Kael stood barefoot on the dew-soaked grass, yawning as the morning sun stretched over the estate grounds. A light breeze ruffled his hair, and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, still unsure how he had let himself be dragged out of bed this early.
This past days had been a blur.
Morning after morning, he woke with aching limbs and sore muscles.
By now, he knew every creak, every patch of uneven ground on the training field, and every painful lesson burned into his body.
Training became his life.
At dawn, they drilled footwork. Erick would pace around him like a hawk, bark corrections, and strike his legs with a stick when his balance faltered.
"Bend your knees! You're not a statue!"
In the afternoons, he sparred with the guards in training—each of them tougher than the last. He lost nearly every match, often ending up face-first in the dirt, but he learned something new each time. How to read stances. How to conserve movement. How to breathe through the pain.
At night, he cleaned weapons until his hands blistered. Then he studied sword forms with bruised fingers, memorizing every slash and block like his life depended on it.
Because it did.
He didn't become a prodigy overnight. He still slacked when Erick wasn't looking, and he cursed the heat, the blisters, and the aching muscles.
But each time he collapsed onto the ground, panting and sweaty, he found himself getting up just a little bit faster.
And that… was a start.
...
"You're late," Erick said, arms crossed and brow furrowed. He stood at the edge of the training field, surrounded by a handful of estate guards already engaged in drills.
Kael sighed dramatically. "I still don't see why this has to be so early. The sun's barely up."
"You know you complain a lot for someone who has such a monstrous comprehension. You're getting faster," Erick said. "Still sloppy—but less pathetic. And it's been less than a week since we started."
"High praise," Kael wheezed, grinning.
"Don't get too cocky, we still have a long way to go."
Erick looked at him for a long moment before nodding. "Now pick up your sword and start swinging."
...
On a hot afternoon in the training grounds a group of five teens in amour could be seen having a serious brawl against a single person.
The fight could really be called a spectacle.
The five teens were clearly attacking with everything they had, not holding back even a little.
But surprisingly the lone teen was holding his own against them all. But the funny thing about it was how he was doing it.
Sweat plastered the five teens' hair to their foreheads, their heavy breathing echoing across the dusty training grounds. Each clang of steel against steel sent vibrations through their aching muscles. They circled Kael, a pentagon of frustration and dwindling energy.
One of the armored figures lunged, his sword a silver blur aimed at Kael's side. Just as the tip threatened to pierce his defense, a dull thud resonated. A long, dark staff, seemingly conjured from the very air, intercepted the blow with a jarring impact. The force of the strike shuddered up the attacker's arms, nearly dislodging his grip.
Another teen, seizing the momentary distraction, roared and swung his axe overhead. Kael, without even a visible shift in his stance, twisted his torso. A buckler, plain and unadorned, materialized on his forearm just in time to deflect the heavy arc. Sparks flew as steel scraped against the reinforced leather.
"He's not even trying!" one of them gasped, his voice thick with exertion. He feinted left, then thrust his spear forward, aiming for Kael's chest. Again, impossibly fast, a curved blade – a scimitar – flashed into existence, meeting the spear tip with a sharp crack. The force of the parry sent the spearman stumbling back.
Hours blurred into a relentless cycle of attack and impossible defense. The sun beat down mercilessly, baking the armor and draining their strength. Their coordinated assaults devolved into desperate, individual strikes, each met with the same baffling precision. A hammer blow was blocked by a kite shield that vanished as quickly as it appeared. A flurry of dagger thrusts was met by a weaving pattern of unseen parries, the only evidence being the faint whisper of air disturbance.
Kael remained an enigma, his movements minimal, his expression unreadable. He was a silent storm, weathering their onslaught with an almost supernatural calm. He never advanced, never counter-attacked, simply…defended.
Finally, one by one, their attacks grew weaker, their movements sluggish. The fire in their eyes dimmed, replaced by the dull ache of exhaustion. A sword clattered to the ground, followed by another. Legs buckled, and heavy bodies thudded onto the parched earth.
The last of the five stood swaying, his chest heaving, his sword hanging limply at his side. He stared at Kael, a mixture of disbelief and utter fatigue etched on his sweat-streaked face. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a ragged cough escaped. Then, his knees gave way, and he collapsed beside his companions, the clang of his falling sword the final note in their long and arduous battle.
Kael stood alone amidst the fallen figures, his posture unchanged, his breath even. The staff, buckler, and scimitar – the ephemeral guardians of his defense – were nowhere to be seen. The only evidence of the grueling hours was the sheen of sweat on his brow.
[Sword Mastery +0.75]
While on the side Erick and his lieutenant stood watching awestruck.