"Teacher, I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Charles turned around, his face tense, meeting Grant’s piercing gaze. His voice was calm, but his grip on the Killer’s Dagger tightened instinctively.

"Your strength and speed aren’t consistent with a second-order Wind Knight," Grant replied flatly, his scarred fingers brushing the scratches on his silver shield. "And your control over the wind element—it's far too precise. A second-order Wind Knight can't manipulate airflow so effectively or attach it to a weapon."

Charles’s heart raced, but his face remained composed. "Teacher Grant, there’s an explanation for that." He exhaled slowly, then added, "When I was young, I was gravely injured. My father saved my life by transplanting a red dragon’s heart into my body. That’s where my strength and speed come from."

Grant raised an eyebrow, his disbelief palpable. "A red dragon’s heart? Above the eighth order? And your father, Duke West, just happened to stumble upon one—and instead of keeping it for himself, gave it to you? Do you take me for a fool?"

Charles hesitated, then doubled down, his voice steady. "The world is vast, Teacher. Who’s to say all dragons are truly extinct? My father might have been extraordinarily lucky."

Grant let out a dry laugh. "Lucky enough to find a perfect dragon heart, lucky enough to transplant it without killing you, and lucky enough to sacrifice his own ambition for yours? Charles, stop spinning tales. Nolan West wouldn’t hand over such a prize to anyone—not even his son."

Charles clenched his fists, but before he could respond, Grant’s voice softened. "Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. In fact…" He paused, his gaze growing distant. "These ‘secrets’ of yours may be exactly why I’m here."

Grant’s hand trembled slightly as he examined the scratches left by Charles’s dagger. The devil’s eyes. The dragon’s heart. A storm that bends to his will. Could the legends be true?

Suddenly, Grant dropped his shield and approached Charles. The stoic old warrior’s eyes glistened as he knelt on one knee, placing a rough, calloused hand against the younger man’s cheek.

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"I won’t harm you, Charles," he said softly. "You can trust me without reservation. If necessary, I would lay down my life for you. No matter what happens, you must cherish your own." His voice wavered. "You… you are the key to everything."

Charles froze, his mind a whirlwind of confusion. What is he talking about? A key? To what?

Grant stood slowly, brushing the dust from his armor, and spoke again, his voice steadier. "Do you know the legend of the savior of the North?"

"The North?" Charles echoed, perplexed.

Grant nodded, his expression grim. "The North is a land plagued by calamities—perpetual frost, violent storms, unending earthquakes. Three hundred and fifty years ago, the high priest of the Gilensel family offered his life to the gods, seeking salvation. What he received was a prophecy."

He paused, his eyes locking onto Charles’s.

"'The son of the storm, with the eyes of the devil and the heart of the dragon, will rise. Wielding the weapons of the old gods, he will slay the evil wolf Griffin and end the North’s torment.'"

Charles frowned. "And you think I’m this… savior?"

Grant shook his head. "Not just me. The Gilensel family believes it too. That’s why they betrothed their princess to you—they think you’re the one the prophecy foretold."

Charles’s stomach churned. He had heard rumors about the North’s obsession with the savior, but he’d never imagined he’d be dragged into it.

Grant continued, his voice quiet. "But it’s not just them. Long before the Gilensel family received the prophecy, others have been searching—for over fifty years."

The weight of Grant’s words hit Charles like a blow. He opened his mouth to speak but faltered, unable to process the flood of information.

"Do you see now?" Grant asked, his tone almost pleading. "This is why I’m here. Why I’m teaching you. You’re more than just a noble with a sharp mind. You’re a symbol. A hope for something greater."

Charles stood in silence, the pieces slowly falling into place. The marriage contract from the Gilensel family, Grant’s relentless training—it all makes sense now.

But he wasn’t ready to accept it. "Teacher," he said cautiously, "what if I’m not the savior? What if I’m just an ordinary man?"

Grant smiled faintly, the first genuine expression Charles had seen from him. "Maybe you are. Maybe you’re not. But my mission remains the same—to teach you, to prepare you. The rest is up to you."

Charles took a deep breath, his mind clearer now. "Fine. Then I won’t hide anymore. The sequence I’ve mastered is called the Wind Apostle Sequence. I’m currently at the second-order Wind Herald stage. The dragon heart wasn’t from my father, and my eyes are called the Eye of True Vision."

Grant’s face softened, the rigid lines easing as he nodded approvingly. "That’s all I needed to hear. Now, let’s get to work."

For the first time, Charles felt a flicker of trust—not just in Grant, but in himself.