I woke before dawn with ice settling in my stomach.
Today was the final test.
No amount of preparation could change what I was about to face. One month of brutal training, thousands of repetitions, techniques drilled until my body moved without conscious thought. All of it led to this single moment.
Landing a strike on Jack.
The impossibility of it sat on my chest like a stone. Jack was Master rank at minimum, possibly higher. Decades of combat experience. A warrior who'd trained hundreds of students and seen every desperate attempt they'd ever made to touch him during their final evaluations.
I had to land one blow. Anywhere. Once.
I dressed slowly, pulling on clean training clothes that felt too formal for what was essentially a beating I was about to receive. My hands were steady despite the anxiety churning through my gut. The calluses from three days of Iron Body conditioning were thick and rough, evidence of adaptation that felt insufficient for what lay ahead.
The Einsworth Family Saber hung at my hip out of habit, though I knew I wouldn't be permitted to use it. The weight was familiar, comforting in its own way.
When I finally made my way to the training courtyard, the sun had just begun painting the horizon in shades of amber and gold.
The courtyard had been transformed overnight.
What was normally empty space reserved for private training now held perhaps forty people arranged in a loose semicircle around the center. Knights of the Einsworth household stood at attention in full formal armor, their expressions ranging from polite interest to barely concealed skepticism. Senior instructors who'd spent years training the family's warriors clustered in small groups, speaking in low voices that stopped when I appeared. Servants had found excuses to be present, pressing themselves against the courtyard's edges where they thought they'd be less noticeable.
And standing alone on a raised stone platform overlooking everything, arms crossed and face carved from granite, was Duke Eamon himself.
The head of the Einsworth family. One of Aldoria's four pillars. A Grandmaster whose power I couldn't even begin to comprehend.
He'd come to watch his disappointment of a son attempt something that would likely end in failure.
They'd all come to watch.
The weight of their combined attention pressed down on me like physical force. Every eye tracked my movement as I walked toward the courtyard's center where Jack waited. I could feel their judgment, their expectations, their certainty about how this would end.
The good for nothing eldest son, given one month to prove he'd learned something. The boy who'd spent years destroying himself, now attempting to salvage his reputation through this performance.
They expected failure. I could see it in how they stood, in the small knowing smiles, in the way some had already begun speaking to their neighbors as though the outcome was foregone.
Only Jack's expression remained unreadable as I stopped ten feet from him. He stood relaxed in the courtyard's exact center, hands at his sides, posture suggesting openness that I knew was deceptive.
"Young Master Kaine," he said, voice carrying easily to every observer. "You stand here to complete your final test. The conditions are as follows."
He paused, ensuring everyone was listening.
"Unarmed combat only. No weapons. No external techniques or abilities. Just your body against mine. I will defend and evade but will not attack. Your objective is to land a single strike on my body. Any strike, any location, counts as success."
His expression shifted slightly, something that might have been encouragement flickering across his face.
"Before we begin, understand this clearly. I will be using approximately forty percent of my capabilities. No more, but no less. This is a genuine test of what you've learned and whether you can apply it under real pressure. I expect you to give everything you have. Are the conditions understood?"
"Understood," I replied, surprised my voice came out steady.
Forty percent. The number should have been reassuring. But forty percent of what? A Master's capabilities? Something even beyond that? The gap between ranks wasn't linear. Each tier represented a fundamental transformation in what was possible.
A Master at forty percent was still so far beyond a Novice that comparing them felt meaningless.
"Then assume your ready stance."
I settled into the Iron Body Method's opening position. Feet shoulder width apart, weight distributed evenly, arms loose and ready. The stance I'd held thousands of times over three days until my legs had learned to maintain it automatically.
Jack remained perfectly still, watching with the attention of someone who missed nothing.
Then something changed.
The shift was subtle at first. A gradual thickening of the air around Jack's body. The temperature dropped several degrees despite the rising sun. Sweat formed on my skin that had nothing to do with exertion or heat.
Then the pressure truly began.
Killing intent flooded the courtyard in a wave that made my knees weak and my vision narrow. This wasn't focused aggression like when Duke Eamon had questioned me about Abel. This was broader, more oppressive, a blanket of pure hostile will that pressed down on everything within range.
My hands began to shake. My breathing became shallow, rapid, chest tightening against the sensation of being trapped in an avalanche. Every survival instinct screamed at me to run, to flee from the apex predator that had just revealed itself.
And this was forty percent. This was Jack holding back more than half his capability.
The difference between my rank and whatever Jack had achieved wasn't like comparing a hill to a mountain. It was like comparing a candle's flame to the sun itself. The gap was so vast that bridging it through conventional means felt like trying to touch the sky by jumping.
Around the courtyard, several younger knights took involuntary steps backward. Even senior instructors looked uncomfortable, their faces tight with strain. Only Duke Eamon remained completely unaffected, watching with golden eyes that revealed nothing.
I forced myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Steady. Controlled. Let the killing intent wash over me rather than trying to resist it directly like trying to stop a river with my hands.
This was part of the test. Jack was showing me what real combat felt like, where an opponent's presence alone became a weapon as dangerous as their fists.
I took one shaking step forward. Then another. Each movement felt like wading through water that grew thicker with distance.
Jack's eyes tracked me but his body remained still, making no move to adjust or retreat.
I closed the distance to five feet. Close enough to attempt a strike if I committed fully.
Then I moved.
Drove forward with a palm strike aimed at Jack's chest, using the technique I'd drilled a thousand times. Weight transferring from legs through core, explosive acceleration that should have connected in a heartbeat.
Jack wasn't there.
His body shifted laterally with minimal movement, just enough to let my strike pass through empty air where his chest had been a moment before. The evasion was so economical, so precisely calculated, that it looked like he'd barely moved at all.
I transitioned immediately into a ridge hand targeting his exposed neck, following the combination patterns drilled into my muscle memory.
Jack swayed backward, his head moving exactly six inches to place himself outside my range. My strike passed close enough that I felt the fabric of his collar brush my fingertips.
So close.
I dropped low and drove a knee toward his midsection, committing fully to the sequence.
Jack's hand came up in a casual deflection that redirected my knee away from its target with such minimal effort that he appeared to barely touch me. But the redirection sent me spinning off balance, my own momentum working against me.
I caught myself before falling and reset, breathing hard from the explosive sequence despite having thrown only three strikes.
Jack stood in the exact same position he'd started in. His expression unchanged. His breathing perfectly normal. Not a single bead of sweat on his forehead.
Around the courtyard, I heard murmurs from watching knights. Quiet conversations whose tones suggested growing certainty about how this would end.
I attacked again. Different combination this time. Front kick to force him backward, following with a roundhouse aimed at his ribs when he evaded.
Jack stepped into the kick rather than away, positioning himself at the exact distance where my foot had no power. Then he pivoted around my roundhouse with movement so smooth it looked choreographed.
I tried a rear elbow, spinning to catch him from an unexpected angle.
He ducked beneath it with inches to spare, body bending at the waist in a way that made the evasion look effortless.
Front elbow. Side kick. Palm strike. Ridge hand.
Every technique I threw at him missed by margins ranging from inches to fractions of inches. And through it all, Jack never moved more than absolutely necessary. No wasted motion, no excessive evasion, just precise positioning that kept him perpetually outside my effective range.
The pressure of his killing intent never decreased. If anything, it intensified as the exchange continued, testing whether I could maintain focus while drowning in that oppressive aura.
Minutes passed that felt like hours. My body began to tire from the constant explosive movements, the endless sequences of strikes that connected with nothing but air.
I tried varying my timing. Attacking from different angles. Feinting to draw reactions. Nothing worked. Jack's experience let him read every setup, anticipate every technique, position himself perfectly with minimal effort.
The watching crowd's murmurs grew louder. I caught fragments between attempts.
"Just like before. All show, no substance."
"One month can't fix years of wasted potential."
"The captain is barely trying and the boy can't touch him."
"Should have saved everyone the time and just sent him away."
Their words cut deeper than any physical blow Jack could have landed. But I pushed the voices aside and continued attacking, refusing to give up despite the growing certainty that this was impossible.
My breathing became ragged. Sweat poured down my face and soaked through my training clothes. My muscles burned from repeated explosive movements, from maintaining readiness while Jack's killing intent tried to crush my will.
Still I attacked. Again and again and again.
Then something shifted in my awareness.
I'd been so focused on trying to hit Jack, on executing techniques properly and creating openings, that I'd missed something fundamental. I was treating this like a technique problem when it was actually a perception problem.
Jack's evasions weren't random. They couldn't be. No one could maintain perfect defensive positioning through pure reaction, not even a Master. There had to be patterns, tendencies, preferences ingrained through decades of movement.
I stopped attacking and simply watched him for a moment, standing just outside his range while I caught my breath.
Jack's expression didn't change, but I saw his eyes narrow slightly. Curiosity about what I was doing.
I attacked from his right with a palm strike I knew would miss, watching how he evaded rather than trying to connect.
He moved left, shifting across his body with that same economical motion.
I reset and attacked from his left with a ridge hand, again watching rather than truly committing.
He moved right, the mirror of his previous evasion.
The pattern wasn't absolute. But it was there. A subtle bias in his defensive preferences that I'd been too focused on attacking to notice.
Information I could use.
I attacked from the right with a palm strike, watching him begin his leftward evasion. But this time I'd anticipated it.
Mid-strike, I activated Devastating Charge.
The skill flooded through my body with a sensation like lightning racing through my veins. Not enhancement exactly, not the sustained reinforcement I'd been forbidden from using. This was different. A discrete ability, a single burst of power that existed independently.
My movement speed increased dramatically, legs carrying me forward faster than they'd moved all morning. Fast enough that Jack's expression changed for the first time, eyes widening fractionally as he recognized I'd done something unexpected.
I pivoted mid-motion, abandoning the palm strike and transitioning into a roundhouse kick aimed at where Jack would be after his evasion rather than where he was now.
He tried to adjust, to redirect his movement and avoid the space I was targeting.
But the Devastating Charge had increased my speed enough that my kick was already arriving, sweeping through an arc that caught his repositioning body.
Contact.
My foot connected with Jack's ribs, right side, just below the armpit. The impact wasn't solid, more a glancing blow than a clean strike, but it was undeniably contact. Flesh meeting flesh. My technique touching his body.
Success.
The realization hit the same moment as complete exhaustion. The Devastating Charge had drained what little reserves I'd had remaining after minutes of constant explosive movement. Combined with the strain of fighting through Jack's killing intent, the sudden depletion created a wave of fatigue so intense it felt like someone had cut every string holding me upright.
My vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in from all sides. My legs buckled, unable to support my weight anymore.
The world tilted sideways as consciousness fled.
The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me completely was Jack's face, frozen in an expression mixing surprise with something that might have been pride, one hand moving to touch the ribs where my kick had landed.
Then nothing.
***
Awareness returned slowly, filtering back in fragments that took time to assemble into coherent understanding.
I was lying on something soft. A bed, not hard courtyard stone. Medical supplies scented the air with their sharp, clean smell.
Voices reached me through the fog, muffled but growing clearer.
"The young master will recover fully. Severe exhaustion, nothing more serious. His body is adapting to strain with remarkable speed."
The estate physician, voice carrying professional assessment rather than concern.
"How long until he wakes?"
Duke Eamon's voice, unmistakable in its controlled flatness.
"Within the hour, my lord. Mobile by evening, fully recovered by tomorrow morning."
Footsteps. The physician leaving. The door closing with a soft click.
Silence stretched long enough that I thought Duke Eamon had left as well.
But when I finally managed to open my eyes, squinting against afternoon light suggesting hours had passed, I found him standing beside the window, staring out at the estate grounds. His posture was perfectly controlled as always, revealing nothing.
"You're awake."
Not a question. He'd known the moment my consciousness returned despite not looking in my direction.
"Yes, Father." My voice came out rough, throat dry.
Duke Eamon turned from the window and studied me with golden eyes that saw everything.
"You succeeded. Against all reasonable expectations, you landed a strike on Jack during your final test. Do you understand the significance?"
I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it as the room spun. The Duke made no move to help, simply waited for me to stabilize.
"Jack is a Master rank warrior who has served this family for twenty years. He has trained hundreds of students, many of whom now serve as captains and officers throughout the kingdom. In all that time, across all those students, only three have ever managed to land a blow on him during their final evaluation."
He paused, letting that settle.
"Your brother Abel was one of those three. It took him three months of training to reach that level. You accomplished it in one month."
Duke Eamon walked closer, stopping at the foot of the medical bed.
"More importantly, you did it through observation and adaptation rather than raw power. You identified patterns in his defensive movement and exploited them. That demonstrates combat intelligence that cannot be taught through any amount of drilling."
His expression remained neutral, but something in his voice shifted almost imperceptibly.
"When you entered the Saber Garden a month ago, I expected to bury another son. When you returned, I thought perhaps fate had made a strange choice. When Jack reported your learning speed, I began to wonder."
He leaned forward slightly, presence becoming more intense without increasing pressure.
"Now I know with certainty. You are not the same person who left this estate a month ago. The Kaine who entered that forest would have failed this test in thirty seconds. The Kaine before me now is someone else entirely."
Duke Eamon straightened, expression returning to its usual stone.
"You depart for the Continental Academy in three days. Use that time to rest and prepare. You've earned the right to represent the Einsworth name. Don't waste this opportunity."
He turned toward the door, footsteps carrying their characteristic weight.
"Father," I called before he could leave. "Thank you. For giving me this chance."
Duke Eamon paused at the doorway but didn't turn back.
"I gave you nothing. Everything you achieved, you earned yourself."
Then he was gone, the door closing with finality.
I lay back and stared at the ceiling, processing what had just happened. Success. Against impossible odds. Earned acknowledgment from Duke Eamon himself.
The door opened again and Jack entered, moving with his usual confident stride. But his expression had changed. The professional mask had cracked, revealing genuine emotion beneath.
Pride. Unmistakable pride that softened his entire face.
"Young Master Kaine." He stopped beside the bed, and I noticed him absently rubbing his right ribs where my kick had connected. "That was exceptional work."
"I barely touched you," I said, words coming out deflated. "It was a glancing blow at best."
"You touched me at all," Jack replied, tone carrying weight that suggested I was missing something important. "Understand what that means. I told you I would use forty percent of my capabilities. What I didn't mention is that my defensive ability at forty percent is still sufficient to evade attacks from most Expert rank warriors. I've had Apprentice rank students attack me for hours without landing a single blow."
He sat in the chair beside the bed, casual gesture I'd never seen from him before.
"And you, a Novice rank warrior with one month of formal training, managed not just to land a strike but to hurt me doing it. That kick connected with enough force that I'm going to have a bruise for days. Do you comprehend how absurd that is?"
I didn't know what to say, so I remained silent.
Jack's expression became more serious, pride mixing with something that might have been concern.
"I need you to understand something crucial. What you accomplished today was remarkable, but it was also revealing. That final burst of speed, the sudden acceleration that let you close distance I thought was safe? That wasn't normal. The impact force of your kick? Also not normal for a Novice rank warrior."
He leaned forward, voice dropping.
"You have capabilities that extend beyond what your rank suggests. I don't know their source, and I'm not asking you to explain. But it means you're dangerous in ways opponents won't anticipate. Use that advantage carefully at the academy. Let them underestimate you based on your rank and reputation. Then surprise them when it matters."
Jack stood and moved toward the door, pausing to look back with a smile of pure satisfaction.
"The staff are calling you the Einsworth Monster. Did you know? They watched you go from barely functional to striking a Master rank warrior in thirty days, and they don't know how to classify what they witnessed. Some are afraid. Others are excited. But all of them know they saw something exceptional."
He opened the door, then delivered his final observation.
"Your brother Abel was talented, Young Master. Blessed by fate with gifts most people only dream of. But you? You're something different. Something that might end up being far more dangerous than any hero candidate. The Continental Academy has no idea what's coming."
Then Jack left, and I was alone with my thoughts.
The Einsworth Monster.
The title should have bothered me. But lying there, feeling my body already beginning to recover, I found myself smiling.
Let them call me whatever they wanted. Monster, disappointment, surprise, genius.
I knew what I was. Someone given a second chance who refused to waste it. Someone who'd survived things that should have killed him and grown stronger through the experience. Someone who'd earned their place through blood and endless repetition rather than natural talent.
Three days until the Continental Academy. Three days to prepare for challenges I couldn't fully imagine.
They expected failure based on reputation. Expected the disappointing eldest son to embarrass himself and confirm what everyone believed.
Let them expect that.
I'd show them what a monster could do when given the opportunity.
The Einsworth Family Saber pulsed contentedly at my hip where someone had placed it beside the bed, and through our bond I felt its approval.