The next day, Sai arrived at the training grounds early in the morning, determined to optimize his combat abilities. The area was vast, filled with warriors honing their skills. Clad in armor and wielding weapons of various kinds, the Duke’s soldiers were sparring, practicing formations, and engaging in rigorous drills.

  Sai, uninterested in group exercises, found an empty space and began his own training. His movements were precise yet fluid, each strike and dodge calculated rather than instinctive. Though his combat style lacked the raw aggression of a seasoned warrior, there was an undeniable sharpness in his execution.

  The soldiers quickly took notice of him. A new face—especially one rumored to be under the Duke’s protection—naturally drew attention.

  "Who’s that?" one of them muttered.

  "He’s the outsider, isn’t he?" another replied.

  "Looks like he knows what he’s doing," a third commented, watching Sai’s efficient movements.

  However, not everyone was impressed. Among them, a broad-shouldered man with a scar down his cheek stepped forward, his expression filled with mild disdain.

  "You there," he called out, his voice carrying across the grounds. "You’re the one staying at the estate, right?"

  Sai didn’t respond immediately. He finished his sequence of movements, exhaled, and turned to the man, his gaze unreadable.

  "Is there a problem?" he asked, his tone even.

  The soldier smirked. "Just making sure you’re not some pampered noble’s pet. We don’t take kindly to outsiders walking in and using our facilities like they own the place."

  Sai narrowed his eyes slightly. He had no intention of proving himself to anyone, but he could already tell where this was going.

  "How about a little spar?" the soldier continued, cracking his knuckles. "Unless you’re afraid?"

  The surrounding soldiers grinned, eager to see how the newcomer would respond.

  Sai sighed. He had come here to train, not entertain egos—but perhaps this was a good chance to test himself against trained fighters.

  "Fine," he said, rolling his shoulders. "But don’t blame me if it ends quickly."

  The soldiers cheered as a circle formed around them. The scarred man grinned, grabbing a practice sword from the rack. "Let’s see if you’re worth anything, outsider."

  Sai, weaponless, merely raised his hands. "I don’t need one."

  The soldier’s grin widened. "Cocky, huh? You’ll regret that."

  With that, the match began.

  Sai wanted to push himself to the edge, so he decided to fight weaponless. The match had begun.

  Taking a balanced stance, he left no clear openings, his posture firm yet adaptable. The scarred man wasted no time, rushing forward with his practice sword. His movements were sharp, refined—clearly the product of rigorous training and extensive combat experience.

  Sai, however, evaded with ease. His sharp eyes tracked the soldier’s every motion, his body reacting instinctively. Step by step, he adjusted, growing accustomed to the man’s rhythm.

  The spectators watched in surprise. Most had expected Sai to struggle against a seasoned warrior, but instead, he was moving effortlessly, flowing like water through every attack.

  The scarred man’s grin widened. "Not bad," he muttered. Then, without warning, he shifted his approach.

  His strikes, which had followed a predictable cadence, suddenly became erratic. Feints, deceptive swings, and unpredictable footwork replaced his previous rhythm.

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  Sai’s eyes narrowed. He had noticed the change immediately. The man wasn’t just strong—he was experienced. He knew how to bait reactions, how to shift tactics mid-fight.

  Sai’s sharp eyes tracked every movement as his opponent's attacks became more unpredictable. The scarred man was no longer following a pattern—his strikes came from odd angles, his footwork shifting unpredictably.

  Sai dodged a horizontal slash by leaning backward, feeling the practice sword cut through the air just inches from his face. Before he could reposition himself, the soldier twisted his wrist, reversing the blade’s direction for a sudden upward cut. Sai stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike, but the scarred man wasn’t done.

  Using the momentum of his failed attack, the soldier pivoted on his heel, bringing the hilt of his sword in for a quick jab toward Sai’s ribs. Sai twisted his torso, his muscles flexing as he barely dodged the strike. However, the soldier’s feint had done its job—it forced Sai into a defensive position.

  For the first time in the fight, Sai felt a flicker of pressure.

  The scarred man smirked, noticing Sai’s shift in tempo. “You’re good, but not perfect.”

  Sai didn’t respond. He simply adjusted his footing, his stance subtly shifting.

  The soldier lunged forward, aiming a powerful downward strike. Instead of dodging, Sai stepped into the attack. The crowd gasped as the sword came crashing down—only for Sai to redirect it with his bare hands. His fingers grazed the flat of the blade, guiding it away from his body as he moved inside the soldier’s reach.

  The scarred man’s eyes widened. “What—”

  Sai didn’t waste the opening. With a quick pivot, he slammed his elbow into the soldier’s sternum. The impact sent a dull shockwave through the man’s armor, forcing him to stumble back a few steps.

  The watching soldiers murmured in astonishment.

  “Did he just parry that with his hands?” one of them whispered.

  The scarred man coughed slightly but steadied himself, his grin returning. “Now you’re making this interesting.”

  Sai didn’t reply. He rolled his shoulders, loosening up. He had been observing, adapting, testing the waters—but now, it was time to go on the offensive.

  This time, he moved first.

  With a burst of speed, Sai dashed toward his opponent, closing the distance in an instant. The scarred man reacted quickly, bringing his sword up to guard, but Sai was already moving.

  He dipped low, feinting a punch to the gut. The soldier instinctively moved to block, but Sai had no intention of following through. Instead, he spun around to the man’s side, his leg sweeping outward.

  The soldier’s balance wavered.

  Sai capitalized on it immediately. He twisted his body and delivered a sharp palm strike to the man’s shoulder, sending him staggering.

  The scarred man barely managed to recover, but Sai was relentless. He pressed forward, his movements now completely unpredictable. His hands struck in rapid succession—palms, elbows, even subtle kicks meant to break his opponent’s footing.

  The scarred man gritted his teeth, overwhelmed. “Damn it—”

  Sai sidestepped another desperate swing before closing the fight with a precise strike to the soldier’s wrist. The sword clattered to the ground.

  A heavy silence filled the training ground.

  The scarred man stood there, his breath uneven. His hand twitched as if considering whether to pick up the sword again, but after a moment, he sighed and stepped back. “Alright. I yield.”

  The surrounding soldiers exchanged glances before breaking into murmurs. Some looked surprised, others amused. A few even seemed impressed.

  Sai exhaled slowly, relaxing his stance. He wasn’t exhausted, but the fight had given him a lot to think about. He was getting better, but not good enough. His adaptability was strong, but against someone truly skilled, would he have lasted?

  The scarred man extended a hand. “That was a damn good fight. Name’s Garrik.”

  Sai eyed the offered hand before shaking it. “Sai.”