The gates did not open easily.
They stood tall—reinforced, guarded, unmoving.
Nothing like the broken world outside.
Ryo stopped a few steps before them.
For a moment—
He felt it again.
That hesitation.
This place wasn't like the ruins he had crossed.
It was controlled.
Alive.
"Stop."
The voice was sharp.
Ryo's head lifted.
Two guards stood at the entrance, their eyes already on him.
"State your purpose."
Ryo swallowed.
His throat was dry, but his voice didn't break.
"…I want to join."
A pause.
One of them stepped forward slightly, studying him.
Dust-covered. Injured. Exhausted.
"…you know where you are?"
Ryo didn't answer.
But his eyes didn't move.
"This isn't a shelter," the guard said.
A beat of silence.
"This is the Edge of the Guardians."
The words settled heavily in the air.
Ryo's grip tightened.
"…I know."
The guard watched him for a few seconds more.
Then—
"If you want to stay here…"
A slight shift in tone.
"…prove it."
Ryo's brows tightened.
"…how?"
"Kill one Westling."
Silence.
"…and bring proof."
The world inside Ryo froze.
Flames.
Screams.
A collapsing roof.
"…kill…"
His voice came out faint.
"You don't fight it," the guard continued coldly.
"You kill it."
No emotion.
"No one carries dead weight here."
Ryo's hands clenched slowly.
"…fine."
The answer came low.
But steady.
The guards stepped aside.
"You have time."
"Use it."
Ryo walked past them.
Inside—
The world changed again.
An open training ground stretched wide before him.
And this time—
He wasn't alone.
Dozens of trainees filled the space.
Young.
Some barely teenagers.
Others older.
All moving.
Some struggled with heavy swords.
Some practiced clean strikes.
Some sparred in controlled fights.
Steel clashed.
Voices echoed.
Life.
Ryo's eyes moved slowly across them.
A boy—maybe thirteen—could barely lift his blade.
Nearby, another—his age—moved smoothly, his swings sharp and controlled.
The difference was clear.
"…so this is where they start…"
Ryo muttered quietly.
"New one?"
A voice came from the side.
Ryo glanced over.
Two trainees stood nearby, watching him.
One smirked slightly.
"He looks like he just came out of a grave."
The other chuckled.
"…he won't last a day outside."
Ryo didn't respond.
His grip tightened slightly.
"…ignore it."
He turned away.
Toward the weapon rack.
Rows of swords rested in place.
Clean.
Sharp.
Heavy.
Ryo stepped closer.
For a moment—
He just stared.
Then reached out.
His fingers wrapped around a hilt.
Cold.
Solid.
He pulled it free.
The weight hit instantly.
His arm dropped slightly.
"…heavy…"
He adjusted his grip.
Tried to steady it.
It didn't feel right.
Still—
He stepped forward.
Set his stance.
And swung.
The blade cut through the air—
Unstable.
Too wide.
His balance broke.
He stumbled slightly.
A small laugh echoed behind him.
"…told you."
Ryo ignored it.
"…again."
He raised the sword.
Swung.
Too early.
Again.
Too slow.
Again.
Too shallow.
Minutes passed.
Or longer.
His arms began to shake.
Sweat ran down his face.
The sword grew heavier with every attempt.
Nearby—
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
Others moved cleanly.
Effortlessly.
Ryo glanced sideways.
A boy his age stepped forward—
Swing.
Perfect.
No wasted motion.
Ryo looked back at his own blade.
"…why…?"
Why couldn't he do it?
Why did it feel so wrong?
He had survived.
He had run.
He had fought to stay alive.
But this—
This felt impossible.
"You're fighting it."
Ryo froze.
That voice—
His eyes shifted.
A person stood a few steps away.
Still.
Calm.
The same one.
The one who had stepped between him… and the Westling.
For a moment, the memory of that night flashed—
the Westling… the impact… and the figure who didn't hesitate.
His grip on the sword tightened slightly.
"…you."
The man didn't react to the recognition.
His gaze moved to the blade.
Then to Ryo's stance.
"…you're fighting it."
Ryo frowned.
"…what?"
The man stepped closer.
Not hurried.
Not slow.
Just… controlled.
"You're trying to force the blade to move the way you want."
A pause.
"That's why it feels heavy."
Ryo's jaw tightened.
"…then what should I do?"
The man looked at him for a moment.
Then—
"…move with it."
Silence.
Ryo frowned slightly.
"…that doesn't explain anything."
The man didn't respond.
Didn't demonstrate.
Didn't repeat himself.
He simply turned—
And walked away.
Just like before.
Leaving only those words behind.
Ryo stood still.
"…move with it…?"
His eyes dropped to the blade.
Silence.
Then—
He adjusted his grip.
Not tighter.
Looser.
His stance shifted slightly.
Less forced.
He raised the sword.
Took a breath.
And swung.
The motion—
Still rough.
Still slow.
But—
It didn't break.
His balance held.
Ryo blinked.
"…again."
He reset.
Swung.
Cleaner.
Not perfect.
But better.
Days passed.
The world narrowed.
Swing.
Miss.
Swing.
Adjust.
Swing.
Fall.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The teasing faded.
The noise faded.
Only repetition remained.
Blisters formed on his hands.
His arms burned constantly.
His body screamed at him to stop.
He didn't.
Weeks passed.
The blade still felt heavy.
But not foreign.
His stance still shook.
But didn't break.
Not like before.
Ryo inhaled slowly.
Raised the sword once more.
Silence surrounded him.
He moved.
The blade cut forward—
Clean.
Stable.
Controlled.
No stumble.
No slip.
No break.
The motion followed through perfectly.
Ryo stood still.
Breathing slowly.
His eyes lowered… to the sword in his hand.
For a moment—
He said nothing.
Then—
"…for the first time…"
A pause.
"…the blade obeyed."