Dawn barely filtered through the arrow slits, tinting the corridors with a pale chill. Caelum had slept lightly, his body still humming from the previous day. He took a moment to drink some water, tighten the belt of his tunic, then stepped out into the main courtyard.
The morning cold bit at him, but he paid it no mind. This morning, he had only one question in mind. As he passed a guard near the postern gate, he stopped.
"Has Knight Barion returned?"
The soldier, a broad man with a grizzled beard, raised an eyebrow before replying:
"No, not yet. He's still on mission."
Caelum nodded slightly in thanks. No Barion meant no specific instructions. Very well. That meant he could train as he saw fit.
He headed toward his usual training ground.
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The morning's damp sand softened his steps. Caelum selected a training sword from the rack, tested its grip in his hand, then settled alone in a corner of the field.
For nearly an hour, he repeated the same sequences tirelessly:
— high guard,
— diagonal strike,
— one-step retreat,
— low parry.
The rhythm was slow at first, almost academic, then quickened as his body warmed up. The vibrations of dulled steel against empty air etched themselves into his arms, into his fingers.
The System flickered briefly at the edge of his awareness, cold and precise:
[Skill: Inept Sword Handling — Mastery: 5.1%]
Caelum exhaled slowly. It was little… but it was progress.
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As he repositioned his feet for a new sequence, a deep voice echoed behind him.
"Hey. As promised."
Caelum turned around. Jorund had just appeared around the edge of the training ground, his halberd slung over his shoulder, but already holding a practice sword in hand. He was still wearing his light patrol gear; dust clung to his boots, and a faint sheen of sweat suggested he had come straight from duty.
"You're early," Caelum remarked, adjusting his grip on the training sword.
"Better than being late," Jorund replied, the ghost of a grin flickering on his lips. "Besides, if I'd let you keep swinging at the air all morning, you'd just wear grooves in the ground."
"I was working on my guard," Caelum defended.
"And now you'll work on keeping it under pressure."
Without another word, Jorund stepped forward and, with the tip of his sword, drew a perfect circle in the sand—about two meters in diameter. The motion was deliberate, as if the line itself held weight.
"We stay inside. No stepping out, no breaks. Thirty minutes."
Caelum arched an eyebrow. "And if I step out?"
"You won't. If you do, you'll wish you hadn't." Jorund's tone made it clear there would be no leniency.
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From the very first clash, Caelum knew he was going to suffer.
Jorund's blade crashed down on his with such weight that he felt his forearms compress under the force of the impact. Each strike rang through his bones like a blacksmith's hammer on an anvil—heavy, precise, merciless. Jorund left no angle exposed, no breath of respite.
Inside that narrow two-meter circle, there was no escape. Every backward step met the invisible boundary of the drawn line, every attempt to widen the distance was crushed by the guard's calculated advance. Caelum was trapped with a predator whose blows seemed crafted to shatter any hesitant defense.
His parries vibrated all the way to his elbows, and sometimes the sheer force of the impact forced him to bend his knees just to stay upright. He tried quick counters, but Jorund brought his blade back into position with brutal fluidity, as if the steel refused to be displaced for more than a fraction of a second.
The lack of space forced him to shorten his movements: no wide arcs, no sweeping dodges. Every gesture had to be stripped to its essence—precise, calculated… or punished. The constant pressure drove him to react before he could think, to instinctively seek the shortest lines of defense, to feel the strikes coming rather than merely see them.
Sweat quickly ran down his temple, mixing with the dust and sand that crunched beneath his boots. Sometimes, a forced pivot sent a spray of grains around their ankles, marking each exchange like a signature. His shoulders already burned, his forearms filled with a heavy, aching fire.
And yet… he remained standing. Every second wrested from this fight was a victory in itself. His parries tightened, his hands corrected the guard position on their own after each blow, and his footing grew firmer, less uncertain.
Jorund's eye narrowed—not in surprise, but as if silently confirming a theory: This kid, despite the sweat, the fatigue, and the overwhelming pressure… was learning.
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Another clash sent vibrations through Caelum's blade all the way to his collarbone. His hands tingled, nearly numb, but he didn't let go. Jorund suddenly broke the rhythm—a sidestep, a flick of the blade, then an oblique strike, fast as an adder. Caelum barely had time to raise his sword, feeling the impact deep in his shoulder blades.
The tip of Jorund's boot slid through the sand, erasing part of the circle. Without thinking, Caelum stepped back half a pace… and crossed the line.
The halt was immediate.
"Out of the circle." The voice was calm, but unyielding.
Panting, Caelum glanced down at the barely disturbed line beneath his feet. He clenched his jaw.
Jorund wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Rule number one: the ground is your prison. Learn to live in it, or die in it."
They resumed their positions, Jorund redrawing the erased boundary with a sharp gesture.
The second round was even harsher. The guard alternated wide strikes and quick thrusts, as if to prevent Caelum from finding any rhythm. Twice, the wooden blade struck his ribs or grazed his shoulder—a clear sign of openings an enemy would never ignore.
As the minutes passed, Caelum felt his thoughts blur. He no longer counted the exchanges. He saw only the massive silhouette before him, the flashes of wood and dulled steel, and the line in the sand he must not cross.
One final sequence forced him to drop to one knee, sword raised above his head to absorb the finishing blow.
Silence.
Jorund lowered his weapon and stepped back. "Thirty minutes."
Caelum looked down. The circle was still there, barely marked by their steps. His legs trembled, his breath was short… but he had stayed inside.
Jorund's gaze grew heavier, but also—rarely—almost approving. "Tomorrow. Same time."
Then he walked away, leaving Caelum alone in the sand, sword still warm from the effort, and with a certainty etched into his muscles:
He hadn't just survived. He had crossed a threshold.
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Caelum remained alone in the center of the faded circle, his breath ragged, his arms heavy as lead. He closed his eyes for a moment and summoned the System with a simple thought.
[Skill: Inept Sword Handling — Mastery: 5.4%]
A slow breath, then a faint smile.
Barely three tenths more… and yet, he could already feel the blade more obedient in his hand, the movements sharper. Nothing matched the bite of a real opponent: even a defeat honed the steel better than a thousand cuts in empty air.
Jorund couldn't face him every day… but there were other swords in this fortress. Pages, squires, young recruits—it didn't matter how little experience they had on a real battlefield. All of them, nonetheless, were more versed than he in the art of the sword—and therefore capable of teaching him something.
He placed the sword back on the rack, wiped the sweat from his brow, and headed toward the main training ground, determined to find new partners. Every exchange mattered, and he had no intention of wasting a single one.