Trial by Will

They called him “The Blade Demon.”

Jonathan, the ever-composed butler, whose presence was as silent as falling snow — was once a swordsman so feared, entire battalions laid down arms when they saw him step onto the battlefield.

I never imagined he’d be the one to train me.

But he did.

Not with kindness. Not with encouragement.

But with clarity.

“A sword isn’t something you wield,” he told me on the first morning, beneath the plum blossoms, wind dancing through fallen petals.
“It’s something you become.”

He showed me how to move — not like a fighter, but like someone surrendering to the rhythm of death itself. Blade to hand. Breath to steel. Step to silence.

It was beautiful.
And it hurt.

Each day, my bones screamed louder.
Each night, my arms trembled too much to lift a spoon.
But still, I trained.

Because if I was going to protect her — Princess Annya — I had to go beyond limits.
I had no magic. No power. No destiny.

So I carved one through pain.

Jonathan never mocked me. Never pitied me.
Sometimes, when I collapsed in the training yard, he’d carry me silently inside.
Healed me with his hands — warm, steady, glowing with quiet power.
Hands that once killed kings now mended my broken body.

And when I couldn’t walk, he walked for me.
When I couldn’t breathe, he stood by my side without a word.

Not as a friend. Not as a mentor.
Just as a man who understood what it meant to be broken — and still choose to stand.

Then one evening — during meditation — I felt it.

A presence.

No, not a presence.

A will.

Dark. Ancient. And pulsing through the hilt of my training blade like blood through veins.

It stared at me — not with eyes, but with the weight of a thousand battles.

My spirit.

The one waiting inside the sword.

Waiting for me.

“You feel it,” Jonathan said from the steps. He hadn’t come closer.
“You’re not ready.”

“Then I’ll never be,” I whispered.
“Because I don’t have mana. I can’t bind it with magic.”

“Then it will kill you.”

“Let it try.”

That was the first time Jonathan looked afraid.

He didn’t stop me again. He just watched.

The Trial.

No ceremony. No circle. No incantation.

I simply walked into the training grounds at midnight — barefoot, blade in hand, heart pounding like a funeral drum — and said:

“I challenge you.”

The world vanished.

I stood in a field of ash.

The sky was red.

And before me rose a figure — tall, jagged, blacker than void, with burning cracks across its skin like molten scars. No face. No voice. Just rage made flesh.

The blade spirit.

My blade spirit.

And it wanted blood.

The First Strike

It moved faster than sound — its blade cleaving through air as I barely ducked, rolling in the dust. Sparks exploded where it struck.

Pain shot through my ribs — I’d been clipped.

I gasped.

Dodged again.

Slashed once — but my blade bounced off its hide like paper on stone.

The Second Strike

A kick to the gut sent me flying.

I crashed into stone, coughing blood.

My vision swam.

My hands trembled.

My sword slipped.

Get up.

I heard my own voice.

No — my will.

I grabbed the blade again. Stood.

Staggered forward.

The Third Strike

I feinted low, then aimed for its neck.

It caught my strike — with two fingers — and drove its sword straight through my shoulder.

I screamed.

Agony unlike anything I’d ever known.

But I didn’t fall.

I twisted my body — pushed into the blade — and headbutted the thing square in its mask-like face.

It reeled.

And I grinned.

Blood poured down my chest.

But I wasn't done.

The Breaking Point

Minutes? Hours? I couldn’t tell.

I was limping. Blind in one eye. My fingers numb.

But I kept fighting.

Each blow more desperate. Each dodge more instinct.

And the spirit… it didn’t finish me.

It could have.

But it watched.

Judged.

Every move.

Every breath.

Every scream.

Until I finally dropped to my knees, gasping, sword falling from my hands.

I whispered:

“I don’t have magic.”
“I don’t have strength.”
“But I’m not giving up.”

The spirit raised its blade.

And paused.

Then knelt.

Slowly.

Respectfully.

I understood, then.

It wasn’t a test of power.

It was a test of resolve.

It had never wanted to kill me.

It wanted to know me.

And I passed.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the training yard.

Jonathan knelt beside me, pressing glowing hands to my wounds.

His eyes were wet.

“You idiot,” he muttered. “You stupid, reckless… idiot.”

“…I won, didn’t I?”

He didn’t answer.

Just tightened the bandage around my ribs and stayed until dawn.

That was the first time I saw him smile.

And the first time I realized:

Even without magic… I was no longer weak.