All he ended up doing was failing monumentally.
Training, no matter how brutal, usually at least kept one busy or distracted. But the rigid T-stance that Astensia had Asleroc do was not only painful. It was boring.
The first hour wrecked his shoulder. The second hour shattered his pride. By the third, his breath sounded like the dying engine of an old truck.
Asleroc felt like he was dying, or rather disintegrating. He didn't have the exact adjectives to fit the immense pain he was going through.
On the other hand, the sight of Astensia sitting in front of him in the outer court was the soothing part of it. He didn't mind that at all.
But she was barely showing him any mercy. The sword had fallen multiple times and all she would do was tell him to pick it up and keep going.
What kind of disciple watches her master suffer?
The sun slid across the Fort's roofline. Time was trickling by, albeit very slowly in Asleroc's opinion.
He had been standing like a scarecrow for hours, with only a few minutes given to him for a lunch break.
His arm trembled like a celebratory goat. The sword dragged at his wrist and sweat poured down his bloated red face, stinging his eyes.
He wanted to cry.
"Hold," Astensia said.
"I am," he hissed between his teeth.
"Hold," she repeated, gentler now. "Do not bargain with the weight, my Worship. All it wants to do is wear you down, make you give up. Own it."
Asleroc did his very best to do just that, to ignore the relief that came with giving up, and focus on 'owning' the weight.
The rules were simple enough. If he maintained this position, the weight of the sword would continuously pull him down, ache both arms especially his wielding arm.
He had to hold it until the weight vanished. Not because the sword grew lighter, but because his body grew stronger.
Because the sword was now part of himself.
As simple as it was, it was almost impossible to execute.
Asleroc failed, and failed again. The blade dipped. His elbow buckled. His shoulder burned and ached, and his collarbone had turned sour.
Every time the point of the blade drooped, Astensia would quietly lift it with two fingers and set it back to true.
At some point, Asleroc didn't even care about gazing at her cleavage each time she got close. He just wanted the pain to end.
The sound of metal echoed in the courtyard as the sword fell once more.
"Again," Astensia said.
"I hate this," Asleroc muttered.
"The pain is rewarding, my Worship," Astensia said softly. "You will love the rewards."
By the second day, it didn't feel at all like there was any improvement. Perhaps Astensia might have seen it, but Asleroc could only feel a buttload of pain.
This time, it felt like everything was mocking him. The court's cracked pillars leaned like they were watching him lose. Even the mana shield high above seemed unimpressed.
In time, his arm finally gave out from the pressure and the sword clanged against the stone floor.
Astensia watched him sigh with a caring smile. She picked up the sword, offered it to him, and simply asked, "Again?"
Asleroc looked at her for a moment, then claimed the weapon by the hilt. "Again."
He took the scarecrow position one more time.
Astensia slowly paced around him, arms folded. "Breathe from your diaphragm, my Worship. Shoulders down."
Whenever he drifted, she anchored him. "The blade is part of your arm, it's not a guest. Even if it was, do not invite something you cannot carry."
When he growled in frustration, she smiled, watching from her slab. "Don't worry. I'll stay here as long as you need. I do not know any entertaining tricks, hopefully my presence is at least half as entertaining."
Asleroc had no choice but to smile. "It is, Astensia." He paused to look at her. "Thank you for doing this."
"I serve you, my Worship. No thanks are required."
On the third morning, with a sky glowing a merciless blue, Asleroc set his feet on the stone and raised his arms to his sides.
The sword maintained the line.
As always, the burning pain came after minutes of maintaining the posture. An hour dragged. Then another. Then three. The blade dipped at times, but never fell.
Asleroc held the position. He became the scarecrow.
Soon, the unbelievable happened. The tremor passed. His shoulder was no longer burning, his wrists weren't aching. And it was almost two hours since the last time the blade dipped.
Astensia must have noticed it too because her eyes turned sharper as she watched him. The third hour was nearing, and yet the blade had not dipped.
She stepped from the slab, anticipation in her stride.
"Hold," she whispered, walking close.
"I am," Asleroc said, and this time it wasn't a lie.
Astensia walked closer, counting the seconds in her mind as the third hour approached. Once it did, her lips parted into a big beautiful smile.
"You did it, my Worship!" she praised. "You have mastered the first weight!"
Asleroc lowered the sword carefully, feeling a rush of fulfillment flow through him.
Three days! Three days it took him to master the weight of a freaking sword. But at least it was worth it.
Not only was he stronger, but he got to see the smile on that beautiful face of hers.
"So… you're impressed?" he asked her.
"I am proud," she corrected. It landed like a benediction.
"Hmm. Proud is not bad. It's better than impressed, I suppose," he said, grinning despite the sweat. "But hold on. Maybe I didn't hear you well before but did you say 'first weight?'"
They stared at each other.
"Left hand," Astensia said at once.
Asleroc frowned. "Seriously?"
"Wielders who die often do so because they never learned to live with weakness. Left hand."
She handed him the sword and he held it with his left, then resumed the scarecrow position once again.
By dusk, his off-hand had found its own stuttering truce.
It had happened faster than Asleroc expected, Astensia explained that since his body was already accustomed to the sword's weight, all he needed was to strengthen his left arm.
That day, Asleroc successfully conquered the weight of the sword.
They celebrated at night with meat and thin, sharp wine.
Thor was the one who returned with Fanged Boar and fresh grapes, and Astensia had prepared it herself, with some help from Thor.
Astensia asked about the outskirts and Thor reported nothing troubling.
Together, they ate atop a battered plinth under the broken colonnade, avoiding the dining table where the Hero was supposed to dine with his disciples.
It was too depressing.
Progress was slow: so far, Thor and Astensia only had 40% of their corrupted mana cleansed, which was frustrating. But it meant time for more training.
At dawn, Thor rose with thunder and lifted into the sky on a line of lightning. Astensia found Asleroc in the courtyard.
"I am glad that we are moving on to other things, my Worship," she said. "Today, we cut."
She handed him the blade and stepped into the chalk circle she'd drawn across broken stone.
"The Blessed Blade school teaches the Heaven's Eight Lines. They are not flourishes; they are the shortest truth between you and victory."
She raised her sword.
"High Sun. Low Moon. East Wind. West Wind. Falling Star. Rising River. Serpent's Cross. Angel's Needle. Eight lines. Four guards. Three distances. Two choices: live or kill."
Asleroc stared at her. "Astensia, that was way too many words."
She smiled. "You'll catch on quick. Don't worry."
She was fairly right. Asleroc did catch on quick.
They drilled the cuts together. Vertical down (High Sun), diagonal right (West Wind), diagonal left (East Wind), a short, savage thrust (Angel's Needle).
With these names, Asleroc found swordsmanship very easy to learn, and that was vital, given the Heavenly Hero's weapon was the storied Kingdom Sword.
Astensia layered in footwork: advance, gather, retreat, sidestep. She made him count beats in his head—one for measure, two for claim, three for finish—until he hated numbers.
Then she taught him how to parry.
She made him bind her blade. Made sure he felt the pressure through the crossguard.
Because of her near perfection in using the blade, Asleroc pushed himself harder, wanting to keep up with her. Even though it was impossible.
By midday, sweat drenched his back. When Astensia finally said, "Spar," he almost kissed the floor in thanks.
They circled in the chalk. The Blessed Blade looked humbler in her hands than it had any right to. Asleroc's sword on the other hand felt like a long-limbed animal he was trying to convince not to bolt.
His stance and his hold hand reached near perfection, at least for a learning human. But a Heroine like her? No one matched her stance and hold.
"Remember," she said, "I am not your measure."
Asleroc sighed, wondering if she had read his mind.
"I know. But if I touch you just once, then I win."
Astensia smiled. "I wonder what it is you would ask for as a prize."
Asleroc's eyes suddenly widened. 'Is she… teasing me?'
He opened briskly with Rising River, the blade coming up from low to high with a cut meant to catch her under the guard.
Astensia slid aside, light as a rumor, and tapped his knuckles with the flat of her sword.
Asleroc grunted and tried Serpent's Cross across her midline. She stepped in, stole his space, and his own guard trapped his elbow.
She spun around and pointed the tip of her blade on his stomach.
"This is humiliating," Asleroc said, breathless.
"But… again?" she asked, smiling.
Asleroc peered into her eyes, seeing she was enjoying herself.
"Again," he concurred.
And so they sparred for more than an hour, their sweats mingling with the air, their swords clashing and their hearts beating.
Asleroc lost every exchange. But on the sixteenth one, he feinted West Wind and twisted into Angel's Needle, a short, mean thrust.
But Astensia vanished from his line, so quick he barely tracked it. When he spun to find her, she tripped him, causing him to lurch.
However, Asleroc pulled the unexpected move of snatching her elbow and pulling her with him.
Both of them went down together.
With a thump, Asleorc's back hit the ground and Astensia fell on top of him.
Astensia's hair smelled like sun-warmed leather and spice, and her eyes were just as blue as heaven. Her breasts were squeezed on his chest, and her left knee was angled in between his legs.
His sword might have skittered away, but his other sword was still present… and very firm.
Astensia raised her head and their eyes locked almost instantly as they realized their proximity.
"Apologies, my Worship," Astensia said quickly, cheeks red as she pushed up. "I—"
"It's fine," Asleroc blurted, a little too fast. "No apology needed. It was my fault anyway"
They didn't move for a heartbeat longer than they should have. Then she stood in a smooth, graceful surge and offered him her hand. He took it.
When he was on his feet again, they gazed at each other, wind blowing, time seeming to slow. Asleroc was certain he had seen Astensia drawing close for a kiss when the sky suddenly cracked.
Lightning struck the ground, drawing both their attention.
It was Thor. She landed on the stone ground, cape snapping behind her, and from the look in her blue urgent eyes, something was wrong.
"Thor?" Astensia called, approaching her sister. "You're back already. Is there a problem?"
"Demonspawns," Thor replied. "An army of them."