A windy winter.
Seven had just finished another lap around the yard, his boots kicking up snow with every step, sending it scattering behind him as his breath spilled out in thick fog.
When he said that he had "something else to do," this was what he meant: lap after lap, forcing his body to run.
"Is this what people mean by pushing their limits? This is stupid. I have never worked this hard in my life."
Including yesterday's attempt at that life-threatening breakthrough, he had never truly exerted himself back on Earth.
Back then, he lived on whims, drifting from one interest to the next, abandoning things the moment they grew dull. Even so, he had always cleared obstacles more easily than those who burned themselves out through effort alone.
Because he was talented.
A genius, at least, as he had always proclaimed.
He had never believed in the saying that hard work beat talent. From his own experience, it simply wasn't true. Talent always won.
But now, things are different.
This was a world of swords and magic, detached from Earth's logic. A world where the novel itself insisted, again and again, that hard work did surpass talent.
Strangely enough… the thought excited him.
Here, he might finally understand what effort truly meant. What it felt like to struggle like everyone else. To fall, to fail, and to claw his way back up instead of gliding forward on gifts alone.
Huff, huff!
Leaning against the bark of a snow-dusted tree, he bent forward, panting hard. He had been running for over an hour now, resting barely a minute between laps.
"I'm so damn tired, I want to die…"
Looking up, a snowflake slipped from the branches above and landed squarely on his face.
He raised a hand to wipe it away, something dark fluttered down and settled on his fingers.
"A black butterfly…?"
His face contorted. Its presence made no sense, butterflies should've been hibernating during winter. Black butterflies, of all things, were said to symbolize death, matching his own death that was now only six days away.
"…This is too on-the-nose to be a coincidence. I think someone's watching me."
He could feel the sensation of being watched, all the time, ever since yesterday. He glanced around, but the butterfly had already flown away as it was disturbed by his motion.
Unconsciously, he found himself following it.
Step, step.
After a few steps, the butterfly slipped into a hollow in a nearby tree, likely seeking warmth from the cold. Letting out a sigh, he turned around to head back to running again.
"Let's just let superstitions be superstitions in their own way."
But…
"Commander Aizen," the boy said casually as he walked beside the old man, "my little sister said someone who looked like the young lord went down to the village yesterday. You've seen him too, right? What do you think? Isn't he unfit to be—"
"Watch your mouth. Knights do not speak ill of the lord they serve," the old man cut in. "Though I agree. He looks rather pitiful for someone bearing the blood of Hart."
"Right? Right?" the boy grinned.
"And didn't I tell you to stop calling me Commander?"
"Right, right," the boy laughed. "Sorry, Grandpa."
Seven froze, hiding behind a tree. The old man was the potato farmer, the name matched what he'd introduced himself.
However, his back was no longer hunched, and he seemed way too healthy than he was yesterday, he would certainly not drop a basket of potatoes now!
'He was acting? That boy should be Sophie's big brother, but Grandpa…? Sophie's grandfather? And a Commander? I knew something was off from the start.'
Without fully deciding to, he began to follow them, careful not to disturb the snow.
'This feels exactly like those idiot protagonists who walk straight into trouble. …Damn it. I'm doing it anyway.'
Judging by their direction, they weren't heading toward the village. They were moving behind the manor, toward the knights' training camp which was a kilometer away.
Step, ste—
Seven suddenly stiffened, posture so straight as though he became one with the tree.
That because, if he moved now, he was certain he would die.
"Grandpa," the boy said suddenly, "why'd you stop with that serious face? Forget something?"
"I thought I heard footsteps," Aizen replied, his eyes squinting toward the tree Seven was hiding behind.
Seven's instincts screamed.
'Run. Run. Run…'
"I doubt it," the boy replied, unconcerned. "I patrolled earlier. No one's around. The young lord's busy running laps, and Iria went to the village with a knight."
Aizen didn't answer as seconds stretched, snow falling, as though the world was holding its breath.
"Alright then, I'll go take a look if you insist," the boy shrugged, holding the hilt of his wooden sword.
"Leave it," Aizen said at last. "I don't sense any Zi fluctuation."
"Told you so," the boy nodded. "Anyone tailing us would need serious skill to fool your senses, Grandpa."
Seven felt a sense of relief wash over him as they both resumed walking.
Step, step.
And he noticed something, the old man's steps left no footprints! He knew about the technique, using a thin layer of Zi to coat his soles, dispersing his weight.
"…That was close. I don't want to admit it, but… I think I got lucky."
He truly had.
He hadn't opened his first Zi Ring yet, meaning there was nothing within him to be detected. Knights, or anyone who had opened their third gate or higher, could sense the presence of other rings or gates within a certain range.
Meaning, there was nothing to sense from him!
And yet, despite every instinct telling him to turn back, his curiosity refused to loosen its grip. Against better judgment, he continued following them.
Because of that choice, he finally found what he was looking for.
"Guard up!" the old man, who had just arrived exclaimed.
Ahead, the knights pressed their boots into packed snow in synchronized steps, leaving shallow imprints that were quickly erased by the next movement.
They lifted their swords, angled it like shields.
Most were middle-aged. Their movements lacked the flashy speed of youth, but each were synchronized and honed by years of repetition.
"Strike!"
The knights swung their blades down, sending snow spraying into the air like shards of glass, each impact echoing across the frozen yard.
"Again."
The order came, and they repeated the sequence without hesitation. Snow scattered beneath their boots as they advanced, retreated, rotated formation.
Seven watched them realizing one thing:
These men weren't absent from the village, they were its backbone, the reason the children could laugh, and the reason the elders could sleep.
Every knight here was someone's father, someone's brother, and someone's child.
"Again."
"As ordered, commander!
The old man entered one of the tents as the knights continued their training. It had been around ten minutes, but he still had not stepped out.
"I'll remember you, old man. I'll put you as one in my suspect's list."
Seven smirked, suspecting Aizen.
Of course, it was only a suspicion, nothing more than the instinct of someone who knew he was marked for death. Still, no matter how he looked at it, the pieces didn't sit right.
If Aizen truly was the commander, then why hide it? Why pretend to be a harmless old farmer in front of the lord he served…?
That alone was reason enough not to trust him.
He also recalled that he was watching him playing with the children too, pretending to peel some potatoes, and also followed them back pretending to drop the potatoes.
He turned around.
"In that case, I guess I need to run five more laps and—"
"Is that you, young lord?" spoke the knight he had bumped when he turned around— the one who accompanied Iria to the village. "May I ask what brings you here at this hour?"
"Ah."
His mind raced to find the most fitting reply.
"I want to be a knight in training."