Yet Graystone taught Mike far more than bladework. During water breaks, when Mike's muscles screamed and quitting seemed the only sane option, the old warrior would speak of the eight virtues of knighthood. "Courage," he'd say, wiping sweat from his brow, "isn't about feeling no fear. It's about moving forward when you're terrified." "Justice is the only master your sword should ever acknowledge." His voice would soften when speaking of "Compassion, generosity, faith, nobility, hope..." But it was "temperance" that brought steel back to his tone. "Remember this, boy—controlling the sword in your hand is child's play compared to mastering the rage and desire in your heart."

This unorthodox upbringing set him apart from other kids. In gym class, Mike demolished every fitness record without breaking a sweat, leaving classmates gaping in his wake. But when the bell rang for algebra or history, he might as well have been a stranger in a foreign land. While other students debated equations or historical events, Mike's mind wandered to stance adjustments and parry techniques. His parents' faces tightened with each dismal report card. More than once, they approached his grandfather about ending this "medieval fantasy," as his mother called it. Each time, the old man shut them down with quiet, immovable certainty.


Summer 2005—Mike turned sixteen. Ten years to forge a blade. During their morning sparring session in the backyard, something changed. Mike's wooden sword struck with lightning precision, knocking Graystone's weapon clear across the yard. In the same fluid motion, he brought his blade to rest a mere inch from his teacher's throat. Rock-steady. Unwavering. Graystone didn't flinch. His hawk-like eyes assessed Mike with piercing intensity, though deep within them flickered something rare—pride. "Damn," he muttered. "You're a born knight."

Three days later, Graystone arrived at the usual hour but remained seated in his car. When Mike approached, the old warrior rolled down his window. "This is our final lesson." His voice carried the same matter-of-fact tone he might use to discuss the forecast. "I have nothing more to teach you." The abruptness left Mike speechless, rooted to the spot. Graystone reached across to the passenger seat and retrieved a battered shoebox. "This is my most precious possession," he said, extending it through the window. "Now it's yours." Without another word—no goodbye, no final wisdom—he drove away, as decisively as he'd entered Mike's life a decade earlier.

Mike stood clutching the surprisingly light box, watching until Graystone's taillights vanished around the corner. Back in his room, he lifted the lid, half-expecting some ancient weapon or secret scroll. Instead, he found a thick, dog-eared law book with worn corners. Its cover bore a simple title: "U.S. Code: Title 18 — CRIMES AND CRIMINAL PROCEDURE."


In that moment, everything clicked into place.

The sixteen-year-old warrior clutched the law book to his chest and wept through the night—not like a knight, but like the child he'd never been allowed to be.