The training room was dimly lit, shadows clinging to the corners like silent witnesses. The torches lining the walls flickered with a low, enchanted flame—just enough to see, not enough to feel warm.
Trafalgar sat alone on a bench near the center, polishing the edge of Maledicta with a cloth soaked in oil. The sword gleamed under the faint light, its blade pulsing faintly as if hungry for blood once again.
The door creaked open.
He didn't look up.
'Finally.'
Heavy boots echoed across the stone floor. Roland stepped into the room, still bandaged and moving with a limp, his face pale from blood loss and stress.
"I'm here, Young Master," he said, stopping a few meters away.
Trafalgar tapped the floor beside him with the flat of Maledicta, not even sparing him a glance. A sharp, hollow sound rang out—tap tap.
Roland walked over and stood in front of the indicated spot.
"Kneel."
Without hesitation, Roland dropped to his knees.
