For Our Cherished One

The morning air buzzed with excitement as recruits gathered around the training grounds, their chatter a mix of nervous energy and anticipation.

Today marked the first day of the recruit-versus-recruit matches, a test that would set apart the truly capable from the merely lucky.

Fulgur was among the first to step into the ring, his opponent a boy of similar age named Roland.

The two were surprisingly evenly matched in terms of skill.

The arena buzzed with excitement, the crowd leaning forward in their seats as the clash of swords echoed across the grounds. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the platform, but all eyes were fixed on the two figures locked in combat.

Fulgur and Roland moved like a deadly dance, their blades meeting with sharp, ringing precision. Each parry, each counter, each calculated strike showcased their skill, honed through years of rigorous training. Yet as the match wore on, a stark difference began to emerge—a gap that no amount of technique could bridge.

Roland fought with admirable finesse, his movements fluid and textbook-perfect. But there was something mechanical in his rhythm, something cautious, as though he feared making a mistake. His strikes lacked weight, conviction.

Fulgur, on the other hand, fought like a storm. His strikes were swift and sharp, his movements a blend of instinct and raw intensity. There was a fire in his eyes, a silent declaration that he would not lose, no matter what.

As their blades collided again, Roland was forced to take a step back. Fulgur didn't miss a beat, pressing forward with relentless aggression. His swordsmanship wasn't just about power—it was about resolve.

Fulgur's blade cut through the air with precision, targeting every opening he could find. When Roland faltered for even a fraction of a second, Fulgur seized the moment, landing a strike against Roland's shoulder. It wasn't deep enough to draw blood, but the impact sent Roland stumbling.

The crowd winced collectively, the sound of the blow reverberating through the arena.

Roland gritted his teeth, regaining his footing, but his breaths were coming faster now, his movements less composed. Sweat trickled down his brow, his grip on his sword tightening out of desperation.

Fulgur didn't relent. His techniques were calculated to disrupt Roland's balance, pushing him further and further into a corner. A sweeping slash aimed low forced Roland to leap back, nearly losing his footing.

"Come on, Roland!" someone shouted from the sidelines, but the voice was drowned out by the growing murmur of the crowd.

There was no holding back, no hesitation in Fulgur's movements. He struck with the ferocity of someone who had everything to lose and everything to gain. It wasn't just strength or skill that drove him—it was a force deeper than that.

Resolve.

Every strike, every feint, every advance carried the weight of it. It wasn't just a fight for Fulgur; it was a statement. A testament to his unyielding will.

Seeing him fight like this.

I doubled back on my previous thoughts regarding him, maybe he wasn't such a dummy.

Fulgur didn't even flinch when Roland's blade grazed his arm, drawing blood. Nor did he hesitate when an opportunity presented itself to end the match decisively.

With a swift and calculated maneuver, he disarmed Roland, sending the boy's sword clattering to the ground.

The crowd erupted into cheers as Fulgur was declared the winner.

He stood tall, his expression a mix of pride and satisfaction, but also a shadow of something darker— acceptance.

It was one of the harsh realities of becoming a knight: the determination to hurt and be hurt.

By the end of the day, Fulgur's match was the highlight of the morning, but it was Wilhelm's bout that drew attention in the afternoon— though for different reasons.

Wilhelm's opponent was an older recruit, taller and visibly more experienced.

Despite the initial tension, it became clear as the match progressed that Wilhelm's opponent was slightly weaker— his strikes lacked power, and his movements were just a bit slower.

Wilhelm capitalized on this, his balanced strength and sharp instincts keeping him ahead. He moved with grace and precision, his strikes measured and deliberate.

But there was a hesitation in him, a reluctance to push too hard or deal a decisive blow.

The match dragged on, and Wilhelm's endurance became his greatest asset.

He outlasted his opponent, who eventually faltered under the strain. With a final clash of swords, the older recruit's strength gave out, and he surrendered.

The crowd applauded, but Wilhelm's expression was far from victorious.

His shoulders slumped as he left the ring, his steps heavy with something that felt less like triumph and more like guilt.

Later, I found him crouched behind the castle, his posture rigid, as though he were trying to hold something in.

His hands were clenched so tight, his knuckles stark white against the dim light.

His gaze was fixed on the ground, but there was a storm in the way his body trembled— an effort to keep it at bay.

I hesitated, unsure of how to approach.

Comforting people had never been my strength. I wasn't good at saying the right things, especially when I wasn't sure what to say.

Instead, I asked the first question that came to mind, my voice quieter than I intended.

"Why did you want to become a knight?"

Wilhelm's head snapped up so fast I almost stepped back.

His gaze met mine for a split second before his jaw tightened, and that familiar smug look— the one he wore like armor— tried to settle in place.

But it cracked almost immediately, slipping away like a mask falling off.

The vulnerability beneath it hit me harder than I expected.

His voice, when it came, was soft and raw, like a wound not yet healed. "My mother," he said, the words barely above a whisper.

His fists unclenched, but his hands still shook at his sides. "She's sick. Not weak, though. She's stronger than anyone I know. But she needs a healer. A better one than we can afford."

As soon as I heard it I couldn't help but curse inside.

Fucking... this kind of story will hit me hard since I can relate to it!

He inhaled sharply, his chest rising with the effort, as if the weight of the admission had pressed down on him.

His shoulders trembled, betraying his struggle to keep himself composed. "Becoming a knight… that's my chance. To earn enough. To give her the care she deserves."

There was a brief silence, thick with the gravity of his words, before he wiped his face with one hand, almost angrily, like he was trying to scrub away the rawness.

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped him, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"She's the one who taught me to act smug. Said it's better to look confident, even if you're scared out of your mind."

I swallowed, not knowing what to say to that.

The weight of it all, the silent resolve clinging to him, was almost too much to bear.

"She sounds like a good woman," I said quietly, my voice almost a whisper in the still air.

"She is," he replied, his voice steadier now, but there was a certain hardness to it, like the steel of his determination had forged itself into his very words. "And I'm not giving up on her."

For a long moment, we sat in silence, the distant sounds of the matches echoing in the background like a world that didn't care about what was happening here, between us.

I could feel the tension in the air, the storm still brewing inside him, but he didn't break. He didn't cry. He didn't need to. Wilhelm's resolve was enough, even if it didn't come with the comfort I might have expected.

And for now, that was all that mattered.