The morning light filtered through the window like liquid gold, spilling over Leon's face.
He opened his eyes to the familiar ache that gripped his body — a deep, relentless throb that made even breathing hurt.
"Still… hurts," he muttered, dragging himself upright.
Every movement was a battle. His shoulders groaned, his legs trembled. The air itself felt heavy. But he forced himself out of bed, one breath at a time.
Each step across the cold marble floor reminded him of the previous day's training.
Pain means I'm growing, he told himself.
When he stepped out into the corridor, the scent of polished wood and sunlight greeted him.
His footsteps echoed faintly — slow, uneven.
Halfway to the dining hall, a voice called out.
"Leon."
He turned and saw his eldest brother, Adrian Solheim, leaning casually against a pillar.
The man looked like a statue carved from discipline — tall, broad-shouldered, and composed.
Leon blinked. "Brother?"
Adrian approached, holding out a small glass vial filled with pale blue liquid. "Here. Drink this."
Leon frowned, cautious. "What is it?"
"A tonic. Pain reliever," Adrian replied simply. "It'll help with whatever madness you did to yourself yesterday."
Leon hesitated for a moment, the vial cold in his hand.
"Why… are you giving me this?"
Adrian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Because you look like you'll collapse any second. And because Father would skin me alive if you actually did."
Leon couldn't help but let out a short laugh. "That's a terrible excuse."
Adrian's lips twitched into something that almost resembled a smile.
"Don't push yourself too hard, Leon. Determination's good — but there's a fine line between resolve and self-destruction."
And with that, he turned and walked toward the dining hall, his posture calm and commanding.
Leon stared at his back for a moment.
"…Maybe he's not as bad as I thought."
He uncorked the vial and took a sip. The taste was sharp, metallic — like biting into mint and iron at once.
A cool rush spread through his veins almost instantly, washing away the ache in his muscles.
Relief flooded him.
For the first time since training, he could move without wanting to scream.
He smiled faintly and whispered, "Thanks, brother."
The dining hall was lively as usual — clinking silverware, faint chatter, sunlight dancing on the marble floor.
Leon greeted his family and took his seat, bowing politely before beginning his meal.
His father gave him a single approving nod. No words were needed.
He could feel his brothers' eyes on him occasionally, perhaps curious to see if the "training phase" would end as quickly as it began.
But Leon ate in silence, his movements composed, his gaze calm.
He wasn't the same weak boy they remembered — and soon, they'd see that for themselves.
After breakfast, he made his way to the training grounds once again.
The clang of steel filled the air — his brothers already sparring with the knights under the bright morning sun.
The scent of sweat, dust, and iron blended into the wind.
Leon stood at the edge for a moment, watching them move.
Each swing was precise, elegant. They fought like men born with blades in their hands.
But Leon didn't join them.
Not yet.
He turned instead toward the corner of the field, where the old instructor stood with his usual scowl — Master Garret, the same man who had nearly broken his body the day before.
When the old man noticed him, a single brow rose.
"Back so soon, young master?"
Leon nodded. "Yes. I'm ready to continue."
Garret's lips curved slightly, though it was hard to tell if it was approval or amusement.
"Hmph. Let's see if that determination still holds."
The training began.
Minutes stretched like hours.
Sweat soaked his shirt, his breath came in harsh bursts. His arms burned with every swing, his legs quivered with every stance.
But this time — it was different.
The pain was still there, sharp and constant, but his body was adapting.
The movements flowed smoother, his balance steadier.
Each repetition didn't feel like torture — it felt like progress.
Garret grunted as he watched Leon struggle through another set of drills.
"Better. Your form's still sloppy, but at least you're not falling on your face this time."
Leon smirked between gasps. "I'll… take that as a compliment."
"Don't. It isn't."
But there was something almost fond in the old man's tone.
As the sun dipped low in the sky, Leon finally dropped his practice sword and sat on the ground, chest heaving.
His hair clung to his forehead, sweat glistening down his neck.
He looked at his trembling hands and smiled.
He wasn't just surviving the pain anymore.
He was learning to live with it.
Footsteps approached from behind.
He looked up to see Adrian again, holding a towel and a faint grin.
"Not bad," his brother said, handing him the towel. "Honestly, I thought this was just a one-day act of desperation."
Leon took it, wiping his face. "Guess I'm full of surprises."
Adrian chuckled quietly. "Maybe you are."
He placed a hand on Leon's shoulder firm, steady. "Keep it up, little brother. The Solheim name isn't easy to bear… but if you keep this up, you might actually make me proud."
Leon froze for a heartbeat — then smiled, genuine and bright.
"That's the plan."
As Adrian walked away, Leon looked at his own reflection in a nearby polished blade resting on the rack.
His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot, his hands bruised.
But behind the exhaustion, there was something new — resolve.
He whispered to his reflection,
"Han Jaeho might've failed… but Leon Solheim won't."
The wind swept across the field, carrying his words into the horizon as the sun sank beneath the crimson sky.