Deep within the eastern forest, a towering ancient tree stood tall, its canopy filtering the still-scorching autumn sunlight. Dappled shadows fell upon two figures beneath its branches.

Rayne's focus was entirely on Makarov, the outside world forgotten. With a slight bend of his knees, he pushed off the ground—his body shooting forward like an arrow. His clenched fist swung out without hesitation.

"Going all out from the start? You really don't hold back," Makarov remarked with a chuckle, his hands casually behind his back. Despite his relaxed demeanor, his movements were anything but slow as he crouched, effortlessly dodging Rayne's strike.

"I doubt my current strength could even scratch you, Guild Master," Rayne replied. His waist and knees sank low as his missed punch seamlessly transitioned into a hammer-like downward strike.

"Hoh~ Not bad reflexes." Makarov's eyes gleamed with approval at the follow-up, though he still had the breath to keep talking. A twist of his waist and a pivot of his feet easily evaded the attack.

"..." Rayne stayed silent, his breathing steady. His left hand, hanging low, suddenly clawed toward Makarov. His initial responses had been decent, but he was far from matching the Guild Master's ease.

As if expecting it, the diminutive figure simply stepped back, effortlessly avoiding the grab. Rayne pressed forward, fists and feet launching a relentless assault. Yet Makarov moved like an agile monkey—shifting left and right, ducking and weaving—avoiding every strike with minimal effort.

"Good. You understand the gap between us—that's important." Makarov's voice was approving as he dodged. He'd initially worried Rayne might hesitate in his attacks, but the boy was more composed than expected.

"Your combat instincts are raw, but your adaptability and reactions are solid. You won't need long to refine your martial arts." To Makarov, hand-to-hand combat wasn't something that required meticulous teaching. Pain was the best instructor.

"His spacing is too precise… and he's reading my movements perfectly." Rayne's thoughts remained unspoken, his focus unbroken. The repeated misses didn't frustrate him—if anything, his fighting spirit burned brighter.

"Hmph. This brat's temperament isn't bad—suits me just fine." Deep within, Drayke's voice carried a hint of excitement. The path of "Domination" thrived on battle, and she was no stranger to reckless combat. After all, what kind of lunatic fights their way straight into enemy command, decapitating their leaders and forcing three warring factions to unite just to kill her? Sensing Rayne's rising fervor, Drayke's own blood stirred.

No one noticed the shift.

On the battlefield, Rayne studied Makarov's movements, searching for openings. Then—he spotted it. A slight tendency to dodge left.

His eyes narrowed.

A heavy step forward, the damp earth muffling his footfall. His fist shot out in a straight punch.

Just as predicted, Makarov sidestepped left.

"Now!"

Rayne's hips twisted sharply, redirecting the force of his punch. A barely perceptible adjustment—but enough.

Whether Makarov had underestimated him or simply let his guard down, the shift was just enough to land a hit.

But in the next instant—

Rayne's vision blurred. The world flipped upside down.

"Thud!!!"

A heavy impact rattled his bones. His eyes widened as the air rushed out of his lungs in a sharp cough. His back throbbed with numbness.

"Lesson one: What looks like an opening isn't always one." Makarov's grinning face loomed above him, utterly unbothered.

"Another round, or need a breather?" He stepped back, tone teasing.

"Again!" Once his breathing steadied, Rayne kipped up in one fluid motion.

"Before this training ends, I'm landing at least one hit!" He shot a determined look at Makarov, whose amused expression only hardened his resolve. Beating one of the Ten Wizard Saints—even in pure hand-to-hand—was impossible. But leaving a mark? That, he could do.

With renewed focus, Rayne charged again, his attacks sharper, his observations keener.

Not far away…

"Tch. That old man's pride is something else." Porlyusica grumbled, grinding herbs with more force than necessary. Though she despised combat, even she could tell: Makarov had slipped up. His predictability had given Rayne an opening. But rather than admit it—or let the boy gain confidence—he'd retaliated with lightning speed at the last second.

Otherwise, that punch would have connected.

"Hey, brat! Stay away from there!" Her sharp voice cut through the air as she spotted a certain small figure lurking near her drying racks. Her medicines included sun-dried lizards and toads—things most girls wouldn't dare touch.

But this horned, tailed child?

She wasn't just staring. She looked hungry.

Porlyusica's eye twitched. She'd seen this before. If Rayne hadn't intervened last time, she'd have never allowed these three to train here.

Oddly, though, she didn't dislike the girl. For someone who despised humans, that was… unusual. It made her wonder:

Maybe this one isn't human at all.

Not that she'd ask Makarov. It didn't matter. Still, her attitude toward Conna had softened—so long as she stayed away from the herbs. Especially when eyeing them like snacks.

The relentless sounds of combat, paired with the little menace eyeing her precious ingredients, finally snapped Porlyusica's patience.

"YOU TWO—KEEP IT DOWN!!!"

Her roar echoed through the forest, shattering the tranquil silence.