Tirnanog

Rooks stood alone in the training yard, his spear held firmly in his hands. The sound of metal slicing through the air echoed around him as he practiced his strikes, the sharp tip of his spear cutting through the air in precise, practiced movements. But his mind wasn't focused on the form or technique. It was somewhere else, in a place he didn't like to admit.

The battle against Youth—the "eyepatch guy"—kept replaying in his mind. The clash of their weapons, the way Youth had stood his ground despite being outnumbered, and the way he had fought back with an intensity Rooks hadn't expected. It bothered him. He was a Grade 2 knight, and yet Youth had pushed him to his limits.

"Why think of it now?" Rooks muttered to himself, his voice hoarse as he slowed his movements. He stepped back, exhaling deeply as he looked down at his spear. "I've been a knight for eight years. Why am I feeling guilty all of a sudden?"

He wasn't used to this. He was a knight, a warrior of Ketergia, and he had always done what was asked of him—no questions, no hesitation. But now, after everything that had happened in the village, something felt wrong.

The image of the destroyed village, the farmers and families who had looked to him for protection, came flooding back. The way Sarevsael had causally ordered the soldiers to burn the homes and force the villagers to comply—it made Rooks's stomach churn. He had been part of it, following orders without questioning them. It wasn't just the villagers' pain that gnawed at him; it was the fact that he had been complicit in their suffering.

Rook gritted his teeth, slamming the butt of his spear into the ground as frustration boiled within him.

"And that eyepatch guy..." he muttered under his breath. "He's strong. If it wasn't for Seravsael, I would've probably lost, or worse, died."

The truth hit him like a cold wind. Youth was stronger than he had anticipated. The way Youth had blocked his attacks, his ability to hold his ground, even in the face of Rooks's overwhelming speed and strength—it had shaken him. He wasn't sure if it was the fire in Youth's eyes, or the way the boy's right eye had glowed with power, but something told Rooks that Youth was more than just a rebellious "eyepatch guy."

Rooks took a few deep breaths, grounding himself before resuming his practice. But the nagging thoughts wouldn't leave him. The guilt continued to eat at him, slowly unraveling the certainty he had carried with him all these years.

"What am I really fighting for?" he thought, as his spear cut through the air once again. "Is this who I am? A knight who just follows orders, without thinking about the consequences?"

The clang of his spear striking the ground echoed through the yard, the sound sharp and unforgiving. Rooks stared at his reflection in the blade, the image of his own face staring back at him. He didn't like what he saw.

The sun was setting, casting long shadows over the training ground as Rooks finally lowered his weapon, exhaustion settling in. He had no answers, only questions. The weight of his actions, and the realization that he couldn't ignore his conscience anymore, weighed heavily on him.

But the questions remained unanswered as he walked away, the sound of his footsteps soft against the earth.