From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman-Chapter 38: The Weight of Names

By midday, the letters piled on his desk—three, maybe four, he didn’t count. None were opened. The seals said enough. Crests stamped in red wax, names he didn’t ask for.

He stared at them. Then pushed them aside.

Outside, the East Yard called him back.

His coat hung from a post, edges stiff with dried sweat. His blade lay across the stone bench, glinting beneath the sun. Leon stood in the centre of the yard, feet planted, body still.

Not meditating. Just breathing.

Listening.

The scrape of leaves. Wind curling along the stone path. Distant clangs from the far sparring ring.

Bootsteps neared. Familiar.

"Your fan mail’s getting heavier," Roth said, toeing one of the unopened letters.

Leon didn’t turn. "I’m not reading them."

"You should. Veltier doesn’t write twice."

"They won’t get a third."

Roth walked over, leaned on the post. "You’re an idiot."

Leon nodded. "Probably."

Silence.

Then a rustle. Roth tossed him a scroll. "New placement. You’re bumped. Second year roster starting next week."

Leon caught it. Skimmed the schedule.

More sparring. Tactical review. Field drills. Less rest.

He rolled it back up. "Expected worse."

"It’s not about the schedule. It’s about the rooms you’ll share now. The eyes in those halls don’t blink."

Leon cracked his neck. "That’s fine, let them watch."

"You won’t say that when one of them challenges you at midnight without a referee."

"Then I won’t wait for one."

Roth snorted. "Just say the word and I’ll start reading your offers for you."

Leon reached for his blade. "I’m not theirs."

Roth watched him for a moment. Then nodded and stepped back.

Leon resumed drills. Tight arcs. Guard shifts. Weight shifts. Everything narrowed into angles and pressure.

The sun crawled west.

By the time he stopped, his hands were shaking.

He wiped his brow, walked back to the bench.

The letters waited.

One bore the Veltier seal.

He stared at it. Then set it aside.

Took the others.

Lit a match.

Burned them.

No theatre. No words.

Just fire.

And ash.

He didn’t sleep that night. Not because of pain, though his ribs still groaned with every movement. Not because of nerves, those had numbed out weeks ago. He just... didn’t.

Instead, he stood in the stairwell window, arms crossed, watching fog crawl through the lantern lit garden paths below.

At some point, footsteps joined him.

"Burned them?" Fena’s voice.

Leon didn’t move. "All but one."

She stepped beside him. "That’s restraint."

"Not really."

"Roth said you got bumped."

He nodded.

"You ready?"

He thought about it. "No."

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She leaned on the railing. "Being ready means you’re done growing. You’re not."

He finally turned to her. "Neither are you."

She gave a small shrug. "Difference is, I don’t fight ghosts every morning."

He didn’t smile. But something in him almost did.

Silence again. Just the garden lights and the fog curling between them.

Then Fena spoke again.

"You’ll be fine. But don’t let that stop you from bleeding once in a while."

"I bleed enough already."

She bumped his shoulder. "You do it alone. That’s different."

And just like that, she was gone.

Leon stayed there. Long after the last light dimmed. Long after the halls quieted.

He didn’t know what second year would bring.

But he knew where he stood.

At the edge of fire.

And facing forward.

The next morning, the East Yard was slick with mist. Leon stepped barefoot onto the stone, steam rising from his breath. Each movement now carried weight earned, not imagined.

His shadow stretched beside him as he moved through his warm up forms, slower now, but sharper. Roth appeared again near the end, arms crossed, a folded robe under one arm.

"They reassigned me too," Roth muttered. "Said it’s good for you to have someone to ’balance your temperament.’"

Leon didn’t pause. "You’re not good at balance."

"Exactly. We’ll fit right in."

He tossed the robe on the bench and joined in for drills. No more corrections. Just rhythm. Familiar motion.

In the distance, two instructors watched. One scribbled notes.

Leon caught their eyes. Didn’t look away.

Later that day, Elric passed him in the corridor, didn’t stop. Just a clipped, sharp line thrown over his shoulder:

"Keep the blade low in the halls. You’ve earned that much."

Leon nodded once. Didn’t break stride.

That night, he opened the Veltier letter.

And smiled.

Then he tore it in half.

The training yard after dusk was emptier now, but not silent. The clatter of steel echoed faintly from the north halls, where older cadets drilled long past curfew. Leon sat on the bench, coat draped over his shoulders, watching the last streaks of amber fade from the sky.

A shadow shifted beside him.

"Didn’t expect you to still be out here," said Riva.

Leon didn’t turn. "I’m always out here."

Riva folded her arms, eyeing the blade resting at his side. "They’re saying the Grand Marshal took notice."

Leon’s brow lifted slightly. "Did he send a letter too?"

"No," she replied. "He sent a man."

Leon looked at her now.

"He’ll be at the Northern Tower tomorrow. Third bell."

"Am I supposed to bow?"

"Depends," Riva said. "On whether you want what he’s offering."

Leon leaned back. Let the weight of the day fall off his shoulders for a moment.

"I want to climb my way up to the top," he said quietly.

"Then meet him."

She left before he could respond.

Leon sat for a long time after. His hands were still cracked, his legs bruised but none of it pulled him down. His shadow stretched longer as night claimed the yard.

And when he finally stood, it was with no hesitation.

Tomorrow wouldn’t wait.

And neither would he.

When morning came, Leon didn’t dress in uniform. He wore black instead—old cloth, scarred at the sleeves, cut loose enough to move in. The kind of clothes you bled in without guilt.

He left early.

No fanfare. No detours.

The Northern Tower loomed quiet in the haze, its windows catching the sunrise like slivers of molten glass. Leon climbed the outer stair alone, passing no one. The third bell hadn’t rung yet.

But the man was already there.

Older. Tall. Not in armour, but still imposing—like someone who’d worn it too long to ever really take it off. He stood near the edge, hands clasped behind his back, watching birds scatter over the trees.

"You came," the man said without turning.

Leon stopped two paces away. "I was told to."

The man finally faced him. Grey eyes. A thin scar cutting through his right brow. No insignia on his cloak. But Leon didn’t need it. The presence was enough.

"You fought well. Not clean, but honest. That matters more than form."

Leon stayed quiet.

"I’m not offering you a title," the man said. "I’m offering you strength."

A pause.

"Real strength. Authority. Responsibility. Enemies. Allies. All of it."

Leon crossed his arms. "What for?"

"To test what kind of fire you carry. And what you’d do when it burns higher than you expected."

He stepped closer.

"You have one night to decide."

Then he left.

No scroll. No emblem. Just words.

Leon stood alone again.

The sun finally broke through the clouds.