The sun blazed high above the Solheim estate, its golden light washing over the polished stone of the training grounds. The rhythmic clang of blades filled the air — knights sparring, steel ringing against steel, voices shouting in the distance.
Leon stood at the center of it all, wooden sword in hand, a faint smile curling his lips. His stance was steady. His breath, calm. His heartbeat no longer trembled from nerves but thrummed with focus.
Across from him stood Ardan Solheim, his second brother — taller, broader, and known throughout the estate as a prodigy in swordsmanship. His confident grin matched the sunlight in its brightness.
"So…" Ardan said, stretching his neck, the wood of his training blade creaking faintly. "You sure about this, little brother?"
Leon tightened his grip. "I've never been more sure."
Ardan smirked. "Alright then. Don't cry when you hit the ground."
The knights around them chuckled. To them, this was just another playful match — a short-lived curiosity. The frail youngest son challenging a knight-trained brother.
But they didn't know how much had changed in the past month.
The ground beneath Leon's feet felt familiar now — the same field that had once broken him now welcomed his steps. The sword felt lighter, the air sharper. His body moved not out of desperation, but precision.
Sir Geralt, watching from the sidelines, gave a small approving nod. "Show him, boy. Show them all."
The match began with a sharp crack as their blades met.
Ardan attacked first — fast, heavy swings meant to overwhelm. Leon parried each strike with exact timing, his wooden sword singing with motion. Sparks of force burst in the air as their weapons collided again and again.
"Not bad!" Ardan shouted, surprised. "When did you get so damn fast?"
Leon's voice was calm, breath steady. "A month's worth of pain can teach you a lot."
He stepped in — the movement fluid, precise — and twisted his blade at the last moment. The parry turned into a sweeping counter. Thwack!
Ardan stumbled a step back, his grin fading into shock. "You—"
Before he could finish, Leon pressed forward. His strikes now came in relentless waves, each blow carrying the weight of countless hours of training, each movement guided by faint whispers echoing in his mind.
"Keep your stance low," Kael's voice rumbled.
"Read his rhythm — let his mana flow reveal the next motion," Eldrin murmured.
Leon obeyed instinctively.
His eyes sharpened. His sword flicked upward, then slammed down in a clean arc.
Thwack!
Ardan's weapon flew from his grip, landing several feet away in the dirt. The field went silent.
For a moment, all Leon could hear was the sound of his own breathing. Then
a slow clap echoed from one of the knights.
"…He actually did it," someone whispered.
Ardan stared at his empty hand, disbelief written all over his face. Then, a wide grin spread across his lips.
"Well, damn…" he said, stepping forward and patting Leon's shoulder. "You actually beat me."
Leon blinked. "I… did."
Ardan laughed, genuine and loud. "You trained hard, didn't you?"
Leon smiled faintly. "Every day."
The older brother's expression softened. "Then I've got nothing to say. You earned it."
From the upper floors of the manor, behind a grand window overlooking the grounds, Lord Solheim watched in silence. His sharp eyes followed every motion of the match — the posture, the technique, the confidence.
His usually stern face relaxed slightly.
"…He's grown," he murmured to himself.
The wind stirred his papers, but he didn't notice. For the first time, he saw his youngest son not as the frail boy who'd always hidden behind excuses — but as a warrior in the making.
Back in the training yard, the other knights began to gather.
"That was incredible, Young Master Leon."
"Never thought you'd move like that."
"You've been hiding your talent, huh?"
Leon rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed by the attention. "Just trained a little, that's all."
"'A little,' he says," one knight laughed. "Then how about proving it?"
Another knight stepped forward, sword raised. "Care for another match, young master?"
Leon looked around — half the training ground now buzzed with excitement.
Even Sir Geralt crossed his arms with an approving smirk.
Leon grinned and raised his wooden sword again. "Bring it on."
The knights cheered.
And as the duels began, the once-frail boy named Leon Solheim — reborn from the ashes of failure and regret — stood tall in the sunlight, the two faint orbs of Kael and Eldrin glimmering faintly behind him like unseen wings.
This time, it wasn't about survival.
It was about belonging.
About becoming someone strong enough to protect his own story.
And as his next opponent charged forward, Leon whispered under his breath — half to himself, half to the ghosts of his past life:
"Han Jaeho is gone. But Leon Solheim… is just getting started."