The sun hung low over Mary Geoise, its golden rays filtering through the grand arches of the Figarland estate. As the light danced across the marble floors, Ronan Figarland stood at the threshold of his father's training courtyard, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Today was the day he would confront Garling Figarland, the legendary warrior and protector of the Celestial Dragons, to ask for personal training.
Ronan's fingers grazed the hilt of his sword. He had heard about countless battles unfold from his mother, his father's might and prowess instilling both awe and determination within him. "I am not just a name on a family tree," Ronan thought. "I will carve my own legacy."
As he stepped into the training courtyard, the sounds of clashing swords and gruff training commands echoed around him. The air crackled with energy, and the scent of sweat and determination hung heavy. Garling stood at the center, demonstrating a series of fluid movements with his sword, each strike precise and powerful. His form was an embodiment of strength and discipline, and Ronan felt a spark of inspiration ignite within him.
"Father," Ronan called out, his voice steady despite the butterflies in his stomach.
Garling turned, his sharp gaze locking onto his son. "Ronan. What brings you here?" His voice was deep and commanding, yet there was a hint of curiosity in his tone.
"I want to train with you. I want to become strong enough to protect our family and one day venture out to sea on my own," Ronan declared, each word imbued with his fervent desire. He had rehearsed this speech countless times, but now, standing before his father, it felt weighty and profound.
Garling raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "You wish to train personally with me? You understand the implications of this, don't you? The path to strength is fraught with hardship."
"I do, Father," Ronan replied earnestly, determination flooding his words. "I want to stand tall among my peers, just like you. I don't want to let down our family's expectations."
A moment of silence stretched between them, Garling assessing his son with a critical eye. "Very well, Ronan. If you are truly committed to this path, I will train you. But be prepared; it will not be easy."
"Thank you, Father!" Ronan exclaimed, a surge of exhilaration coursing through him. This was the first step toward the life he desired.
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The following weeks passed in a blur of rigorous training. Ronan quickly found himself immersed in the world of physical and mental conditioning. Under his father's watchful eye, he began to learn the Marines' Rokushiki techniques, each exercise pushing him to his limits. The initial thrill of starting his training with Garling Figarland quickly gave way to a grueling, relentless regimen. Each day brought a new challenge, a new lesson that tested not only his physical limits but his mental endurance. He didn't have any idea that the next six months was gonna be unlike anything Ronan had ever experienced.
Garling approached training with precision, knowing exactly when to push and when to let Ronan absorb the lessons. He began with Soru, the first of the Rokushiki techniques—a high-speed movement technique that allowed the user to disappear from sight and reappear in an instant.
"Speed is everything in a fight," Garling explained during their early morning session. "But it's not just about moving fast. You have to know where to move and when. Otherwise, you're just a blur, no different than a leaf caught in the wind."
Ronan listened intently, watching his father demonstrate Soru. With a single step, Garling vanished, reappearing behind him in a blink. It was an almost effortless display of mastery, and Ronan's heart pounded with the realization of how far he had to go.
"Now, try it," Garling urged, stepping aside.
Ronan braced himself, focusing on his legs, willing them to move at the same incredible speed. His first attempt sent him stumbling forward, falling to the ground in a heap. Garling offered no words of comfort, only a firm command.
"Again."
The days blurred together, and every failure seemed to add weight to Ronan's already heavy shoulders. Each misstep felt like a blow to his pride, but it was his father's unyielding presence that kept him going. Garling never scolded him for his mistakes, but his silence spoke volumes. He expected Ronan to keep pushing, to fail and then rise again.
As the weeks passed, Ronan began to understand. Soru was not just about speed—it was about control. It was about being able to see the path before him and take it without hesitation. Slowly, painfully, he improved. His steps became quicker, his movements more precise. By the end of the first month, he was able to keep pace with his father, if only for brief moments.
After mastering Soru, Garling moved on to Geppo, the technique of kicking off the air to create a mid-air platform. It was just as demanding, requiring balance and immense leg strength.
"To fly isn't about defying gravity," Garling said during one of their sessions. "It's about mastering it. You push against the very force pulling you down. Each kick must be exact, or you'll fall."
Ronan spent countless hours in the training courtyard, his legs aching from the repeated effort. There were days he thought he couldn't continue, where his body felt like it would give out at any moment. But every time, Garling's presence brought him back to his feet.
"You can rest when you're dead," Garling would say, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as Ronan struggled to push himself back into the air.
By the third month, Ronan could move through the sky with ease. Geppo had become second nature, and Garling's rare words of praise fueled his determination. But there was no rest—next came Rankyaku, the air-slicing technique Ronan had struggled with from the start.
"Rankyaku is not about brute force," Garling reminded him, watching as Ronan's latest attempt fizzled out before it even formed. "It's about precision. Your legs are your sword, and the air is your blade."
For weeks, Ronan practiced. His frustration mounted, but he pushed through it, remembering his father's words. Slowly but surely, his kicks grew sharper, and by the end of the fourth month, Ronan could send a cutting wave through the air with a single strike.
As the months continued, Garling introduced the remaining Rokushiki techniques—Tekkai, which hardened the body like iron; Shigan, a powerful finger strike; and Kami-e, a technique that allowed the user's body to become fluid and avoid attacks. Each one was a new mountain to climb, but Ronan faced them all head-on.
One evening, after a particularly grueling session of Tekkai, Ronan collapsed to the ground, his muscles screaming in protest. The stars twinkled overhead as he lay on his back, trying to catch his breath.
"I don't know how you do this," Ronan muttered, staring up at the night sky.
Garling, standing nearby, let out a low chuckle. "Neither did I when I was your age. But it's not about knowing. It's about enduring. You get up, every day, and you keep fighting. That's all there is to it."
Ronan turned his head slightly, looking at his father. "Do you ever doubt yourself?"
Garling paused for a moment, his eyes softening as he looked down at his son. "Of course. Everyone does. But that's what makes you stronger—the ability to keep going despite the doubt. That's the difference between those who succeed and those who fail."
The conversation stayed with Ronan long after that night. His father was right—strength wasn't just about mastering techniques or honing his body. It was about the resolve to stand tall, even when everything inside him screamed to stop.
By the end of the sixth month, Ronan had learned all the Rokushiki techniques. His body was leaner, his muscles honed, but more than that, his mind had sharpened. Garling had begun to teach him Life Return, a technique that allowed Ronan to control his body functions down to the smallest detail.
"Life Return is the culmination of everything you've learned," Garling said one afternoon. "It's not just about controlling your body, but your mind as well. When you master it, you can regulate your breathing, your heart rate, even your digestion. Every part of you must be under control."
Ronan nodded, his eyes determined. He had come too far to falter now.
The training was excruciating. Learning to control his body at such a granular level required immense concentration, and every failure felt like a crushing weight. But Garling was always there, pushing him forward, reminding him that strength was not just about power—it was about mastery.
By the end of the six months, Ronan stood before his father, changed. His body had grown stronger, his movements more precise, but it was the look in his eyes that had truly transformed. Gone was the uncertain boy who had first asked for training. In his place stood a young man, filled with determination and a fierce will to surpass every challenge thrown his way.
"You've done well," Garling said, his voice carrying a rare note of pride. "But this is only the beginning."
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After months of intense training, Garling decided it was time to introduce Ronan to the Figarland family's secret sword style. The training hall was dimly lit, shadows flickering against the walls, creating an atmosphere thick with anticipation. Garling unsheathed a normal soldier's sword—a simple yet sturdy blade, devoid of the ornate designs that adorned the family sword.
"This is your weapon for now, Ronan," Garling stated, his voice firm yet encouraging. "Before you can wield the family sword, you must first understand the essence of our style. This blade represents the foundation of your journey as a swordsman."
Ronan's heart raced as he grasped the sword's hilt. It felt foreign yet familiar, a gateway to a legacy he was eager to embrace. "I will honor our family's tradition, Father," he vowed, determination surging through him. The weight of the sword was nothing compared to the weight of expectation resting on his shoulders.
"Now, observe closely," Garling commanded, stepping into position. "The Figarland style is not merely about strength; it's about balance, fluidity, and understanding your opponent. You must become one with your blade."
As Garling began to demonstrate the first sequence of movements, Ronan watched in awe. Each strike flowed seamlessly into the next, the transitions so smooth they were almost hypnotic. The way Garling maneuvered the sword was a dance—an intricate choreography that told a story of discipline and grace.
Ronan's mind raced as he attempted to absorb every detail. "I need to remember this," he thought, a sense of urgency propelling him forward. "Every motion, every stance—this is my chance to learn directly from the master."
Once Garling completed the demonstration, he turned to Ronan, his expression serious yet encouraging. "Now, it's your turn. I want you to replicate what you've seen. Feel the movements, don't just mimic them. Let the sword guide you."
Ronan positioned himself, heart pounding in his chest. As he began to replicate his father's movements, he quickly realized how difficult it was to capture the essence of the style. The sword felt heavy in his inexperienced hands, and he struggled to maintain the fluidity Garling had exhibited.
"Focus on your footing, Ronan," Garling instructed, his voice steady. "Your stance is the root of your power. If you're unbalanced, your strikes will falter."
Taking a deep breath, Ronan grounded himself, imagining the weight of the sword as an extension of his own body. He moved through the sequence again, slower this time, letting his mind visualize the movements rather than just attempting to perform them. Each swing became a part of him, a rhythm he could almost hear.
As he finished the sequence, he looked to his father, hoping for some sign of approval. Garling's expression was inscrutable, but his eyes held a flicker of encouragement. "Better," he acknowledged. "But remember, this style is built on adaptability. Every opponent is different. You must learn to read them."
Ronan nodded, absorbing his father's words. "Adaptability," he repeated silently to himself. "I can do this."
"Let's go over the first stance again," Garling said, stepping closer. He adjusted Ronan's grip on the sword, guiding his hands into the proper position. "The way you hold your sword can make or break your effectiveness. You must be in control, but also ready to flow with the moment."
As they practiced, Ronan felt the warmth of his father's presence beside him, guiding him, shaping him. The bond they were forging through this training was as significant as the lessons he was learning. With each correction and word of advice, he felt a sense of pride swell within him. He was not just Ronan Figarland, the son of a great warrior; he was Ronan, a student eager to carve his own path.
Hours passed as they continued to drill the techniques. Ronan's muscles burned, but he welcomed the pain. It was a reminder that he was alive and fighting for something greater than himself. With each strike, each stance, he could feel the spirit of the Figarland lineage whispering through him, urging him to push harder, to strive for excellence.
"Good," Garling praised, breaking the silence. "You're starting to understand the rhythm. But there's still much to learn. You'll find that mastering this style is a journey, not a destination. "A sword is not just a weapon , Ronan. It is a part of your honor," Garling said to his son. "You must learn to wield it with respect and skill."
Ronan felt the weight of the sword in his hands, a mixture of pride and responsibility washing over him. He understood the significance of this moment. "I will not let you down, Father," he vowed, determination swelling within him.
Ronan nodded, his breath heavy but steady. " Father. I want to be worthy of our family's legacy."
Garling's gaze softened, pride evident in his eyes. "Then we will train together. I will teach you everything I know, and in turn, you will forge your own legacy as a swordsman."
In that moment, Ronan felt a renewed sense of purpose. This was the beginning of something extraordinary—a journey that would shape not just his skills but his very identity as a warrior. Each lesson would be a step toward a future where he could protect those he loved and honor his family's name.
"Show me what you've learned," Garling commanded, stepping back to observe.
Ronan positioned himself, recalling the techniques he had practiced. He moved through a series of strikes and parries, each motion echoing the teachings of his father. With each swing, he could feel the spirit of the Figarland lineage coursing through him, empowering him to push harder.
"Good," Garling acknowledged, a rare smile breaking through his stern demeanor. "But you must also learn to adapt. The battlefield is unpredictable."
Ronan nodded, absorbing his father's words. He knew the journey ahead would be filled with challenges, but he felt ready. He was beginning to carve his own path, step by step, strike by strike."
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End Of The Chapter
Next Chapter:- The Crucible of Strength and Awakening