suffocating aura that not even Commander Lucas possessed — what wouldn't Leon dare do with such strength?
That single thought sent shivers crawling down their spines.
And Chae Nayun's calm words made his threat all too real.
So — simply, pathetically, desperately — they crawled toward the exit.
"Damn you! Damn you! You'll see, monster! You'll see! Aaaagh, my back!"
Even Luna dragged herself forward, every muscle trembling.
The crushing gravity was barely bearable;
it felt like an ox had planted its entire weight upon her.
"Aaaaah!"
"That bastard! He planned all of this from the start!"
The fight among the students.
Their humiliation.
And now this cruel "lesson."
He was doing exactly what Theodore had tried to do — establish dominance.
Different method.
Same goal.
And Leon had succeeded.
Just look at the despair in their faces.
He had utterly broken them all.
But Theodore — he had no intention of surrendering.
' Give up on life, weakling '
a voice sneered in his mind.
Don't mess with me!
Who are you to command me, bastard?
I won't surrender!
I'll be the first!
Leon hadn't broken him — he had fed his despair, turned it into fuel.
No matter how much pain he felt, no matter how many times he fell, no matter how much his body screamed —
Theodore crawled forward.
And for all of them …
it was the same.