Chapter 5: Sir krow

The training yard was quiet, save for the rhythmic thud of wooden swords colliding. A month without training had been a torture, but we started training back with a condition of no mana usage at all so i was suppressing all the mana in my body not to react it was like trying to run with chains around my ankles. But now, even without enhancements, my body moved with a precision that left Gerro panting.

"Again," he barked, wiping sweat from his brow.

I lunged, my movements sharp and economical. Gerro parried, but I feinted left, then struck his ribs with a dull thwack. He staggered back, his chest heaving.

"Enough," he said, his voice heavy with something I couldn't place—pride, frustration, maybe both.

I lowered my sword, my own breath steady despite the exertion. "You're holding back."

He sheathed his blade, his eyes avoiding mine. "I've got nothing left to teach you, Alex. Not without…" He trailed off, glancing at the scarred training dummies. Not without mana.

That evening, we sat by the hearth, the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. Metha was absent, her loom silent in the corner. She'd been spending more time in the village square lately, her laughter strained whenever nobles' carriages passed by our village.

Gerro poked the embers, his face grim. "Sir Krow agreed to train you. But he's got conditions."

That was shock for me, i was so excited

"Conditions?" I asked,can't keep my excitement.

"Impress him. Prove you're worth the risk."

"What risk?"

Gerro's jaw tightened. "Your eyes, Alex. They're not just gold. They're noble."

The word hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.

I stared at him, my pulse pounding in my ears. Noble?, as I thought about it, the weight of something unspoken settled in my chest. The way the villagers looked at me—some with pity, some with barely masked envy. The hushed whispers, the averted gazes. Was this why? The glances when i went to the market and what Jol told me "Your eyes don't belong here"

The truth came in fragments, like shards of broken glass:

When I asked my father to clarify, he explained it to me.

Golden Eyes: A mark of noble blood, glowing brighter with magic use.

Red Hair: The Zodek dynasty's signature, a beacon of power—and a death sentence if paired with commoner clothes.

Genetics: In this world, nobles bred true. A child without golden eyes was exiled, erased.because the golden eyes were the same eyes the founder magician "Palestone" had so it was like an undeniable mark of your nobility.

I swallowed hard. "But I'm not noble."

Gerro's laugh was bitter. "Tell that to your mother's old mistress. Lady Varosa doesn't forget a face—or a bastard."

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. My fists clenched against my knees. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"To protect you." His voice was quiet, but firm. "We thought… we thought if we kept you hidden, no one would notice."

I let out a harsh laugh. "Hiding me? In a village where everyone already knew? That's why they always looked at me like that, isn't it? They knew."

Gerro exhaled sharply. "Some knew, yes. Others suspected. But none dared say it aloud. Not when a single word could bring soldiers to our doorstep."

The next morning, I found Metha in the garden, her hands buried in soil. She stiffened as I approached, dirt crumbling from her fingers like shattered dreams.

"Did you know?" I asked.

Her eyes—blue as summer skies, commoner's eyes—filled with tears. "I thought… I thought we could hide you. Keep you safe."

"Safe?" The word tasted like ash. "I'm a time bomb, Mom. One wrong glance in the market, one slip of a tongue—"

She grabbed my wrists, her grip fierce. "Then don't slip. Don't glance. Please."

Her desperation hit me harder than any training strike ever had. My mother—strong, unyielding—was pleading. Pleading for my life.

I was never safe to begin with.

Sir Krow arrived at dusk, his armor scarred from battles I couldn't imagine. He towered in the doorway, his gaze piercing as a hawk's.

"So," he rumbled, "you're the boy who is smart like a noble but lives like a commoner."

I met his stare, mana humming in my veins. "I don't know about the nobel part but I'm certainly a commoner."

His lips twitched—almost a smile. "We'll see."

Mok and Jol were there watching their faces were picture of curiosity and unease. And some random children perched on fences drawn by the spectacle of a knight clashing with a boy. Metha stood apart, her knuckles white around the garden gate, her breaths shallow. Gerro lingered nearby, his arms crossed, his jaw set like stone.

Sir Krow stood motionless at the center, his practice sword resting lightly in his grip. His armor, though dulled by years of service, still bore the ghost of nobility—a stark contrast to my patched tunic and worn boots.

"I won't use mana," he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "Just skill. If you impress me, I'll consider training you."

I nodded, adjusting my grip on the wooden blade. It felt alien, its weight uneven, its edges splintered.

Gerro raised a hand. "Begin."

First Blood

Krow moved like a landslide—slow at first, then unstoppable. A shift of his shoulder, a pivot of his hip, and the world dissolved into pain. His sword slammed into my ribs, the impact reverberating through bone. I hit the dirt, gasping, the taste of iron sharp on my tongue.

Metha's cry pierced the air. "Alex!"

"Stay back," Gerro snapped, though his voice wavered.

I rolled to my feet, ribs screaming. Krow waited, his gaze impassive.

"Again."

Anatomy of Defeat

He was a storm. Every parry rattled my arms; every dodge left me breathless. My strikes, honed by years of sparring with Gerro, were swatted aside like gnats. Krow's rhythm was merciless—a cadence of controlled violence.

Think. Adapt. actualize

In my past life, I'd mapped arteries, traced nerves, learned how bodies broke. 

With increasing the mana to my brain and eyes enhancing blood supply.

Now, I studied Krow's movements: the faint hitch in his breath after a lunge, the way his left knee locked before a thrust.

Third strike—weight shifts forward.

He lunged. I sidestepped, angling my blade toward his inner thigh—where the femoral nerve lay hidden.

His eyes flared, a flicker of surprise.

I struck like a surgeon—precise, clinical. Elbows, knees, collarbones. All points that can stiff the movement if connected. Basically, his Weak points. Krow's blocks tightened, his footwork defensive. For a heartbeat, the tide shifted.

Then I saw an opportunity to hit a vital point. What I realised after going for the hit…. it was a feint. If I continued with my attack I would risk breaking my ribs…. but he said to impress him right.

My sword was one inch away from connecting to his chest but well…i miscalculate

A pivot, a twist, and his sword cracked against my sternum. I stumbled, vision blurring. A follow-up strike buckled my leg, dropping me to the dirt.

Drip drip

Blood coming out from my mouth and nose was the only sound to be heard.

Metha's sobs tangled with the rustle of autumn leaves.

Sir Krow loomed above me, his blade tip grazing my chin. "Who taught you to fight like that?"

"My father." I said spitting blood in the process.

He chuckled "i know Gerro he has been my retainer for the last 8 years and what you just did little brat is nothing as such"

 my voice was raw. "I just… know where it hurts."

He crouched, his armor creaking. "You fight like a man who's seen death."

Memories surged—operating tables, blood-slick hands, the stench of antiseptic and decay. "I have," I said quietly with a whisper so only he can hear.

Sir Krow stood, sheathing his sword. "You lost. Badly."

"I know."

"But you don't fight like a commoner." His gaze drifted to my eyes, golden even in the fading light. "You fight like someone who has nothing to lose."

He turned, his cloak snapping in the wind. "Dawn tomorrow. Don't be late."

"Why?" The word escaped before I could stop it.

He paused, half-shadowed by the setting sun. "Monsters aren't born—they're forged. And I'd rather forge you before the nobles do."

Metha rushed forward, her hands trembling as she brushed dirt from my face. "You're bleeding—gods, why did you—"

"I'm fine," I lied, leaning into her touch. My sternum is broken and the pain was unbearable.

Damn this old man couldn't he go easy on a 9 years old kid.

I already started to fix my sternum with my mana enhancing my body to produce osteocytes, etc and endorphins to reduce the pain.

Gerro approached, his pride and fear warring in the tightness of his smile. "You looked like hell out there."

"Felt like it too."

He gripped my shoulder, his voice low. "Krow's right. You've got a fire in you. Just… don't let it burn you."