Torn threads

Sartor eventually gave up trying to decipher his teacher's expressions. His mental library overflowed with knowledge—especially in psychology. He had even read strange books about facial expressions and the art of hiding truth.

But this wealth of knowledge was more poison than power. The flood of conflicting information only deepened the confusion stirred by the strange emotions he'd felt since yesterday's training with Tian.

Had Sartor possessed even a sliver of life or emotional experience, he might've seen through Tian's cracking mask.

"So, boy... planning to interrogate your teacher?" Tian scoffed. "Then, as punishment for your disrespect, start running—until I say otherwise."

Sartor hesitated briefly, then began to run.

"Master... at least tell me what kind of curse I carry."

As he ran, Tian placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and said something that stunned Sartor:

"The curse you carry is the reason you're still alive... and also the reason someone close to you was able to live longer than they should have."

Tian fell silent—his tongue having slipped past a mouth that usually held its secrets tight.

"That's all you need to know. Be quiet and keep running. Endurance doesn't build itself."

Even in exhaustion, his mouth wouldn't betray him… but his tongue just did.

It seems my role as an older brother still causes me to fail—even across the ocean.

Once Sartor finished the number of laps Tian deemed sufficient, the latter said:

"Stop now. We'll continue tomorrow."

Still, Sartor kept running until he collapsed—just like yesterday.

No... not like yesterday.

This time, his hand broke his fall.

Such a small gesture, yet to Tian, the progress it signified was immense.

Sartor tried to get back up, pushing against his new limits, but Tian barked:

"Boy, I said stop. Tomorrow we begin the real training—to make you a man."

Sartor stood, swaying, drenched in sweat, and noticed that drops of it had marked his path around the dojo.

"Master Tian... thank you for today's training. See you tomorrow."

He bowed and left, unaware that he had completed the same exercises as yesterday—only an hour faster.

"Young Master, thank you for your hard work."

Yasmin was waiting for him, a towel and jug in one hand, a tray with a cup in the other.

Her balance alone was impressive—perhaps a skill essential to being a maid.

Seems I've found another mystery to solve.

"Thank you, Yasmin..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

He simply looked at her—long enough, soft enough—for the words to rest in that glance.

She smiled, pure and unburdened, before stepping back to let her young master wipe his sweat and soothe his dry throat.