the beginning after the end perfect duo

Training Day

A Few Months Later

The air in the Leywin household buzzed with a quiet tension today—or maybe that was just me. Arthur and I were going to spar. Not some childish tumble in the dirt, but a real test of what we'd been building in secret. A few months had passed since I'd dropped the bombshell about his past life as King Grey, and though he'd never fully admitted it, I could tell he was warming to the idea. Or at least, he wasn't outright denying it anymore. His guarded smirks and sharp glances told me he was testing me as much as I was testing him.

I didn't want to rush him. The Arthur I knew from the novels would awaken his mana core in his own time, forging a path no one could replicate. Forcing future techniques on him now felt like cheating fate—and besides, his potential was already a wildfire waiting to ignite. But sparring? That was fair game. It'd push us both, and I needed the practice as much as he did.

We sat at the breakfast table, the clink of spoons against bowls punctuating the morning stillness. Alice bustled around the kitchen, her auburn hair catching the sunlight streaming through the window, while Reynolds shoveled eggs into his mouth with the enthusiasm of a man who'd never known hunger. Arthur picked at his food, his grey eyes flicking between me and his plate.

"Arthur," I said, keeping my tone casual but firm, "could you teach me how to use a sword?"

He paused mid-bite, a chunk of bread hovering near his mouth. One eyebrow arched, and a faint grin tugged at his lips. "Are you serious? We're three, Tom. What's next—asking Dad to sign us up for the adventurer's guild?"

I didn't laugh. "I'm serious. I've read the theory—books on stances, strikes, all that. But I've never swung a sword for real. I need you to show me how it's done."

Arthur set his bread down, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. His skepticism was palpable, like a wall I'd have to climb. "And what makes you think I'm qualified to teach you? I'm not exactly a master swordsman yet."

I met his gaze, a small smile creeping onto my face. "I read it in the novel."

For a heartbeat, his expression softened—surprise, maybe recognition—before he masked it with a dry chuckle. "Right. My life as a story. Was it any good?"

"Extremely popular," I said, deadpan. "People couldn't get enough of you."

He snorted, shaking his head. "Guess I'd better live up to the hype then. Fine, I'll teach you. But don't expect me to go easy."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I shot back, bouncing slightly on my toes. "We'll need wooden swords."

Arthur's eyes glinted with a competitive edge. "That's step one. Step two is not crying when I knock you flat. You're in for real training, Tom."

"I'll ask Father for the swords tonight," I said, already plotting the logistics. Reynolds kept a stash of training gear in the shed—nothing fancy, just sturdy oak swords for drills. Perfect for us.

As we cleared our plates, I caught Arthur's eye and gave him a subtle nod. This wasn't just about swordplay. It was preparation—for what, I wasn't sure yet. But I felt it in my bones: the world wasn't going to wait for us to grow up.