After that incident, the training intensified brutally. Foot exercises were no longer enough: now my arms, too, were being tested relentlessly. Ravenscroft said that a sword was not just steel and edge, but a weight that shaped both body and will.
He taught me new guards, each with its own advantages and pitfalls.
Ochs—"the ox guard"—with the sword held beside the head, arms tensed like menacing horns. It looked like a powerful stance, but holding it for too long exhausted the muscles. "It'll save you from a blow to the head," he said, "but never forget that your whole body is still a target."
Vom Tag, the hawk-at-the-ready stance, with the sword held at chest height, poised to strike in fierce diagonals. He was versatile, equally adept at defending and attacking without warning.
And finally, Alber, "the fools' stance." The tip of the sword pointing at the ground, torso exposed, head undefended. Anyone would think it was a fatal mistake… and yet it was the most dangerous of all. A decoy. A provocation. "With Alber, you provoke the enemy to attack where he thinks you're weak." So… you cut him off from below, without mercy.
Ravenscroft even made me put my free arm behind my back, as a gesture of arrogance. A taunt aimed at the opponent, a way of saying: you're so inferior that I don't even need both arms to defeat you. In the world, battles weren't just clashes of steel, but games of pride and deception. "He who yields to temptation," he repeated, "has already lost before drawing his sword."
I was barely a beginner in magic, but he set me an absurd goal: walk a hundred steps without stumbling or hesitating, and only then would he teach me a complex spell. At first I thot it was impossible. But with Ravenscroft, nothing was impossible. Each day, time seemed to fly by, and with it my body changed. I felt like they were tearing me away from childhood, step by step.
As for my doubts about Ravenscroft and Leo… they remained unanswered. Since that dinner when their gazes seemed to linger a little too long, there have been no further encounters between them. I, of course, tried to pry information out of my teacher on more than one occasion, but I always received vague, evasive, almost rehearsed answers. As if the mere mention of that topic made him uncomfortable.
Some nites I wondered if there really was something more hidden, or if it was just my imagination playing tricks on me, piecing together things that didn't fit. Maybe it was nothing more than a coincidence, one of those that fate throws in our path to make us waste our time.
And yet, the suspicion never entirely faded. It still throbbed silently, like a splinter in my mind. But the training was relentless; it left me no room to wander too far. Between the muscle pain, the poorly executed cuts, and the sleepless nights, I ended up shoving those questions into some corner of my memory.
For now, I had to keep moving forward.
***
He didn't just train me in fencing and magic. Ravenscroft, with his obsession with making me "complete," decided to add hand-to-hand combat.
—Fists, right under your cheeks. Never lower them. —he instructed me, positioning himself in front of me—. Your feet… you know how to position them.
I imitated him. My fists rose and my feet automatically spread apart, following what I'd learned in previous practice sessions.
"Now," he continued, "move your left foot slightly forward." Not much, just enough to make your opponent think you'll attack on that side. His instinct will make him protect himself… and that's where he'll make the mistake.
I obeyed, shifting my foot as he said.
—So, —Ravenscroft stepped forward, embodying the imaginary opponent— lift that same foot a little, balance on the tip of your toes. Let your body rotate as if you were aiming to strike his liver. He'll take the bait, let his guard down. And then…
He stopped in front of me, his face hardened.
—That's where you land a clean right hook to the chin. With your weight, with your hips, with everything. If you do it right, Drake, he won't get up again.
His subsequent silence weighed more than the instruction itself. After a moment, he added:
—You can aim for the face, yeah… break his nose, bust his mouth. But listen to this and record it: never hit just to hit. If you're going to do harm, do it with purpose. It's better to knock someone out than to leave them suffering.
His gaze, sharp as a blade, made me swallow hard.
When someone is in combat, they don't feel the pain right away. That's why accuracy always beats flashiness. Finish quickly… or they'll finish you.
He crossed his arms and concluded:
—Remember: fast and tenacious. Never slow or ostentatious.
That phrase haunted me for days, echoing every time I missed a shot or found myself exhausted.
***
Time passed. Days and nites blurred together in a routine marked by fatigue, until one morning we set off beyond the lake house, venturing deep into the forest. The hike was long and silent. I didn't know where we were going, but the seriousness on Ravenscroft's face compelled me not to ask.
Halfway along the trail, something strange was crawling thru the undergrowth.
"Look closely," my master said, gesturing with his chin. That will be your first opponent.
A gelatinous, green, translucent mass swayed in the path. It was breathing, or at least it seemed to be, swelling and contracting like a clumsy creature. It had no claws, no fangs, not even a face. More than a monster, it seemed like a mockery.
"Is that a monster?" I asked incredulously.
—A slime. —Ravenscroft crossed his arms—. Fragile, slow, repugnant… and yet, a monster. Underestimate him, and you'll lose more than just your pride.
I swallowed hard, unable to argue with him. I advanced cautiously, my sword at the ready. The slime reacted as if it sensed my presence. It slowly slid toward me… until, suddenly, it jumped.
—What the hell…?!
I fell onto my back, crushed beneath that viscous, fetid thing. It stuck to me as if it were part of an immense tongue. Disgust churned my stomach.
—Hahaha!—Ravenscroft laughed uncontrollably—. You were knocked down by a limo… Do you want me to apologize to him on your behalf?
With a sharp kick, he sent him sprawling. The slime fell to the ground with a wet sound.
—Wake up and finish him off. He's short, yeah… but he's still a monster.
This time I stood up with a serious expression. A firm cut was enough to split it in two.
—Is it an animal, then? Or something else?
My master leaned over the severed body. A flame was born in his hand, burning hot and precise.
—It's a monster. You'll know it because, when it dies, the mana condenses. —the flame began to burn him slowly— And they leave this.
The slime shrank to a steaming puddle, and in the center shone a small, luminous stone.
"Do you always have to… burn them?" I asked, feeling uncomfortable.
—No. But it speeds up the process. You've only just started, so we won't waste the day waiting.
I stared at the stone. So simple… so strange.
—So this was my first fight… against a stinky blob of jello. —I said with a bitter grimace.
As the smoke cleared, a certainty sank into me. It wasn't my fault. Nor satisfaction. Just an intuition: that was only the beginning. What the hell would come next?
—Master… —I asked in a low voice—, what's the difference between a monster and a demon?
—Speech.
I looked at him, confused.
—Monsters don't talk. They can be cunning, organize themselves into groups, and have instinct. Perhaps they have a language we don't understand. But what sets a monster apart from a demon is… that spark. The word. The thot behind the fangs. —he sighed, and his eyes hardened for a moment— Sometimes I wonder, Drake… if the real monsters aren't precisely the ones who seem most human to us.
I fell silent. It didn't matter how many stances I'd memorized, or how many times I'd thrown a water sphere in training. The instant that thing lunged at me, everything I'd learned fell apart.
That was the day I realized that training wasn't combat.
Combat was another beast.
The fight was another beast.
Two months passed quickly. However, in the daily routine that combined fencing and magic, my lessons with my master seemed endless, each moment a challenge I could never escape. The sun barely filtered thru the window, but my mind was already focused, eager to learn something new. Today, he was teaching me a basic spell to invoke spirits of light.
"Goddess of light, guide me and illuminate my path." Spirits, arise.
They weren't powerful entities, but rather light, almost ethereal beings that could be useful in everyday tasks, such as illuminating or guiding the way in the dark.
I felt nervous, but that tension turned into concentration. I raised my hand to chest level, fingers extended and palm open. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the silence envelop me. A whisper of energy began to course thru my body, and I felt an intense heat spreading, starting in my chest and flowing into my limbs. It was as if my blood were slowly boiling, as if my entire being were preparing for an explosion of power.
My breathing quickened. My heart pounded in my ears, echoing a question that constantly haunted me: Will I make it?
"Rise up!" I exclaimed with all the determination I could muster.
But the instant the word left my lips, what happened was completely unexpected.
A blow struck my face with such force that my vision instantly blurred. The ground seemed to open up beneath me, and before I knew it, I was on the floor, a sharp pain in my cheek. The world around me was spinning frantically.
—Idiot! — roared a familiar voice that snapped me out of my confusion.
My still-foggy mind was trying to focus my vision. It was then that I managed to make out the silhouette of my teacher. His presence was unmistakable, imposing, like a shadow that covered everything else. His face was etched with anger, his eyes burning with disdain.
—I told you, magic doesn't work that easily. Don't try to be funny.
The blow that had knocked me down was only the beginning. Before I could react, I saw his elbow descending toward me with the speed of a war hammer. There was no time to avoid it. The pressure in my chest became unbearable, the air vanished from my lungs, and the impact left me completely empty, crushed against the ground with the force of a horse.
***
Slowly recovering from the fall, the pain still throbbed thru my body, but I managed to get back on my feet. My master stood before me, his gaze fixed on my eyes, his presence overwhelming. His voice, deep and sharp, reverberated in my ears.
What you just did isn't entirely right.
—When a spell fails, it can release a burst of mana… or something worse. So be careful. — He paused, his eyes like daggers piercing every corner of my mind —. As I said before, while it's possible to conjure magic without reciting words, it's extremely difficult. Only those who train tirelessly, repeating the same spell over and over for years, manage to master it. For some, it takes an entire lifetime just to learn how to cast one to ten spells without words.
My breathing was calmer, but my mind was still processing his words. I felt a kind of emptiness in my chest, as if reality had collapsed on me. He looked at me with an intensity that made me want to look away, but I forced myself to hold his gaze.
Only those born with the gift of magic or true prodigies can drastically reduce the time required to achieve it. But believe me, there are few mages throughout history who have possessed such skill.
A slight smile appeared on his lips, as if he were trying to give me a glimpse of hope, a sliver of encouragement. But at the same time, his eyes never lost their cold severity.
—I'll show you what a good magician can do with dedication and, above all, with plenty of entertainment. But afterward, you'll continue practicing the spell of the spirits of light.
His words grew harsher.
And no more wordless tricks.
With that tone, he was indicating to me that my mistakes weren't just personal failings, but a lack of respect for magic itself. As if all my ignorance were staining what should have been a noble art.
So that I might truly understand the extent of my power, my master ordered me to throw a rock as high and as far as possible. I gritted my teeth, defying the pain that still coursed thru my body. The rock flew from my hands, and I watched it rise, disappearing into the sky.
Then my master adopted an imperturbable posture. He placed one hand over the other, and slowly, between his palms, a small sphere of fire began to form. The sunlight reflected off its surface, dancing with an intensity that made everything around it seem to fade in comparison.
With a simple gesture, he half-closed his fingers, leaving only his index and middle fingers slightly parted; as if obeying his will, the fire concentrated at the tips of his fingers, crackling with a ferocity I could almost feel on my skin. I watched, my mouth dry, marveling at the energy that emanated from him, an energy that seemed controlled, perfectly directed.
How long would I have to train to achieve even a fraction of that mastery?
With a fluid motion, he spread his hands apart, forming an invisible arc in the air. His posture said it all: he was preparing something. And in the blink of an eye, the fire arrow shot from his right hand, piercing the air with blinding speed. The fiery trail it left in its wake lit up the sky, like a streak of absolute power.
The projectile struck the rock I had thrown moments before, and in the blink of an eye, the stone exploded into a thousand fragments, reduced to ashes by the searing heat.
My breathing quickened. My heart pounded with a mixture of fear and admiration, my body unable to move.
That was the power of my master.
***
I tried once more to cast the spell. This time I was careful with every syllable, pronouncing them slowly, almost with exaggerated precision… but something was off. The words came out of my mouth, yes, but inside me there was no spark, no connection like the one I'd felt in the previous attempt. It was as if I were speaking into the void.
The silence weighed heavily. I clenched my fist in frustration.
"Master... I can't form the spell," I finally admitted in a barely audible voice.
Ravenscroft watched me for a few moments without blinking. His tone, tho calmer than before, carried the severity of someone who doesn't forget recent mistakes.
—Recite it out loud. This time, the whole thing.
I nodded, swallowing hard. I took a deep breath and dared to:
—Goddess of light, guide me and illuminate my path. Spirits, arise.
Next came a harsh sigh. My teacher slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand in a gesture of exasperation. As soon as he lowered his hand, his gaze pierced me like a knife.
—Drake… —His voice had a sharp edge, without any need to shout—not only did you try to swallow your words, you also memorized them wrong.
He raised his hand calmly, as if to show me the difference, and recited firmly:
—Goddess of light, be my guide and illuminate my path. Spirits, arise.
The air vibrated instantly, light and warm, as if the very atmosphere were responding to its call. Before me appeared a tiny being, the size of an arm, translucent and majestic in its simplicity. It floated above Ravenscroft, spinning around it. Pure light.
It had no face, but its radiance commanded respect.
"You can guide it with your finger," he explained calmly, "or give it verbal instructions." It will obey. But don't expect words or thoughts. They are not interlocutors. They just do what they're told.
I stood there watching that small demonstration, unable to tear my eyes away. A mixture of awe and embarrassment ran thru my body.
Two things were etched in my mind at that moment.
The first: once again, nervousness had gotten the better of me, just like that day with the slime. My own anxiety was yet another enemy, one I would have to learn to defeat.
And the second: I would never again look for shortcuts in magic. Not with Ravenscroft. Not if I wanted to keep my teeth in place.
***
But that was just the beginning. Each day brought a new punishment disguised as a lesson.
On one occasion, he tied small bells to my waist and wrists and ordered me to walk along an improvised stone corridor, maintaining my balance without making them ring. "A swordsman who makes noise before attacking doesn't live to get a second chance," he said with that calm of his that sometimes hurt more than a scream.
He even hung objects from ropes on a tree and made them swing while he attacked me; I had to dodge them.
Another day he made me practice precise cuts with a wooden sword, not against an enemy, but against leaves hanging from threads. If the blade split improperly, it was because my angle had been incorrect. If it didn't fall cleanly, I had to repeat the entire exercise. Over and over again.
My arms no longer ached: they burned. My muscles would tense up even when I was asleep. He spent his nites drenched in sweat, dreaming of shapes and postures, of numbers ordering the cuts: diagonal one, vertical two, horizontal three… and so on into infinity.
Magic was no more compassionate.
Ravenscroft began demanding combinations from me. Create a sphere of water while balancing on one foot. Throw it while twisting your torso. Pull it back without losing control. "The battle won't wait for you to cast spells calmly." It will require you to think, move, and attack… all at the same time.
It even made me launch projectiles while dodging the hanging objects. If I missed one, we started over from the beginning. Each miscast spell was corrected with a sharp tap of his staff. Not with force, but with precision. Enough to remind me that in combat, mistakes come at a price.
And then there was chess.
Quick games became deadly. Not for the king… but for me. Every time I lost a piece, I had to do a physical set: ten squats, five push-ups, and a short sprint. If I lost the game… I ran two laps around the clearing, without water. If I won… I could ask just one thing. And if the question wasn't worth it, he wouldn't answer it.
He handed me books non-stop. Some of them had words I didn't understand. He made me read about openings, psychological traps, and historical games by great generals and master strategists. He taught me to think not in moves… but in scenarios.
"Drake, the one who only thinks about moving his sword… loses to the one who thinks with the enemy's mind."
And then I realized that what I was doing was no longer just training. I was being rebuilt. Reforged.
He was no longer just Drake, the boy who dreamed of adventures.
It was a weapon in the making.
***
John Ravenscroft
The months passed with surprising speed, almost as if time itself blurred into the training routine. I can't deny that it's been a rewarding and, in some ways, revitalizing experience. Sharing my days with this young man has brought an unexpected spark to my existence.
Drake is a whirlwind of energy and curiosity. His impulsiveness sometimes borders on recklessness, but, paradoxically, it's also part of his charm. He has a sharp mind, always hungry for knowledge, as if there were a bottomless barrel inside him that never fills. He's not content with what he knows; he always wants more, always seeks to push his limits.
And if I keep honing it at this pace, there's no doubt what I'll achieve. When it comes to combat… I'm creating a real monster.
Destiny is a capricious entity, always playing with the threads of chance. Who would have thot that, after an argument with my wife and days of wandering aimlessly, I'd end up crossing paths with an extraordinary child. It seems like the beginning of a cliché story, one of those that repeat themselves over time… but this time, I won't make the same mistake twice.
Drake is a true prodigy. His innate mastery of magic and swordsmanship is something few in the world could match. However, his greatest virtue is also his greatest danger: his overflowing talent could become a burden if he were to rely on it too much. He's too young to understand the weight that comes with a gift like his.
That's why I've made a decision. I won't tell him about his extraordinary potential or make him see how exceptional he is. I don't want him to get lost in the arrogance of someone who thinks his talent is enough. Instead, I will forge it thru hard work and discipline. I will make every step forward the fruit of their sweat and dedication, not just a reflection of their innate talent.
True power lies not in how easily one learns something, but in the will to perfect it. And if Drake is to become someone great, he will do so thru his own merit… not by mere fate.
"Drake," I raised my voice slightly, interrupting his workout.
"Yes?" he replied without looking up from what he was doing, still focused.
—When you're done, you'll need to get your hair cut. You should always be presentable.
The boy ran a quick hand thru his bangs, messing them up even more than they already were. —I think so… it's a bit long. I've seen men with braided hair; do you know what it means?
I gave a slight smile. —In the past, braids were a symbol of power. Distinction between high-ranking nobles and warriors who wanted to stand out. Nowadays… it's more a matter of taste or personal beliefs.
I looked at him seriously. —In your case, the best thing will be to keep a low profile until you've spent a few years at the Institute. If you want to braid your hair later, good for you. But for now… you'll wear it short.
He simply nodded, resigned. —Okay.
I watched him as he refocused on his movements. His back was straight, his breathing heavy, and sweat trickled down his temples. The boy I met a few months ago was no longer exactly a boy. He was changing, and I was part of that change.
Maybe history will repeat itself. Maybe not.
But this time… I'm hoping the outcome will be different.