Few weeks later...
The losses did not stop.
If anything, they became routine.
Each morning, before the sun fully rose above Manachy's ivory towers, Ragna was already running. Ten laps became fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. His breathing no longer came in ragged bursts, but in controlled rhythms. Sweat soaked his clothes, his legs burned, yet his pace never slowed. His body was already beginning to adapt to all the physical training.
After running came strength.
Push-ups until his arms trembled.
Sword swings until his shoulders screamed.
Stances held until his balance failed—then held again.
No one praised him for this.
No one watched.
And that was fine.
Because when the bells rang for knight training, Ragna returned to the yard—and lost again.
He lost to the boys older than him.
He lost to his peers.
He lost to boys younger than him.
He lost to boys stronger than him.
He lost to boys weaker than him but more skilled.
Wooden blades struck his ribs, wrists, legs, shoulders. His body learned pain as a language. Bruises layered over bruises, healing only to be replaced by more bruises.
The noble youths no longer looked surprised.
They looked expectant.
"Jack of all trades!"
The words followed with every fall, with every defeat.
Ragna said nothing.
At first, his defeats were ugly—wild swings, poor timing, stiff movement. But days passed. Weeks followed. And slowly, subtly, things began to change.
His vision sharpened.
He started seeing strikes before they landed—not predicting them, but recognizing patterns. A shift of weight. A tightening grip. A breath drawn half a second too deep.
His balance improved.
Where once he stumbled after blocking, now his feet adjusted instinctively. He learned how to fall without wasting motion. How to roll. How to rise faster than before.
His strength, agility , vision had all increased.
Not the explosive power of noble bloodlines—but dense, earned strength. The kind forged through repetition and refusal.
His speed followed.
He still couldn't outmatch them—but he could keep up. A half-step faster. A fraction closer. Enough to survive longer.
And his agility—
That was where change became undeniable.
Ragna began slipping strikes that once shattered his guard. He twisted away instead of blocking. Redirected instead of resisting. His body moved before thought caught up.
The instructor noticed first.
"Again," Aldren said one afternoon after Ragna lost for the sixth time that day.
Ragna bowed and stepped forward without complaint.
The noble boy opposite him frowned.
"This is pointless," the boy muttered. "He never wins, but he still fighting spirit never wavers. How's a weakling like yourself still training here with us the elites?."
Aldren's eyes narrowed. "You're wrong."
The duel began.
Ragna still lost.
But it took longer.
Much longer.
The noble boy's breathing grew heavy. His strikes lost precision. When the match ended, his expression was no longer mocking.
It was confused.
"What the hell ... This weakling pushed me this far, but in the end , it's still my victory. A loser, once , a loser for life" he smirks the walks away.
That night, during magic training, Lady Sabrina watched Ragna carefully as flames danced around his hands.
His control was steadier.
His posture stronger.
His breathing disciplined.
"You are changing, your muscles a looking more visible and your composure, I like that" she said softly.
Ragna bowed. "I am still losing."
"Yes,I didn't expect you to join and leave then all in the dust" she replied. "But you are no longer breaking, that's what matters."
He did not fully understand her words then, but he was great full as he took her words as compliment.
ln the knights' yard, whispers began to shift.
"He doesn't go down easily anymore."
"Did you see how long he lasted?"
"He's still weak—but…"
"He's changing, at least, he has a head after all"
The sentence never finished.
Because no one wanted to admit the truth yet.
Ragna lay in bed that night, muscles aching, bones tired—but his mind was clear.
Every defeat was carving something into him.
Not skill.
Not power.
But foundation.
And foundations, once laid, could support anything.
Outside, the moon hung high above Manachy.
And in the shadows of the training yard, Ragna could see the leaves littering the training yards as the night breeze moved majestically.
" The way the night breeze will move the leaves, from one place to another ... I want to continue growing stronger. I don't want to stagnate like a pond, I want to flow like a river."
Looks at the moon, the inhaled slightly.
"What an exhausting day" he exclaimed.