novelraw Chapter 109 : The Morning Line
Chapter 109 : The Morning Line
(Rooga POV)
Morning came early — the kind that smelled of dew and cut grass, where the mist still curled low over the fields.
By the time Crome and I reached the training ground, I thought we’d be alone.
But that idea died fast.
Half the village’s boys were already there.
Wooden swords clattered, laughter echoed, and someone shouted, “I’m gonna be the next Darius Valemont!” before tripping face-first into the dirt.
Crome grinned beside me. “Told you they’d come.”
And there he was — Darius Valemont himself, standing in the middle of the field, sword in hand, calm as a mountain while the chaos unfolded around him.
He wasn’t teaching. He wasn’t even talking. He was just watching — the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.
Behind him, Kain was very much not amused.
“What is this,” Kain muttered, rubbing his forehead. “A festival? A circus?”
Crome whispered, “Sword training!”
Kain shot him a look. “Sword training? This looks like a flock of drunk chickens!”
The boys went quiet, their wooden swords freezing midair.
Kain took a deep breath, then shouted, “Alright! Listen up, you wild weeds!”
The kids straightened — or tried to.
“If you came here to swing sticks and play pretend, stay on the side,” he barked. “But if you want to be swordsmen — real swordsmen — stand straight, in a line, in front of me.”
There was silence.
Then, slowly, one by one, the boys stepped aside, mumbling excuses.
Crome hesitated, half-stepping forward, then back again.
That left me standing awkwardly at the edge.
Kain sighed. “Figures.”
But before he could speak again, Father moved.
He reached down, lifted me by the back of my shirt like I weighed nothing, and placed me in the line.
“Here,” he said calmly. “Start with him.”
Kain looked at me, then at Father, then back at me. “Oh, so you’re volunteering him now?”
Father smirked. “He’s my son. If he can’t stand in line, I’ll hold him there myself.”
Kain clapped his hands together, grinning like a wolf. “Alright then. Lesson one: the sword doesn’t care how old you are — only how long you last.”
He paced in front of us, eyes sharp. “Feet shoulder-width. Backs straight. If you fall, get up. If you get tired, keep going. If you cry, I’ll make you swing twice as much.”
A few of the kids who’d been watching from the side laughed nervously.
Crome whispered, “He’s not serious, right?”
Kain shot him a glare. “You’re laughing. That’s ten extra swings for you.”
Crome froze. “What?!”
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“Twenty,” Kain said flatly. “Now line up.”
The boys scrambled into a line so fast even Father chuckled quietly.
By the time the sun rose higher, the air was full of panting and the soft rhythm of wooden swords cutting through wind.
Kain barked corrections between swings, pacing like a drillmaster possessed.
“Breathe with your cut!”
“Don’t strangle the sword, let it move!”
“Crome, that’s not breathing, that’s dying—inhale, boy!”
Father watched from the fence, arms crossed, that same small smile still on his face.
It was chaos, sweat, and laughter — but somewhere in there, something real began to form.
The start of a rhythm. A pattern. A promise.
As the boys collapsed on the grass, exhausted, Kain leaned on his sword. “That’s enough for today. Be here tomorrow at the same time.”
One of the boys groaned. “Every day?”
“Every day,” Kain said. “Until the sword becomes lighter than the air you breathe.”
Father nodded approvingly. “Good words.”
Kain smirked. “You’d better be ready to feed this army of brats, Darius.”
Father chuckled. “If they survive the first week, I might.”
And that was how it began — the daily class of sword under Kain Marrowblade.
Not in a palace or academy, but in a muddy field behind a quiet farm.
It was messy, loud, and imperfect.
But it was the kind of beginning legends never forget.
By the time training ended, the sun was dipping low, turning the sky into a swirl of orange and soft purple.
Sweat-soaked shirts clung to tired backs, and wooden swords hung loosely from small hands.
Kain finally waved us off with a grunt. “That’s enough. Go home before your mothers think I’ve murdered you.”
A few of the boys groaned and collapsed onto the grass, laughing between shallow breaths.
Crome wiped his face with his sleeve, still grinning. “Heh. We survived another day.”
We gathered our things and started down the dirt path toward the village.
Our feet dragged, but our spirits didn’t — not today.
For the first time, the other boys weren’t talking about games or jokes.
They talked about training.
About how, somehow, it felt like they were doing something real.
“I don’t know why,” one of the boys said, “but today felt different. Like I actually did something.”
Another nodded. “Yeah. My mom’s always saying we don’t help enough. But this—this feels like work that matters.”
Crome grinned. “Because it is work that matters. We’re training to be swordsmen. Like Mr. Darius!”
That got a few cheers from the others.
To them, Darius wasn’t just a name — he was a legend who lived in the same world they did.
Someone real.
I smiled faintly, listening as they kept talking.
But then one of the quieter boys — the one who usually stayed behind Crome — spoke up.
“My mom and sister work the crops all day,” he said softly. “Their hands are always bleeding from the weeds.”
Everyone turned to him, even Crome.
“They work like their lives depend on it,” the boy went on. “And I just sit in a chair or play with you guys. Every night, I feel useless. So if I can become a swordsman like Mr. Darius… maybe I can go on adventures. Maybe I can earn money, help them, and they won’t have to hurt their hands anymore.”
The group fell quiet.
Then another boy nodded. “Yeah. I want to help my dad too. He’s old. He still works the mill every day.”
“And I’ll help my brothers,” another added quickly.
One by one, they all began to agree, their small voices lighting up the evening air with quiet determination.
I listened, hands in my pockets, not saying much.
Crome noticed. “What about you, Rooga?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re kids. We’re not supposed to do anything yet.”
He frowned. “But don’t you ever want to?”
I hesitated. “I guess I don’t have to. My family’s… fine.”
The way I said it sounded hollow even to me.
The others went quiet for a moment.
Then the boy who’d spoken before smiled, small and honest. “Then you’re lucky.”
I didn’t answer.
The road wound between the fields, the scent of harvest thick in the air.
All around us, adults were still working — silhouettes bent low, backs aching, hands deep in the soil.
The boys waved to their parents. Their smiles were wide, proud, hopeful.
I waved too, but there was no one in the fields for me.
Father was probably still training, and Mother was home reading by the fire.
For the first time, I noticed the difference — how these kids looked at their parents like they were fighting the world for them, and how I’d never had to think about such things.
It wasn’t guilt exactly, but something colder and heavier.
The feeling that the world wasn’t equal, and never would be.
When we reached the split in the road where the fields met the village, Crome grinned at me. “Tomorrow, we’ll swing harder.”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Harder.”
He waved and ran off, calling back to his brother at the barn.
I watched them — all of them — heading home to families who would smile at them, maybe scold them, but always need them.
And for the first time, I understood something Kain once said:
“Some people swing to get stronger. Others swing because they don’t have a choice.”