"Right or Wrong…"

As dawn broke over the serene Violet Flower Park, Grant sat on the rooftop of its tallest building, his gaze lost in the fading stars. The crisp morning air carried a faint floral fragrance, mingling with the faint scent of alcohol from the two leather wine bags resting between him and Sean.

"You're not leaving, are you?" Sean’s voice cut through the silence as he approached, tossing a leather bag toward Grant. "I see you've even unpacked your luggage."

Grant caught the bag with ease, opened it, and took a measured sip. The familiar fiery burn in his throat jolted him awake, sharper than the frost of a sleepless night. "I've got my reasons. I still have something to teach, entrusted by someone."

Sean sat down heavily beside him, the two clinking their wine bags like a silent toast. Unlike Grant’s deliberate sips, Sean tilted his head back, taking a long pull. He wiped his mouth and chuckled bitterly. "That boy Charles? He's a noble through and through. Too calculating, too pragmatic. You’re too honest for this job, old friend."

Grant’s gaze remained on the horizon. "If he's truly who I think he is, he'll understand. Sooner or later."

Sean scoffed, his voice edged with skepticism. "And if he’s not? What do you and Salamon see in him? To me, he’s just another spoiled genius with a rough backstory."

Grant’s lips curled in a faint, mirthless smile. "Then he'll pay the price for it. Growth always has a price."

The words hung in the air as the first rays of sunlight painted the sky. Sean, subdued, reclined on the rooftop tiles. "Growth… Sacrifices… Maybe you're right. But it doesn’t make it any easier to watch."

Grant drained his wine bag, stood, and looked down at Sean. "It’s never supposed to be easy."

Charles woke late, his body heavy with exhaustion. Last night’s events played like a blurred reel in his mind—Grant’s imposing demeanor, his own desperate attempt at reconciliation, and the heartfelt speech he had crafted to win the man’s respect.

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By the time he returned to the manor, he could barely stand. Yet, Leo had been waiting for him at the gates, as she always did. Without a word, she had guided him to his room.

Now, seated at the edge of his bed, Charles groaned as Leo tossed his boots at him. "Skipping class again, Master Charles?" she asked dryly, her knife-sharp sarcasm cutting through his foggy thoughts.

"Fine, fine, I’m going!" he grumbled, pulling on his boots and heading for the training ground.

Grant was already there when Charles arrived, standing tall in the middle of the training ground. His silver shield gleamed in the morning light, as imposing as the man wielding it. The scent of stale alcohol lingered faintly in the air.

“You’re late,” Grant remarked, his voice cold but steady.

Charles bowed slightly. "Apologies, Teacher. I’m ready to begin."

Grant raised the shield, its surface unmarred and gleaming. "Attack. Use all your strength. No holding back."

Charles hesitated. "All of it?"

"All of it," Grant confirmed.

Charles inhaled deeply, his grip tightening around the hilt of his Killer’s Dagger. A strange, almost imperceptible crimson glow began to radiate from the blade as he focused his energy. He surged forward like a streak of lightning, his movements sharp and precise.

Grant raised the shield effortlessly. The dagger’s edge collided with the metal, sending a shockwave through the ground. Charles felt the force reverberate through his arm as Grant redirected the attack with a slight twist of the shield. The momentum sent Charles sprawling across the ground, his right hand scraping against jagged gravel.

Blood dripped from his palm as Charles struggled to his feet. He grimaced, clutching his wounded hand. "Teacher, I—"

Grant cut him off, his tone indifferent. "There’s a healing tree at the entrance. Use its leaves."

Charles glanced at the old tree, surprised. A healing tree? Here? He climbed up quickly, plucking a few leaves and pressing them against his wounds. Green light shimmered as the leaves worked their magic, sealing his injuries in moments.

As he admired the tree, a faint voice from behind snapped him back. "Charles… you’re not a wind warrior, are you?"

Charles froze, his mind racing. He turned slowly, meeting Grant’s piercing gaze. There was no hint of mockery, only curiosity—and perhaps, a shred of respect.

"No," Charles admitted softly. "I’m not."

"Then why hide it?" Grant asked, stepping closer. His tone was unreadable, his expression impassive.

Charles straightened his back, meeting Grant’s eyes with his own determined gaze. "Because right and wrong aren’t as simple as they seem. In my world, strength alone isn’t enough. Strategy, perception, and adaptability—they matter just as much. Sometimes, hiding what you are is the only way to survive."

Grant studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away. But as he reached the edge of the training ground, his voice floated back, carried by the wind.

"Let’s see if your way can stand the test of mine, Charles West."