Berserk: The Prophet

Chapter 161 Griffith

The old man's face was etched with the marks of time, but his eyes remained sharp, and every swing of his sword revealed the vigor of his youth.

"Huff...huff..." Even though his hands were bruised from being hit, the boy's azure eyes shone with determination. The panting boy did not want to give up so easily.

Soon the boy organized another offensive and charged towards the old man.

"Clang! Clang! Clang!" The sounds of wooden swords clashing echoed continuously in the martial arts training ground in the courtyard.

The boy was panting heavily, his silver hair soaked with sweat and plastered to his forehead. Though his steps were slightly heavy, his movements grew increasingly powerful, and each swing of his sword became more precise.

The old man looked at the boy, nodded with approval in his eyes, and felt very proud. This child, who had the blood of the Bayer Empire flowing through his veins, possessed extraordinary perseverance and determination.

He remembered when the prince first arrived, he couldn't even hold a sword properly and knew very little about swordsmanship. But now, he was able to spar with the old man for several rounds, a prodigy like his father. His slender and agile frame and his body that handled attacks with ease meant that the boy had the talent to become a master of one-handed sword fighting.

Finally, the boy found the old man's weakness and thrust his sword out with incredible speed.

The old man slightly shifted his body to the side, dodging the attack, and at the same time, swung his wooden sword, striking the boy's arm.

The boy took a few steps back and rubbed his arm, but there was no sign of discouragement in his eyes.

“Very good, you have made great progress,” the old man said. “However, you still need to continue to work hard to become a true master of sword fighting.”

The silver-haired boy nodded and gripped the wooden sword in his hand again. He knew he still had a long way to go, but he believed that as long as he persevered, he would always get closer to his dream.

"Again!" the boy's voice was firm, and there was no sign of backing down in his eyes.

The old man nodded, raised the wooden sword again, and began a new round of instruction. His movements were slow, but each swing was full of power and skill. The boy followed the old man's movements closely, and his swordsmanship improved with each practice session.

Time slipped away quietly as the master and apprentice sparred. The sun gradually set, bathing the martial arts arena in golden afterglow. The boy's breathing became steady, and his movements grew increasingly skillful and fluid as he practiced the new moves he had learned that day alone on the field.

Having completed the final move, the boy sheathed his sword and stood still, a hint of weariness flashing in his eyes, but mostly satisfaction. The old man smiled and stepped forward, gently patting the boy's shoulder.

"That's enough for today. Your progress is gratifying. Remember, improving swordsmanship requires consistent practice." The old man picked up a towel from the ground and handed it to the boy. "Take a rest, and we'll continue tomorrow."

The boy took the towel and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked back at the training ground, where his slender muscles were beginning to take shape, and then at the white castle bathed in the setting sun in the distance. His dream no longer seemed so far away.

During a break, the boy sat on the windowsill, his blue ribbon loose, his silver-white hair fluttering in the breeze. His gaze pierced through the curtains and landed on the distant street.

The sounds of children playing and laughing were as usual. This place was far from the street where the mother lived, and even the clothes of the children of the same age were cleaner and neater than those in the previous alley.

He watched them laugh with joy, clutching their spoils of the day, and he laughed along. His dream, his spoils, must be something far more dazzling than the toys in those children's hands.

Her blue eyes were lost in memories of the past few months.

That unruly and rude fellow was indeed gone, and Judau had gone to a faraway place, supposedly with his father who had suddenly returned home, to search for the legendary "Fairy Phosphorus Powder" behind his mother's back.

The old man taught him to read and asked him to find a more suitable name for himself in the ancient books of the old empire. He particularly liked a myth about a griffin.

The eagle is a symbol of power, always soaring to the pinnacle of glory. In the ancient texts of the old empire, it also implies wisdom and redemption.

The lion represents power. When the eagle is combined with the lion, it represents the pinnacle of power and authority.

That must be the meaning that harmonizes with his name, right? He just doesn't yet understand what redemption truly means.

“Griffiths…”

"Teacher, I've thought it through. I think that's the name I should be called."

The old man stroked his beard, his eyes gleaming. "...Hmm, a very good name, Griffith."

Griffith snapped out of his brief reverie, looked at the ring on his right ring finger, and felt a surge of helplessness.

Once he put the ring on, he couldn't take it off. He didn't know how he would return it to that kid in the future. The thought of his hard-won dream being treated as a joke made Griffith feel powerless, like punching cotton.

He's just an annoying guy!

"Sigh..." He sighed softly, not knowing if that guy was still alive, but he hoped he wasn't dead, as he still wanted to use his martial arts skills, which he had practiced diligently for a long time, to compete with him.

His fair and slender hands had developed thin calluses from holding the sword for so long. I really don't know how that guy got his hands like that; they were as rough as sandpaper.

"Young master, it's time to practice your writing." The old man's voice came from the mansion. He usually only called him Your Highness when there were only the two of them.

“...Here he comes,” Griffith replied, a hint of anticipation in his voice.

Young people are always thirsty for knowledge; the journey to that castle has only just begun.

.........

The border between Midland and Juda.

The truce has lasted for nearly two months, and winter is approaching. Gambino of the Fierce Bear Group has a rare period of leisure, indulging in feasting and drinking every day. Juda has already settled the bills for their mercenary group, and everyone is relatively well-off.

It's not a good idea to support so many people every day. Those who should go home to visit their families should go home, and those who should go to the city should go and enjoy themselves. I heard that the prisoner exchange between Midland and Judas is scheduled for February next year, including Midland's White Dragon General Yuris.

Midland probably doesn't have much spare money to hire mercenaries, and Juda's mercenary contract has ended. It seems that in the coming year, they will have to rely on those nobles who are still relatively well-off.

Peace between kingdoms does not necessarily mean peace between lords and nobles, as it is common for them to wage war against each other within the same kingdom due to conflicts of interest.

"...Gambino."

Sure enough, just as Gambino was preparing to go to the tavern for another drink today, his little tagalong came looking for him.