In one of the small training yards tucked between the village cottages, Gray stood firm in a textbook archer's stance, his bow fully drawn, the string stretched taut as a wire.
His face was flushed with exertion, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. His simple training clothes clung to his frame, completely soaked—as if he'd just leapt from a river. His arms trembled under the tension, his legs shook, and his dark hair was tousled wildly by the wind and fatigue.
"Hold the position. Don't let your arms drop. Your elbow must stay aligned with your shoulder. That way, you'll waste less energy and improve your aim," instructed Grandpa Jack, standing nearby with his single arm crossed behind his back.
Gray panted heavily, each breath ragged, struggling to keep pace with his body's exhaustion. Still, he obeyed. Standing still was sometimes harder than moving. Especially now—with the bowstring drawn, every muscle screamed under the strain.
"Well done. Hold for another five minutes," the old man added with a nod of approval.
Though the one-armed former assassin pitied the boy, he respected his tenacity even more. Gray's dedication was unwavering—something that clearly distinguished him from his mischievous older sister. While Grace was equally gifted, she hated tedium. She thrived on action, not repetition. So the elders approached their training with the twins differently, tailoring their methods to each child.
Jack knew this exercise was brutally demanding. It wasn't meant to test strength or agility, but sheer endurance. Watching the boy's figure sway from fatigue, he could still see the fire burning in Gray's eyes. That stubborn, stubborn light. The assassin gave a silent nod of approval.
"Done. You may move now. Take three minutes to rest. After that, we'll switch to hand-to-hand drills."
"Yes, sir," came Gray's immediate response, though his body was already sprawled across the grass.
"Don't lie still. Walk a bit, stretch your legs. It'll help you recover faster."
Gray obeyed. Despite how grueling the sessions with Grandpa Jack always were, he could feel himself growing stronger each time. Even if only by a little. That alone was intoxicating. Especially for a child forced to watch from the sidelines as his sister surged forward, always ahead.
They resumed training shortly after. The movements were basic—like physical education drills. But the focus was all on precision and intensity.
With his one arm, Jack held out a padded training mitt. Gray struck it repeatedly with disciplined punches. The assassin's goal was to instill fundamentals so deep that Gray's body would respond before thought. That every motion, every decision, would be reflex, not reaction.
By the time they wrapped up for the day, Gray was completely spent. Like a squeezed-out lemon, he collapsed onto the cool grass, staring up at the sky.
"Grandpa Jack... do you think, if I master all these techniques, I'll be able to beat Grace someday?" he asked, still catching his breath.
"No," came Jack's blunt reply. The old assassin never wasted words.
"Why not?"
"Your technique is more solid than hers. But the difference in power remains."
"What do you mean?"
"You have better control," Jack said evenly, "but she's physically ahead. Grace is progressing too—she's training, even if with less focus than you."
"She's talented. Picks up things instantly. She's already fully tempered her meridians and can release raw energy outside her body. That's the third stage of mortal development. Her strength equals five grown men, and her reflexes are sharp. In a fair fight, you won't beat her."
Gray didn't respond. He just kept watching the sky.
"That said," Jack continued, "you're nimble. With proper training and the right setup, you could outmatch an average combatant. If you ambush a Stage Four practitioner, you might even kill them."
"That... makes sense," Gray admitted, eyes still fixed on the sky.
While Gray endured the grueling training of a former assassin, his sister was far from idle.
Deep within the forest, Grace stood ready, dressed in a sleek battle outfit. She was locked in combat against a wind wolf—a two-meter-tall beast with sleek black fur and glowing red eyes. These wolves were infamous for their ferocity and speed.
They had once prowled freely near the village, but that changed after the villagers cleared the surrounding territory within a 100-kilometer radius. It was done for the safety of their children. Still, Grace and her mentor had ventured well beyond that boundary for today's training.
Matching speed with speed, Grace used wind magic to keep up with the beast's movements, occasionally hurling fireballs to force it into defensive patterns. These weren't the playful flickers of fire that could be brushed aside—they were dense orbs of concentrated flame, exploding on impact with devastating force.
Each spell was a distraction—a way to keep the wolf guessing, on edge. As long as it was dodging, it couldn't get close enough to strike. In return, the wolf sent slicing gales toward her, forcing her to constantly reposition.
Finally, sensing an opening, the beast ignored a fireball that singed its flank and lunged straight at her, fangs bared and aimed for her throat.
But to the wolf's surprise, Grace didn't flinch.
The girl who had moments ago appeared fragile now darted left with astonishing agility. The beast landed exactly where she'd stood—and slipped.
She'd soaked the patch of earth and covered it with moss earlier. A trap.
Seizing the moment, Grace hurled a chakram into the wolf's side. The ring blade cut through its thick coat like a razor. The wound wasn't fatal—but it slowed the beast considerably.
Grace didn't stop there. She knew predators were most dangerous when wounded. She kept her distance, pelting the creature with more fireballs to wear it down.
When the wind wolf finally stumbled, bleeding and burned, she threw a second chakram. It landed squarely on its neck. The beast dropped with a final, shuddering breath.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound of applause echoed from deeper in the woods.
"Well done, little Grace," Grandpa Robert called out, emerging from the trees. "Excellent battle awareness. Great focus. You anticipated its moves, set up a trap in advance, and never dropped your guard after landing a hit. You've clearly been working hard."
"Hmph! Of course I have," Grace replied proudly, a touch of frustration lacing her tone. "I need to be strong—to protect my brother. I'm annoyed it took so long to finish it. If Gray had been with me, he could've been hurt."
"Well now, don't be too hard on yourself, little amazon. That beast was a full stage above you. You can't expect to down it instantly. But tell me—why didn't you strike first?"
"Oh, not this again..." Grace groaned. "You sound just like Grandma Albedo."
Still, she answered. "Wind wolves are sensitive to airflow. I couldn't risk throwing a chakram and wasting it. And sneaking up was impossible—its nose is too sharp. So I kept my distance and forced it into close combat where I had an advantage."
"Ahahaha. Well played," the old witcher chuckled. "You're right. Knowing your enemy—and your own limits—is the key to victory."
"I get it, Grandpa. I just hate tests. They give me headaches," she added with a pout.
The silver-haired man and the white-haired girl continued their training deeper in the forest.
Grace was as energetic as ever. She loved the thrill of battle, the rush of casting magic in real combat—not sitting in a dusty room memorizing formulas. That's when she felt truly alive.
Math and theory were never her strengths. She tried hard in class, but it wasn't her gift.
Her brother, on the other hand, loved numbers and precision.
Grace understood her own strengths—and her weaknesses. And she knew her brother couldn't bring his dreams to life alone. That was why she trained so hard. So she could always stand by him.
Unbeknownst to her, those thoughts mirrored Gray's own resolve during his training.