Chung Myung stood beneath the shade of a tree, eyes narrowing as he watched the young junior practicing alone. Her sword swings were clumsy, her breathing ragged, hands trembling from exhaustion. But what caught his attention wasn’t her weakness—it was the stubborn fire in her eyes, refusing to give up.

With lazy but deliberate steps, he approached. “Are you dancing, or trying to kill the wind?” he muttered dryly. Without waiting for acknowledgment, Chung Myung seized her sword and adjusted her grip with a practiced motion—firm, precise, and without hesitation.

He met her gaze for a moment. There was something there—fragile, but burning. “If you want to cry, do it after you win,” he said calmly, turning away. That was enough. He didn’t need thanks. If she could stand on her own, Mount Hua had one more reason to rise again.