Rapid Growth

The rest of the group had already begun their drills. The hall echoed with the rhythmic sounds of wooden swords clashing against training dummies and the occasional sharp instruction from the instructor correcting someone's form.

The instructor crossed his arms and studied Amukelo for a moment before speaking. "So, tell me. What do you think is your biggest mistake?"

Amukelo frowned slightly, running a hand through his white hair as he thought about it. The words of Padrin from the previous day echoed in his mind. No real force behind your blows. He nodded to himself and answered, "Padrin told me yesterday that I was hitting too weak. That there was no real force behind my blows."

The instructor gave a short nod. "That's part of it. But you forgot something even more important."

Amukelo's brow furrowed. Something even more important? Before he could respond, the instructor continued.

"You leave yourself completely wide open when you attack."

Amukelo remembered Padrin saying the exact same thing during their spar, though he hadn't truly understood what it meant at the time. He had been too caught up in the sheer difference in their skill levels. But now, hearing it from someone else, he realized it wasn't just some minor critique—it was a major flaw.

He exhaled and looked up at the instructor. "So how do I fix it?" he asked.

The instructor's eyes flicked to the dagger in Amukelo's hand, and he let out a sigh. "First of all, throw away that dagger. It's useless."

Amukelo's grip instinctively tightened around the handle. "But… I've been using it for a long time. It works."

The instructor gave him a flat look. "How did it work if you were crushed by Padrin?"

Amukelo's jaw tightened at the bluntness of the question. He wanted to argue, but deep down, he knew the answer.

Still, he tried to defend himself. "But I won against my first opponent."

The instructor shook his head. "From what I heard from Master Dainor, you were simply faster and stronger than him. He lost because he didn't take advantage of the openings you gave him. That doesn't mean your technique was good. It just means your opponent was worse."

Amukelo didn't say anything. He hated hearing it, but the instructor wasn't wrong.

The man continued, his tone calm but firm. "Master Dainor also said something else—that you are much closer to Padrin's speed and agility than you might think."

Amukelo's eyes widened slightly at that.

The instructor nodded. "Yes, you have potential. You're naturally fast, and your reflexes are good. But your technique? Miles behind. If you think you can make up for a lack of technique by flailing that little dagger around, you're mistaken."

Amukelo looked down at the dagger in his hand. He had relied on it so much, used it in ways that felt natural to him. But… had it actually been helping him, or had it just been covering up his weaknesses? He gritted his teeth. He didn't want to admit that the style he had built for himself was flawed. That everything he had done in the wilderness, the way he had fought and survived, was wrong.

But deep down, he already knew the answer.

The instructor saw the conflict on his face and pressed further. "Look, I'm not saying dual-blade styles are impossible. But they're incredibly difficult to master, and almost no one in this facility even teaches it properly. Even Master Dainor only has a basic understanding of it. If you insist on using it, you'll be trying to master a style without proper guidance, and it will only slow your progress."

Amukelo clenched his jaw, his fingers flexing against the dagger's hilt.

"If you want to get stronger," the instructor continued, "you need to start with the foundation. And right now, your foundation is a mess."

Silence stretched between them for a few moments.

Finally, Amukelo exhaled sharply through his nose and walked over to the side of the hall. Without another word, he knelt down and set the dagger against the wall.

Then he straightened and turned back to the instructor, his expression firm. "Alright," he said. "What do I start with?"

The instructor's lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile. "Good. You just saved yourself a lot of time and humilation by putting your pride aside and listening."

Amukelo didn't respond, but he knew the instructor was right.

If he wanted to improve, he needed to let go of what wasn't working. He needed to build himself from the ground up.

The instructor clapped his hands once, drawing Amukelo's focus. "First, footwork. Your stance is too unstable, and you rely too much on last-second dodges rather than controlled movement. We'll fix that first."

Amukelo nodded and got into position.

The instructor stood calmly before Amukelo, his arms relaxed but his stance firm. He motioned with a slight nod. "Attack me."

Amukelo tightened his grip around his sword, his muscles coiling with tension. He lunged forward, drawing back his weapon before swinging it down with more force than he usually did. He was determined not to make the same mistake he had made with Padrin—not to strike weakly.

But before his blade could even reach, the instructor had already sidestepped with minimal movement. With a simple shift of his weight, he evaded the attack entirely, his eyes calm and studying.

"Again," he said.

Amukelo gritted his teeth and swung again, this time faster, trying to track the instructor's movement. But it was the same result—the instructor barely moved, effortlessly dodging or parrying each of Amukelo's strikes with small, efficient movements.

For the next several minutes, it was the same. Amukelo attacked, but the instructor never let him land a single hit. Even when Amukelo thought he had a chance, the instructor would twist his blade at just the right moment to redirect Amukelo's swing, throwing him off balance slightly before stepping back.

Finally, the instructor stopped and straightened, exhaling lightly as if this had taken no effort at all. "This is exactly what I mean," he said to Amukelo, crossing his arms. "You're putting force behind your swings now, which is good, but you're sacrificing control. Your movements are too wild. You're overcommitting to every attack."

Amukelo stood there, chest rising and falling with exertion, absorbing the words.

"Now," the instructor continued, turning to the rest of the class, "we begin the sparring portion of today's training. Amukelo, you will fight each of your classmates. Pay attention to what I tell you between each match."

The rest of the group stopped their drills and formed a loose circle. The instructor scanned them before pointing at one of the students. "You, first."

The man he selected stepped forward, gripping his training sword with confidence. He was slightly taller than Amukelo, with a sturdy stance and a calculating gaze. Amukelo took his position, rolling his shoulders as he tried to remember the instructor's feedback.

The moment the instructor signaled the start, Amukelo lunged forward, trying to keep his movements sharper this time. He swung his sword, aiming for the man's side, but his opponent met his blade with a solid block. The force of the impact made Amukelo's arms jolt, and before he could recover, his opponent counterattacked with a downward slash.

Amukelo barely managed to deflect it, but his posture crumbled slightly, leaving his chest exposed. His opponent took advantage immediately, stepping in and landing a strike against his ribs.

Amukelo grunted, stepping back. He exhaled sharply, resetting himself. Too unstable, he realized.

They exchanged more blows, and although Amukelo landed a few hits, he was taking far more than he was giving. Each time his opponent deflected his strikes, Amukelo felt himself stumbling back slightly, thrown off balance. By the time the spar ended, it was clear who had taken the most damage.

The instructor walked up to Amukelo, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're relying too much on your upper body to generate power instead of letting your footwork do the work for you. That's why, every time you're blocked, you lose stability."

Amukelo nodded, panting slightly as he absorbed the words.

The instructor pointed to the ground. "Stay on the balls of your feet. Always be ready to adjust. Your footwork should support your strikes, not the other way around."

With that, he called forth another sparring partner.

This time, Amukelo kept his stance lighter, shifting his weight more evenly. When the round began, he engaged, trying to keep his strikes controlled. His opponent blocked his first attack, but instead of being knocked off balance, Amukelo adjusted quickly, stepping to the side before striking again.

It was better. He could already feel the difference.

Even when he missed, he was now able to keep his footing. When his opponent countered, Amukelo reacted faster, defending himself more cleanly instead of stumbling back.

Still, he took more hits than he gave. His classmates were more polished in their technique, their defenses stronger than his unrefined attacks. But at the very least, he no longer felt like he was getting completely overwhelmed.

The instructor gave him another critique after the match, pointing out how Amukelo was still hesitating slightly after each missed strike. "You don't pause between swings," he said. "You flow. A strike should lead into the next. If your attack misses, you immediately transition into your next move without breaking momentum."

Then Amukelo had another spar. This time, he focused on fluidity. He made sure that every attack transitioned into another without a gap. He was still losing more exchanges than he won, but now he wasn't getting completely outclassed.

The cycle repeated. A spar, then feedback, then another spar.

And each time, Amukelo felt himself improving fast.

At first, his movements had been reckless, but now, they were becoming sharper. His footwork was more controlled, his balance more stable. 

The watching students started murmuring among themselves.

"He's adapting quickly."

"He's already fixed most of his biggest mistakes just within these matches."

"That's impressive…"

Even the instructor nodded in approval as he observed the progress.

Amukelo wiped sweat from his forehead, breathing heavily. He had lost most of his spars, but he felt like he was truly growing.