Rhode thought he’d met a very dangerous person.

Though Leona was a princess, her loud, reform-demanding antics were undeniably risky.

After enduring several days of her pestering, Rhode finally glimpsed a sliver of hope—

Leona was leaving.

It seemed the Crown Prince, her elder brother who’d grown weary of her roaming freely, had summoned her home.

With an elder brother’s authority akin to a father’s, Leona had no choice but to obey and return quietly to the Imperial Capital.

Come to think of it—what *was* the Imperial Capital’s actual name? Well, it was simply called the Imperial Capital. No fancy titles.

Rhode stood at the doorstep with his mother and a line of servants, seeing the princess off.

He played along perfectly, waving goodbye to the young princess with a completely blank expression.

Though his farewell lacked sincerity, he didn’t dislike Leona.

Compared to other nobles and royals, she was… refreshingly different.

“Ironfist Princess”—how could she *not* be special?

At the thought, Rhode instinctively touched his cheek—long healed, bruises faded—and drew a slow breath.

Even fully recovered, phantom pains lingered. A testament to just how terrifying her fists were.

“Rhode, Leona is the princess,” his mother chided, ruffling his hair with exasperation.

She knew exactly how he acted around Leona. That attitude wouldn’t do.

“Mother, I understand,” Rhode said with a firm nod, as if he’d truly taken her words to heart.

How much he’d actually absorbed? Something both mother and son tacitly understood.

“Mother, I’ve neglected my sword training lately,” Rhode tugged her sleeve. “I’d like to stay at Master Hagart’s for the next few days.”

“You and your schemes,” his mother sighed with resignation, though she didn’t refuse.

“With Shilo away and you gone too, the house will feel so empty.”

“It’s fine. Only three days,” Rhode said solemnly.

Three days—more than enough to master a new skill!

“Study hard,” his mother reminded him, worried playful Rhode wouldn’t take it seriously.

She needn’t have worried. Rhode wasn’t there to learn swordsmanship at all.

If she’d known, her blood pressure would’ve skyrocketed.

Fortunately, she had no idea Master Hagart—once captain of the guards—was actually an assassin.

Some wore the mask of a passionate instructor… while secretly being the legendary Old Man of the Mountain.

That very night, Rhode boarded the family carriage headed for Hagart’s residence.

—

Hagart’s house sat right beside a bustling vegetable market.

Rhode always glanced curiously whenever he passed—but had never stepped inside.

Upon arrival, the servant turned back, arranged to return at dusk three days later.

Rhode stood before Hagart’s door—before he could knock, it swung open.

As it did, a raven shot out and latched onto his hair.

Rhode could only let it use him as a perch.

After all, the raven was unnaturally agile; without stealth, catching it was impossible.

“Master, I’ll stay three days this time,” Rhode said upon seeing Hagart, holding up three fingers.

“Three days?” Hagart sipped his tea.

Inside, the house was serene—a quiet contrast to the market and bookstore outside.

“Even with three days, I doubt you’ll learn much,” Hagart said, expertly deflating Rhode’s confidence.

He wasn’t worried Rhode would lose heart; he worried Rhode might get cocky.

Why the boy was so confident? Hagart had no clue.

He was neither a genius nor a prodigy.

Yet that very trait made Hagart find him oddly endearing.

“No problem. I’ll figure out what ‘presence’ is,” Rhode replied without a hint of discouragement—just as Hagart expected.

“Then begin now.” The old man set down his cup and whistled.

At the sound, Black Raven flew from Rhode’s head to Hagart’s shoulder.

“Close your eyes. Find Black Raven using only your senses,” Hagart instructed.

The “Black Raven” he named was the very raven now perched on his shoulder.

“Black Raven stays within two meters. You could pounce and catch it easily.”

“Don’t open your eyes. I’ll know.”

“And don’t try tracking it by sound or scent—you can’t.” Hagart shut down every loophole beforehand.

“…” Rhode hesitated, then obediently closed his eyes.

“To conceal presence, you must first sense it,” Hagart added calmly.

Letting Rhode “meditate” blindly would get him nowhere. Hands-on was the only way.

“Here!” Rhode lunged.

“Don’t guess,” Hagart chided.

Rhode sat cross-legged, took a deep breath.

“Definitely here!” He lunged again.

“Each mistake, Black Raven shifts position,” Hagart added evenly.

“And if you’re gambling on luck? I’ll sense it.”

“You can tell *that*?” Rhode asked, eyes still shut, curious.

“Yes,” Hagart replied. “Though ‘sense’ fits better than ‘see’.”

“I’ll prepare dinner.” The old man rose and headed to the kitchen.

He wasn’t worried Rhode would slack off… truthfully, even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.

Hagart guided him purely out of interest.

Serious effort? He’d be pleased.

Half-hearted effort? No loss—just a quiet pity in the end.