For a long moment no one moved. Dust settled in a slow curtain, revealing Arslan standing in the center of the yard, sword lowered but still humming faintly, and Ludger crouched by the wall fifty meters away. The ring of impact still echoed in everyone’s ears.

Harold was the first to breathe again. “Gods above…”

Cor snapped his book shut with a muted clack, eyes wide. “That blow could’ve leveled a house.”

Selene let out a low whistle. “And the kid blocked it.”

Aleia pressed a hand to her chest, her bow forgotten. “He’s still on his feet…”

Ludger straightened slowly, breathing hard. His arms ached like they’d been crushed in a smith’s hammer. He lifted one hand, palm outward. “I…assume defeat,” he said between breaths.

He slid the armguards down to show his forearms. Dark bruises were already blossoming from wrist to elbow, the skin mottled from the impact. “Blocking something that can break a house isn’t exactly easy,” he added with a faint, dry edge to his voice. “Only reason I still have arms is because these,” he tapped the reinforced steel, “are high quality. Still intact. Not a scratch.”

The crowd murmured, a mixture of awe and disbelief. Harold grinned again, shaking his head. “Kid’s tougher than half the mercs I know.”

Cor muttered, “More disciplined, too.”

Selene smirked faintly. “He’ll get him next time.”

In the center of the yard, Arslan finally let his aura fade, the heat bleeding off him. He watched his son with a mixture of pride and concern, the dullblade resting against his shoulder.

Arslan let the last of the heat drain from his body, rolling his shoulders. He planted the dullblade into the dirt like a flagpole and looked over at his son, who was still standing by the wall, bruised but upright. A proud, crooked smile crept across his face.

“I’m still the man of the house,” he called, voice carrying across the yard.

For a heartbeat there was silence. Then Harold barked a laugh — and the rest of the crowd turned on him at once.

“Boo!”

“You went all out on your own kid!”

“He’s eight!”

“Show off!”

Dozens of voices rose up, half playful, half indignant. Cor shook his head and muttered something under his breath. Selene just smirked, arms crossed. Aleia cupped her hands around her mouth. “Boo! Poor sportsmanship!”

Arslan blinked at the sudden chorus, then chuckled low in his chest, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. You vultures wanted a show — you got one.”

Harold’s grin widened. “Never thought I’d see the day you’d get booed for winning, Arslan.”

Arslan looked back at Ludger, pride still in his eyes despite the jeers. “Don’t mind them,” he said. “You held your ground against me at full force. That’s no small thing.”

Ludger straightened, wincing a little but smirking through it. The armguards were still pristine even if his forearms weren’t. The jeering crowd, the heat of the fight, his father’s pride — it all felt like the edge of something larger.

The yard had gone almost silent after the clash. Dust still drifted lazily through the air as Ludger knelt near the wall, arms trembling from the impact. He drew in a long, steady breath and let mana flow through his palms.

A soft green glow flared from his hands, wrapping around his bruised forearms. He ran the spell again, then once more, each pass deeper and more precise. The angry purple bruises faded to pale yellow, then vanished entirely, the ache dulling until it was only a memory. By the third cast, his arms felt whole again.

Ludger pushed himself up from the dirt like nothing had happened. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers. No cracks, no stiffness—just exhaustion. Sweat clung to his shirt and his breath still came hard, but aside from that he looked unhurt.

The onlookers went quiet, their earlier jeers forgotten. Harold’s grin faltered into something like awe. Cor shut his book with a muted clack for like the third time. Selene’s eyes narrowed, calculating. Aleia just stared.

An eight-year-old had just taken a blow that could level a house, healed himself in seconds, and stood up again. What would Ludger be in ten years? the question flickered through every mind at once.

Behind him, Arslan stood frozen, dullblade lowered, a little pale. Five years, he thought, and he might be stronger than me. And he won’t even be at drinking age.

Ludger gave his arms a final shake, the glow fading from his skin, and smirked faintly at the stunned crowd. He still looked tired, but his eyes were bright.

Arslan let out a long breath, caught somewhere between pride and disbelief. “You’re going to give me gray hairs, Luds,” he muttered.

And the crowd could only watch, whispering about the warrior Ludger was already becoming.

The murmurs along the fence started to die off as the crowd slowly dispersed. Harold gave Ludger a last nod of respect, Cor shut his book for good, Selene and Aleia traded looks, then the four of them drifted away with the rest, leaving only father and son in the yard. Dust still hung in the air like the aftertaste of a storm.

Arslan set the dullblade down against the fence and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “You could’ve fooled me,” he said at last, his voice low again. “Why didn’t you use your magic? Or any of your other tricks?”

Ludger shrugged, rolling his newly-healed arms. “I wanted to see where I stand in close combat. No shortcuts. No gimmicks.”

Arslan studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Hnh.” He reached for a towel, rubbing at his neck, eyes still on his son. Would I have won if he’d tried to outsmart me instead of going head-on? The thought flickered across his mind, unwelcome but impossible to ignore.

He chuckled once, dry and rough. “You’re either stubborn or crazy. Maybe both.”

Ludger smirked faintly. “You told me to train, didn’t you? You also sound like Viola.”

Arslan nodded slowly, still pale around the edges, and looked out across the empty yard. “Yeah. I do. Wait, it is the other way around.” And for the first time he wasn’t entirely sure which one of them was training who anymore.

The yard was quiet now, just the scrape of Arslan wiping his blade clean and the faint sound of birds beyond the fence. Ludger rolled his shoulders once more and headed inside, leaving his father standing in the sunlight.

Arslan watched him go, towel hanging loose from one hand. A faint smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Elaine already calls most of the shots at home, he thought. If I lose my edge here too… if even my youngest starts outpacing me…

He exhaled slowly. Pride and a sliver of unease tangled in his chest. That would be trouble. Can’t be the father who’s a story and not a force. Not yet.

For a moment he saw himself from the outside: the man who’d been sharp once, a name whispered in training halls, now a tavern owner’s husband sparring with his son in the back yard. He chuckled under his breath, but it was dry. I fooled around too much. Let routine dull me.

He squeezed the towel, eyes narrowing. Time to train harder.

The dullblade glinted at his side, and he reached for it again, the old drills already forming in his head. If his son was climbing like this at eight, then he’d better keep climbing too—if only to keep a little dignity as “man of the house.”

The next morning dawned cool and bright. Ludger followed Elaine down the street toward the tavern, the smell of bread and spiced meat drifting from open windows as shopkeepers set up for the day. She moved with her usual brisk pace, apron tied tight, hair pinned up. He kept his hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the street, already thinking about his next steps.

When they pushed through the tavern’s door, the familiar murmur of voices washed over them. Word had spread quickly—Ludger was back. Within minutes the line at the back table had formed, townsfolk clutching bruised wrists, wrapped ankles, aching backs.

“Same as before,” he said evenly. “A silver coin per treatment.”

A few people muttered at the price, one or two trying to haggle. “Couldn’t you give a discount, lad? We’re regulars.”

Ludger didn’t argue; he just gestured to the first patient, a man with a splinted forearm. Green light bloomed under his palms.

The splint rattled as the bone knit with a faint crackle. In seconds the man flexed his fingers, eyes wide. No ache. No stiffness. The scarred skin even looked healthier.

One by one, Ludger worked through the line. Bruised ribs, torn ligaments, even a broken ankle—all mended in a single cast. His mana pulsed steady and strong, the glow brighter than before.

By the time the third person walked away testing a once-shattered arm, the murmurs about price had gone silent. People began to exchange coins without complaint, realizing they were already getting far more than they paid for.

Elaine moved behind the bar with a small, proud smile, tallying the coins and keeping the flow of customers smooth. Ludger wiped his hands, rolled his shoulders, and called the next name, his expression as calm as if he’d been doing this for years.

The tavern hummed with low awe—word already spreading that the boy healer had returned stronger than ever.

By late afternoon the line had finally thinned. Ludger stretched his arms, the faint green glow fading from his fingertips, and let out a slow breath. Elaine was already stacking coins into neat little towers behind the bar.

“Good work,” she said quietly, sliding the last few silvers into a pouch. “More than enough to keep things going.”

Ludger glanced at the pile. Quick mental math told him all he needed to know: even after taking out the cost of the mana potions he’d agreed to buy from Aronia—five a day at ten silvers apiece—he’d still have a comfortable surplus.

He flexed his hands. His mana reserves still felt deep, only a third of them spent despite the day’s work. Could probably be even more efficient if I layered my Sage skills for finer control, he thought. But… no. He shook the thought off. No being stingy when it comes to helping people. Not the best option. Not when my reputation will matter more than ever.

He scooped the coins into a pouch and tied it to his belt. Reputation, mana, potions—all the pieces were lining up. Helping people now wasn’t just goodwill; it was laying a foundation.

Elaine caught his expression and gave him a sideways look. “Plotting something?”

Ludger only smiled faintly and started already thinking ahead to his next round of training.

The next day dawned gray and cool, a thin mist clinging to the rooftops of Koa. Most of the town was still shaking off sleep when Ludger stepped outside, rolling his shoulders. Heavy straps crisscrossed his forearms and shins, stone weights buckled tight under his armguards and shin guards. They pulled at his muscles with every movement, a slow, deliberate drag meant to grind strength and stamina into him.

He started at a jog down the empty street, boots slapping against cobblestones. The extra weight made each stride feel like trudging through wet sand, but he kept his breathing steady. Shopkeepers paused mid-sweep to watch him pass; a pair of kids whispered at the sight of the “boy healer” running laps like a soldier.

On his second circuit he shifted from jog to sprint, dust and mist kicking up in his wake. Each time his foot hit the ground he tried to pulse a thread of earth mana through it, reinforcing the stride, testing how his body handled the added drag. Better now than in a fight, he thought, adjusting his rhythm to keep the weights from throwing off his balance.

By the third lap sweat was dripping down his face and his shirt clung to his back, but his eyes stayed sharp. Healing strangers for a coin built reputation; running these streets with weights on his limbs was laying the hidden foundation. Strength, speed, control.

A baker leaning out his window muttered, “That kid’s not normal,” as Ludger blurred past again, the weights clinking faintly with every stride.

By the time Ludger finished his laps the mist had burned off and the morning sun was already warming the cobblestones. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead, the weights dragging at every movement, but he didn’t stop. He unlatched the gate to their yard, stepped inside, and dropped into a fighting stance.

One breath. Two.

Then he started throwing combinations. Slow at first, then sharper—punches that cracked the air, knees driving upward, low kicks that dug furrows in the dirt. The weights on his limbs turned every strike into a grind, each movement demanding more balance and core strength than the last. He forced himself to stay fluid, not sloppy, as though Arslan was in front of him again.

As he moved, his thoughts circled back to the match. The ringing clash, the shock in his arms, the moment his father disappeared and reappeared overhead. What could I have done to win without leaning on tricks? he wondered, jaw tight. More refined Overdrive? Stronger Weapon Enhancing? Faster transitions?

He pivoted, drove a heavy hook into the empty air, then a spinning kick that made the weights clank. His breathing evened out as the rhythm settled in. No. It’s not just more of the same. Father’s “secret” wasn’t brute force. It was a technique, something built and polished until it was his signature.

He straightened slowly, sweat running down his temple, the weights dragging at his arms. Maybe I need one of those. A move that’s mine. Something that can break a fight wide open. The idea lit a small, fierce spark in his chest. Training like this was good, but he needed more than raw numbers—he needed an edge.

He sank back into his stance, fists up, and drove another flurry into the heavy air, mind already sketching possibilities.

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