The Label of Failure
The basic practical assessment grounds, where the label of failure clung to him. Instructor Hagen tossed Ronan a wooden sword heavier than those given to the other cadets.
Thud. The sound was different. The wooden swords the others received bounced lightly off the ground, but the one that fell before Ronan pressed into the earth like wet firewood.
Laughter spread from the edge of the Training Grounds.
"Isn't that a weighted wooden sword?"
"On the first day of basics?"
"Weight training for a failure from the start. The instructor's got a sense of humor."
Ronan looked down at the wooden sword. Three black lines were wrapped around the hilt's end—a weight marker used at the Royal Knight Academy. One line for advanced cadets. Two for strength correction. Three? Not for ordinary freshmen.
Ronan raised his head. Instructor Hagen was a broad-shouldered man with a white scar across his left cheek, making him look perpetually stern even without speaking.
"Ronan."
"Yes."
"Note on the preliminary screening. You dropped your wooden sword during the winter basic fitness test."
Laughter rippled through the surroundings again. Hagen tapped Ronan's evaluation sheet with his finger.
"For a commoner, a knight academy wooden sword isn't light. Especially for the son of a supply clerk."
The words sounded like protocol. But beneath them lay another meaning: Stay in the back from the start.
Ronan understood. He'd anticipated it since the dot appeared next to his name at the Main Gate. The label of failure hadn't ended on the stone steps. It had followed him to the Training Grounds.
"May I ask a question?"
Ronan raised his hand. Hagen's eyebrow twitched.
"Speak."
"In the basic practical assessment, you make the opponent drop their sword or step out of the circle, right?"
"Correct."
"The sword's weight is at the instructor's discretion?"
"Correct."
"So the one I got is within the rules?"
The corner of Hagen's mouth lifted ever so slightly.
"Is that a complaint?"
Ronan shook his head.
"No, sir. Complaints leave a bad record."
A few cadets swallowed hard. Ronan lifted the wooden sword. His palm pressed down immediately. A dull force traveled from wrist to shoulder. He didn't show it. Instead, he smiled.
"If the rules are like this, then winning within them is all that matters."
Lia stood at the edge of the Training Grounds. She was there with the healing department cadets, observing to learn injury treatment. She eyed Ronan's fingertips with worry.
A bit inward stood Seris. The girl with her black hair tied high. She held a standard-issue wooden sword like the others. Even after seeing the sword tip's ornament sliced off at the Main Gate, her gaze didn't waver easily. One freak feat doesn't make skill, her eyes said.
Ronan didn't mind that look. It was far better than mockery.
Hagen raised his hand.
"First assessment inside the circle. If no decision in three exchanges, the one pushed back loses."
He called the opponent immediately.
"Mark."
A cadet in a training uniform with silver buttons stepped forward. Tall, with thick wrists. His wooden sword was standard—light and balanced. Mark spun his sword once.
Whoosh.
"Looks like the instructor's looking out for me. Gave you a heavy one so the drop echoes louder."
Ronan stepped into the circle.
"So you got a light one so yours falls quietly?"
Mark's laugh cut off. Small chuckles erupted around them.
"Begin."
Hagen's hand dropped. Mark advanced first. Quick first step, shoulder leading. His sword slashed down diagonally.
Ronan didn't block. He stepped back half a pace.
Thud.
Mark's sword pressed down on the weighted one. Ronan's elbow dipped. The circle's edge loomed near his heel.
"It's over."
Mark seemed to think so too and added more force. Ronan ignored his expression. His eyes were on his own sword's hilt.
Heavy things are slow. But their slowness can deceive. If you can't lift with strength, shift the center.
Ronan folded his left ring finger. The tip of an invisible phantom sword nudged just below the hilt. Barely brushing a single wood grain.
Click.
The downward force pivoted around the hilt's end. The sword's head drifted sideways. Mark's pushing power flowed with it.
"Huh?"
Mark's eyes widened. Ronan matched the flow with his foot. One step. No more.
The weighted sword's tip grazed the ground and rose. Slow arc, but heavy.
Clack.
Mark's sword slipped from his hand. It spun once in the air and fell outside the circle.
Thump. A light sound.
The Training Grounds fell silent. Hagen's eyes hardened.
"Halt."
Ronan rested the sword tip on the ground. His wrist actually tingled. But it looked like he'd planted it like a staff.
"What's the ruling?"
Mark spoke first.
"Hold on. That was weird. You didn't even swing properly."
"Were there rules on swing angle?"
Ronan tilted his head.
"I heard it's just about making the opponent drop theirs."
A few cadets stifled laughs. Hagen didn't like it.
"Pick up your swords. Second exchange."
Once could be luck. Twice needs explanation. Thrice makes a record.
Mark grew cautious. This time, he didn't charge. He tried to shake Ronan's wrist with his tip. The light sword's advantage.
Ronan didn't follow. He laid the weighted sword sideways. Like a shield.
As Mark's sword aimed for his wrist, Ronan exhaled sharply. The invisible phantom sword pushed the hilt inward. The center of weight shifted half an inch in his palm.
Clang.
The weighted sword's broad side pinned Mark's. Mark's tip stabbed the ground. Ronan twisted the hilt slightly. The sword's weight drew a circle. Mark's foot was pushed outside the line.
The white chalk line smeared under his boot.
"Out of bounds."
Lia spoke first. Her voice wasn't loud. But in the quiet Training Grounds, it carried.
Hagen's gaze turned to her. Lia didn't back down.
"No ankle injury. But he crossed the line."
A healing cadet's words—checking injury and ruling together. No gaps.
The assistant knight holding the Merit Ledger nodded. Hagen said curtly,
"Ronan, win by ruling."
Mark gripped his fallen sword again, but strength wouldn't return to his fingers. The surrounding laughter shifted.
The word "failure" caught in throats first. It fell over the Training Grounds. Some faces showed disbelief. Some eyed the smeared chalk under Mark's boot. Others looked at the weighted sword before Ronan.
The conditions hadn't changed. That made the result sharper.
The disadvantage Hagen had thrown proved Ronan's precision instead.
Ronan started to shoulder the sword but stopped. Too heavy. He set it naturally on the ground instead.
"Instructor."
"What."
"Can I keep using this sword?"
Hagen's eyes narrowed. Ronan added,
"At first, I thought it was punishment. But trying it out, it's pretty thoughtful. Shows me exactly where I'm lacking."
No complaint in those words. But Hagen's face hardened more. He'd given a handicap, and the opponent had turned it into a training tool.
Seris stepped forward one pace. Instead of answering, she reached for the weighted sword.
"Hold on."
Ronan gripped it.
"It's heavy."
"I can see that."
"I'm warning you. Hurt your wrist on day one, and I bet a protest from a knightly house."
Seris's eyebrow rose slightly.
"Worried about my wrist too?"
"More like survival instinct. A noble protest letter hits heavier than this sword."
This time, Seris let out a very small laugh. Brief. Many missed it. But Ronan saw.
Seris grasped the hilt. Her arm dipped instantly. Heavier than expected, even prepared. She adjusted her stance and lifted it.
A knightly house indeed. She could manage. But her eyes changed soon after.
Replicating that trajectory with this weight was another matter. Possible with brute force, but force made it slow. Ronan's arc hadn't been slow. The weight had found its path on its own.
Seris set the sword down.
"Not brute force."
"I'd feel a bit wronged if it looked that way."
"Then what?"
Ronan lightly flexed his fingers. The invisible phantom sword had already dispersed.
"Spoil it, and next time won't be fun."
Seris's eyes narrowed. Not appraising now. Curious what trick he'd hidden.
For the first time, she didn't see Ronan as the dot on the evaluation sheet.
"Next time, do it in front of me. So I can see."
"In front, and you'll block it?"
"Of course."
"Guess I'll have to make it even less visible."
Lia watched from afar. She said nothing. Just folded the bandage in her hand once more. Even after confirming Ronan unhurt, her gaze lingered.
That day, the Training Grounds' eyes shifted too.
"You shifted the center of weight."
Ronan looked at her.
"You saw?"
"The hilt moved before your hand."
"Sharp eyes."
"Your sword's still slow."
"I know."
The corner of Seris's mouth lifted just a bit. Not a smirk.
Lia eyed Ronan's wrist from afar. Feeling her gaze, Ronan hid it behind his back. Lia's eyes narrowed. As if she'd caught even that.
Ronan sighed inwardly. The label of failure hadn't vanished yet.
But today, its first stroke cracked. A space opened in the split for new letters.
Precision. Small still, but a word fitting Ronan's sword.