Percival stood in a large, barely lit open training area. The dim moonlight cast deep shadows all around him. He held a straight wooden sword, his gaze fixed straight ahead—focused on the silhouette standing in the gloom.
Riven stood across from him, holding a light wooden sword with a thin blade. He was ready for battle, gripping his training weapon with both hands.
His stance wasn't ordinary. From the perspective of a typical swordsman, the way he held his weapon gave him no clear advantage. But Riven was no ordinary swordsman.
He had inherited his battle style from his father, who developed it while serving as a knight on the frontlines. His father believed that killing opponents as quickly and efficiently as possible—while using the least amount of energy—was the key to survival.
When Riven was old enough to wield a sword, he was given a choice: train with the other aspiring knights, or undergo special training with his father.
From a young age, Riven had always watched his father train. Time and time again, he was mesmerized by the flow of his blade, the lethal elegance of his movements. It was one of the first things that had inspired him to become a knight.
So, when the time came, he chose his father's tutelage without hesitation.
Now, standing in the moonlit yard, Riven's grip on his sword tightened. His gaze sharpened. He was ready to fight—to learn from his opponent, and to further perfect his style.
Percival studied Riven's stance. It was odd—full of openings, with only a few predictable angles of attack. He had never seen Riven, or any of his new comrades, fight before. But since they'd been placed in the same unit, they had to be strong.
Still, the more he analyzed the stance, the more infuriated he became.
"How could someone like that be chosen to fight beside me?" he thought.Did the knights do this to punish him? Did they underestimate him? Was their captain a moron?
There were too many questions—and only one way to get answers.
He leaned forward and launched himself at Riven.
The moment Riven saw his opponent move, he let out a deep breath. As Percival's sword neared, Riven stepped aside with elegance. He raised his sword to block, but at the last moment loosened his grip slightly and angled the blade.
Percival's heavy strike slid off the thin weapon, redirected to where Riven had been just a second before.
Riven reacted instantly, using the momentum from his sidestep to bring his sword toward Percival's neck in a fluid, almost unnatural movement.
Percival barely had time to react. Twisting his entire body, he shifted his center of mass to avoid falling. Riven's strike missed by a hair.
But Riven didn't stop there. He turned the thrust into a slash, his swift blade cutting down toward Percival's side.
There was no time to dodge.
Percival raised his free hand, pushing the strike aside. As he twisted his body to regain his footing, a jolt of numbness shot through his arm. Still—he had survived the exchange.
But Riven was already on him again. His blade moved almost too fast to track, delivering a series of thrusts and slashes.
Percival blocked and dodged what he could, then used his leg to try and kick Riven. It connected, forcing Riven back just enough for Percival to swing again. His heavy sword came down toward Riven's head.
Riven reacted quickly, pointing the tip of his blade upward and placing it just beneath the falling strike. He raised his sword, redirecting the attack in an arc. As the heavy weapon passed above his head, Riven transitioned the motion into a counterattack.
Now it was his blade slashing toward Percival.
Startled, Percival backstepped just in time, the strike barely missing him. He pulled his sword back and thrust toward Riven's abdomen.
If Riven moved to dodge, the inertia of his own swing would throw him off balance—if he were a regular swordsman.
But he wasn't.
Instead of dodging, Riven jumped—light and agile. He landed on the flat side of Percival's blade, the added weight forcing it down and out of Percival's grip.
It seemed the duel was decided.
Riven took a step forward to close the distance, his sword rising once more for a finishing strike. He aimed for Percival's head, expecting this would end it.
But something slammed into his side.
He lost his balance and fell to the ground. Dazed, he tried to rise, only managing to get on one knee. His sword had slipped from his hand.
A hand extended toward him.
It was Percival. He was smiling.
"How did you know that last strike would get me?" Riven asked, taking his hand.
"I didn't."
The words lingered in the cold night air, and then both of them burst into laughter.
When the laughter died down, Percival spoke again.
"To be honest, I was really furious when I saw your stance. I thought, 'Is this guy serious? How can someone this weak be in the same unit as me?'But now I see. I'm glad you're in this unit—and I'm glad I can entrust my back to someone as strong as you."
He patted Riven on the back and started walking toward their room.
Riven stood there, frozen for a moment, then caught up.
"You know, I'm glad as well. When I heard you were a prince, I thought you were going to be some stuck-up brat. It's nice to know you're not. And I understand why you hid your name from us before."
Percival laughed. "Oh, that? I just wanted to mess with you."
Riven's cheeks flushed red with embarrassment—thankfully, the deep shadows of the night hid his expression.
"Hey! Where were you?"They heard Nicolaus shouting from the dorm window.
"We were sparring," both of them answered in unison.
They looked at each other and laughed again.
"Hey, no fair! I wanted to spar with you too," Nicolaus complained, his lips curling into a pout.
The morning sun shone through the open window as Riven opened his eyes. It was a new day—the day of his first mission.
It hadn't even been three days, and already, he'd be seeing his family again. He hadn't even written them a letter.
He got out of bed and noticed Percival was already gone, while Nicolaus and Roger were still asleep. After dressing, he roused them and headed out to meet Percival and Captain Gareth.
"I hope you all rested well. We'll be departing soon," Gareth said, meeting them in the corridor."Last night, we received a message: we'll be accompanied by another unit—Unit 48, led by Sir Ewain. Apparently, they left last night for a different mission in the same general area."
He turned to leave."Meet me in the stables. We'll depart as soon as possible."
As the captain walked away, Riven turned to the Thorm brothers."You guys know anything about Unit 48?"
Roger nodded grimly."They're monsters. It's like they were born to kill. I saw one of them behead a robber who tried to steal from an old lady. They only follow the law. They're like obedient dogs. It makes me shiver just thinking about them."
Nicolaus added,"I don't even think they have lives outside knighthood. I heard they were raised by a group of knights and will probably be the first ones promoted to actual knighthood."
Riven nodded slowly, just as Percival walked over.
"What are you all whispering about?" he asked, almost mockingly.
"Unit 48," Roger said. "Do you know anything about them?"
Percival nodded."Their captain, Sir Ewain, is one of the most fearsome knights among the captains. Every knight I've met says the same thing about him: 'danger.'He doesn't care about anything but completing his missions and following orders. It's like he's got a stick up his ass."
He glanced around to make sure Gareth wasn't nearby.
"Anyway, try not to get too involved with them. Best we focus on our own mission."
The others nodded.
"We should get going," Percival added. "Before the captain starts looking for us."
Soon, all of them were seated on their prepared horses—and they rode west, leaving the castle behind.