Under the cheerful sunlight of spring, an unusual event was unfolding, a stark contrast to the clear weather outside.

The Curzon House, while grandly named, was a mansion befitting a lower-ranking noble. Its opulence was far from what the title might suggest. Rooms like the study and warehouse hinted at nobility, but to my eyes, it resembled a wealthy merchant's abode more than a nobleman's estate.

In one corner of this mansion, a patch of lawn had been worn away, revealing the soil beneath. Here, a boy had been tirelessly practicing swordplay. An older figure, much older than the boy, observed him intently, pocket watch in hand, marking the passage of time.

How long had it been? Several hours, or perhaps mere minutes? I glanced at the wooden sword in my hand, now slick with sweat. It was a substantial piece, thick and weighty, enough to challenge even a grown man's grip. I had been swinging it for what felt like an eternity, completing my daily regimen of 2000 practice swings.

My strength had long abandoned me. My grip on the sword was feeble, sustained only by the residual energy of my fingertips. With a final burst of effort, I swung the sword downward, then collapsed, face-up, onto the ground.

"I-I can't go on," I gasped, words escaping my lips without thought. I'd lost count of how many times I'd uttered those words during this grueling routine. My gaze drifted upwards, meeting the vast expanse of the sky.

My thoughts wandered. Surely, across the entire continent, my Curzon House was the only one subjecting a five-year-old child to such rigorous training.

I knew of other noble children, introduced to me through my father's connections. At this moment, they were likely engaged in lessons with private tutors or participating in activities that felt like mere games.

"You're right, dying indeed," my father's voice echoed mockingly. A spear descended swiftly, and I twisted away, narrowly dodging its deadly point. The ground I had occupied seconds earlier was pierced by the spear's tip. Instinct forced me to my feet; that attack would have been fatal had it connected. Anger surged within me.

"Are you trying to kill me!?" I protested, the words escaping on a breathless rush.

"What's this? You're still capable of moving. Can't afford to slack off, even at your age," my father chided, his laughter ringing out like a taunt.

"I would've died if I hadn't moved just now!"

My father, George, laughed off my fury, the affection he felt for me evident in his fierce smile. Only his wife could truly perceive that affection, a testament to how well she knew him. To me, that smile foretold only more trials.

"Come now! What's the matter? I won't hold back, so assume your stance quickly," he urged, his tone almost jovial.

"I'm going to die! This time, I'm sure of it!" I cried out in despair.

Exhaustion weighed heavily on me from the relentless swings. My father, now wielding a wooden sword, launched another attack. My grip on the thick wooden sword, identical to his, was tenuous at best, worn out from the previous hours of training.

I wanted to cry. Despite this, for my own survival, I had to endure my father's onslaught, unpredictable and brutal. My fingertips, devoid of strength, struggled to maintain the feeble grip on the sword. I couldn't afford to lose focus; a momentary lapse would leave me vulnerable to his strikes.

The merciless assault continued, a training exercise that seemed more akin to a life-or-death battle. Over time, I had been struck and had bones fractured multiple times. Reflecting, I marveled at my continued survival.

My father had deliberately chosen a thick wooden sword, forcing me to acclimate to the weight and impact of a real blade. To bear the burden, I had to release all tension from my body at the moment of impact, a feat impossible to maintain with constant strength. Any misstep would result in a devastating blow.

"That's right. Use your pinky as the base and channel your grip strength into your parries," my father instructed, his joy evident despite the circumstances.

"It's hard to take your advice seriously when you're grinning like that!" I retorted.

"Haha! Well, this is just a joyful bonding experience between parent and child," he chuckled.

"In what world is 'bonding' when one person is on the brink of death!?" I exclaimed.

Finally, my fingertips relinquished their last vestiges of strength. The training had concluded at last. Collapsing onto the ground, I gazed up at the vast blue sky.

"Ah, being alive is truly a marvel," I whispered, awash with emotion.

"Here's your drink, young master," an elderly maid, her brown hair glinting in the sunlight, offered me a cup of lemon water.

"Thank you," I managed, gulping down the refreshing beverage.

The sour tang of chilled lemon rejuvenated my utterly drained body. I sighed heavily, feeling like an old man, and returned the cup to the maid, my embarrassment fleeting.

"Do you want another glass?" she asked kindly.

"Yes, please."

The treacherous training, a perilous dance with death, had become a routine backdrop in the Curzon House.

---

After my daily ordeal, I rose from the ground and joined my father in the mansion's dining room for breakfast.

The dining room, spacious yet minimally furnished with only a dining table, stretched before us. I surveyed the meal laid out in front of me: corn soup, bread, and salad, accompanied by a small portion of meat. A lavish meal, indeed. Nobility's privilege, perhaps, to indulge in meat even at breakfast.

The warmth of the soup spread through me, mingling with the flavors of the broth, bread, and meat. Amidst this culinary delight, a commanding voice cut through the air.

"Claude, don't neglect your salad. It's important for your health," my mother, a vision of beauty with flowing black hair and violet eyes, admonished.

"But I don't like it," I protested.

"It's not about liking it. It's about nourishing your growing body," she asserted, her tone gentle yet firm.

Feeling her eyes upon me, I begrudgingly picked at the salad. My father, absorbed in his own meal, offered a nonchalant agreement. My mother sighed in response, continuing her own breakfast.

Then, my elder brothers, Karl and Ralph, chimed in, their tones mocking.

"Look at you, struggling. I'm glad I'm finally free from Father's torment," Ralph, my second brother, teased.

I turned, mouth still full, to glare at them. Karl, my first brother, attempted to defuse the situation.

"How's your training, Claude?" he inquired, suppressing a smile.

"Want me to punch you right here?" I shot back, my frustration boiling over.

They burst into laughter, the sound grating on my nerves. True, my father's training was undeniably severe, but what they didn't understand was the sheer unfairness of it all.

Supposedly, my father had been persuaded by my mother to train Karl when he was young. Initially reluctant, my father soon found delight in

 his son's rapid progress under his guidance. Karl's growth, sculpted by my father's hands, brought unexpected joy. From that moment on, Father had decided to train Karl rigorously, a brutality that had ultimately fallen on Ralph, then me.

The training sessions were grueling, and my father's methods were unforgiving. If hell existed, I was convinced it was akin to those training sessions.

"Now, now, no need to be so upset. We've endured it too, you know," Karl consoled, his laughter failing to mask his amusement.

"I finally understand why Karl used to laugh at me during training," Ralph added, his laughter echoing through the room.

I clenched my fists, resisting the urge to scream. However, recalling my mother's wrath from the last time we disrupted a meal, I bit my tongue and forced myself to finish my food. Despite my frustration, our family breakfast eventually came to an end.