The morning sun bled gold across the training yard. Dust hung in the air, stirred by the steady rhythm of marching boots. A ring of soldiers formed around the sparring field—each breath a mix of awe and disbelief.
In the center stood William.
Across from him, the captain adjusted his gloves with deliberate calm. His armor caught the light like rippling fire, his expression unreadable. There was no hatred in his eyes—only the patience of a man who had seen countless hopefuls fall before him.
The general raised his hand.
"Begin."
William moved first.
Steel hissed from its sheath and cut through the silence. His attack came swift and fierce—no hesitation, no fear. The captain stepped aside, effortless as wind, parrying with ease.
The clash of swords echoed like thunder.
William struck again.
And again.
Every motion born not from training, but from something older, deeper—instinct forged by pain and a vow that refused to die.
The captain's eyes narrowed. He moves like he's remembering something, he thought. But what?
William's blade blurred through the air, each strike fueled by raw will. Sparks flew where steel met steel. The crowd leaned in, hearts pounding with every clash.
The captain pivoted, feinting low—his sword came up fast, cutting through William's guard. But William met the blow, sparks bursting between them. The sound was deafening.
"He attacks too much," murmured one soldier.
"He's reckless," another said.
But the captain knew better. Beneath the fury, there was rhythm. Purpose. A pattern that felt less like desperation—and more like destiny taking shape.
They locked blades.
Muscles strained, steel screamed.
The captain pressed down with a grunt, forcing William's sword toward the dirt.
But William didn't yield.
His gaze met the captain's—calm, fierce, alive. Then, in a heartbeat, he shifted. A subtle twist of the wrist, a change in footing—clean, instinctive. The captain's weight fell forward, off balance.
William turned the momentum against him.
A sidestep.
A pivot.
His sword flashed up, stopping just a breath away from the captain's throat.
Silence.
Even the wind held its breath.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then, slowly, the captain exhaled. A faint smile touched his lips—not of defeat, but of acknowledgment.
"I surrender," he said quietly.
A ripple ran through the ranks—gasps, disbelief, awe.
No recruit had ever bested the captain.
The general stepped forward, his voice carrying over the stunned crowd.
"From this day forth, William is recognized. He shall serve as the tenth assistant captain of this army."
The yard erupted. Some cheered. Others stared, envy burning behind their silence. But all eyes turned to the boy who had done the impossible.
And from the high balcony, the girl in the pale gown stood frozen. Her hand touched the glass as she whispered, barely audible—
"Who… is he?"
William didn't look up.
He lowered his blade, breath ragged, heart steady. The ache in his arms was nothing compared to the fire in his chest.
He had taken the first step.
Not toward glory—
but toward the promise carved in his soul.