The sound of wooden swords clashing filled the training hall. It was time for swordsmanship class. Since the first day, when Adrian Heather had unintentionally become the prince’s sparring partner, he had been stuck in the same group as the prince. Every class, Adrian sent pleading glances toward the other students in Garnet, but they all stubbornly ignored the desperate look in the dragon’s eyes.
After each match, Mikhail would lower his gaze to his hands gripping the wooden sword. It felt awkward—not his usual sword, but a training weapon. Damn. Now that he thought about it, should he buy another sword before he could get his hands on Fellen Deeps’ Sword? The prince was staring blankly at the wooden sword in his hand, lost in thought.
“Mikhail.”
It was Taric Idros, the professor in charge of swordsmanship, calling out to the prince. He had noticed Mikhail stopping his movements and looking down at his hands. Something was off about Mikhail today. He wasn’t using the sword he usually treasured and carried everywhere. In fact, he didn’t even have a sword belt around his waist.
“Where’s the sword you always carry around? Why are you suddenly using a practice wooden sword?”
“…I’ll spar with this wooden sword.”
Mikhail swung the wooden sword around a few times. Taric watched him for a moment, and seeing that the prince was keeping up with class even with the training sword, he let it slide.
Since first-years all followed a common curriculum, many students used the training hall’s wooden swords instead of their personal blades. It wasn’t particularly unusual.
The prince nodded slightly toward Adrian as if to say, Let’s practice what we learned today. When Adrian stood there with a sullen expression, the prince took the initiative, raising his wooden sword and getting into sparring stance.
“…This is the last one, right?”
Mikhail said nothing, merely shifting the wooden sword slightly while maintaining his stance.
Adrian, acting as though it was a chore, lightly tapped his sword against Mikhail’s to signal the start of the match.
Thunk—Adrian caught the downward strike from the prince’s wooden sword, bracing against the force from above. His sharp eyes locked directly with Mikhail’s intense gaze. Hmm… Adrian parried the prince’s blade to the side as he stared back into those piercing eyes.
If he kept swinging with this much force, the wooden sword would snap. Unlike the metal blade Mikhail usually favored, this one didn’t have the same durability.
Crack!
The Gold Dragon sluggishly blocked Mikhail’s sideways strike, pretending it was a close call. Mikhail didn’t waste the moment—he spun around to create distance, then darted forward again.
“…You really not interested in real swords?”
“Not at all.”
Mikhail raised his wooden sword with a scowl, clearly irritated. For someone claiming to have no interest, Adrian was the only decent sparring partner among the new students of Garnet. Despite his claim that he only learned swordsmanship for self-defense, his skills were anything but casual. Unlike the rigid, textbook styles refined over years of formal training, Adrian’s approach had a sharp, unconventional edge. Sparring with him was a unique experience.
Mikhail twirled the wooden sword a few times in the air, watching for another opening. Adrian stood calmly on the other side, not even out of breath, silently watching the sword in his hand.
The dull, heavy sound of wooden swords clashing rang out once more in the training hall.
As the duel between the two students intensified, the rest of the Garnet students backed away. They weren’t just using the techniques taught in class today—some required more space. One misstep, and someone could easily get struck by a flying wooden blade.
Thwack! Screee—ch!
Adrian’s blade, slicing sideways, was blocked by Mikhail’s wooden sword. The two weapons trembled under the pressure of testing whose strength would give first. Mikhail’s crimson eyes flickered as he stared directly at Adrian. Adrian, meeting that gaze for a brief moment, relaxed his grip just enough.
In that moment, Mikhail’s sword came crack—! down, aiming for Adrian’s weapon.
Snap.
A third wooden sword shattered clean in two and fell to the floor. Only then did Taric realize something was wrong with the prince.
“Mikhail Luce Inehart.”
The professor called out the prince’s full name again. Mikhail’s body flinched for the first time, betraying the fact that he had been pretending not to hear. Taric wasn’t as fearsome as Headmaster Declaire, but he had helped guide and train the prince since his childhood alongside her. His voice, quiet but firm, rang out again as he questioned the prince.
“Where is the sword that was bestowed upon you?”
“…That sword.”
Mikhail’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. He hesitated to answer someone who had known him since he was young. Rather than blaming everything on the Salamander, the prince decided to keep the explanation simple. A lava lake and a Salamander? Even if he told the truth, there was no guarantee the professor would believe him.
“I lost it.”
“…The sword?”
Taric forgot his role as a professor for a moment and widened his eyes. The sword the prince had treasured and carried with him was a masterpiece bestowed by the royal treasury of Rustavaran. Though its name had faded from memory, it had clearly been crafted by a renowned artisan—an imperial gift from the king himself.
“You lost it?”
At Taric’s words, Mikhail sighed heavily inwardly and replied, “…Yes.” Adrian, who had been sparring with a wooden sword as the prince’s partner, paused mid-swing at the strange tension in the air. Three training swords had already broken during their match. The Gold Dragon glanced down at his current weapon. Maybe I should’ve taken it easier…
Then it came.
“A trainee aspiring to knighthood has lost his own sword—really now.”
The voice was colder than anything Mikhail had ever heard from him. As if acknowledging his mistake, Mikhail lowered his head before the professor and clasped his hands behind his back. For someone of royal blood, his posture was surprisingly practiced in discipline.
“I cannot accept this. What do you think, Mikhail?”
“……”
The prince stayed silent, maintaining his position, offering no excuse. Taric stared down the student in front of him with an expression just as cold, waiting for Mikhail to speak. After a moment of silence, Mikhail finally admitted his fault.
“…I think it’s an inexcusable failure.”
“Good. At least you understand that yourself.”
Taric was quiet for a moment before speaking again.
“Is there something going on?”
Basamiel Academy was particularly sensitive when it came to student relations. Mikhail, being who he was, wouldn’t be treated carelessly by others—but Taric wanted to confirm there wasn’t anything going on behind the scenes.
“Nothing.”
Aside from a lava lake and a salamander, he had nothing to explain. Mikhail’s clear and direct answer earned a small nod from Taric.
“Then I assume you have no objection to any disciplinary action I give you.”
“None.”
Mikhail calmly awaited the professor’s judgment. Though the training could sometimes be grueling to the point of death, it was all part of the path to becoming a knight.
“Put the sword down. For now, run fifty laps around the training ground.”
“Thank you.”
Mikhail sincerely appreciated the lenient punishment and dashed toward the outer edge of the training hall. Adrian, newly liberated from their endless match, inwardly rejoiced and was just about to walk away.
Taric called out to him.
“Adrian Heather.”
“…Yes?”
The swordsmanship professor picked up the wooden sword Mikhail had left behind.
“Take your stance. I’ll be your next sparring partner.”
It was time to evaluate whether the prince’s chosen opponent was actually worth the attention. Taric raised the training sword and assumed a ready stance. Adrian, reluctantly, lifted the wooden sword he’d still been holding and stepped forward to face him.
***
It was a sparring match against a real knight. As a mere first-year at the academy, Adrian had no chance of winning. Even if it was just training, the idea of defeating Taric was laughable. So he fought him with the appropriate level of effort.
Smack!
The wooden sword flew out of Adrian’s hand, spinning through the air and crashing into the far corner.
“You’ve got some skill.”
Taric approached him. After a brief handshake, Adrian rubbed his palm—the one that had been gripping the sword still tingled from the impact.
“…Thank you.”
“It doesn’t seem like something you learned just for self-defense. Where did you train?”
“I didn’t really train anywhere. Just… tried imitating what I saw on the streets.”
“Hmm, is that so?”
Taric tilted his head slightly. The swordsmanship the blond boy had just displayed was far beyond what could be picked up through imitation. In fact, some of the techniques weren’t even taught in the current swordsmanship manuals—they were part of an older style, passed down through more traditional means. The marks of tutelage from someone who had inherited ancient forms were clear. Swords never lied.
Still, Taric chose to suppress his suspicions.
If the student before him were an adult looking to join the knight order, he would’ve pressed further, asking question after question. But this was a boy who had only just entered Basamiel Academy. He had passed the academy’s infamously difficult entrance requirements—there was no reason to doubt him now.
“Very well.”
A student like this would be a tremendous asset in helping Mikhail grow stronger. Being the same age, the two would make for excellent rivals. Taric glanced sideways at the prince, who was still running laps around the training hall.
