WTC

The morning sun had risen, its golden tendrils stretching across the sky like the fingers of a benevolent deity, reclaiming its celestial throne with a regal grace. Its gentle glow seeped through the windows of Micah's chamber, coaxing him from the depths of slumber into the realm of wakefulness.

With a groggy blink, Micah squinted against the brilliance of the sun's rays, momentarily blinded by its radiant embrace. Slowly, he rose from his bed, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes as he struggled to acclimate to the brightness that flooded his room.

As he stood, the warmth of the morning sunlight enveloped him like a comforting blanket, infusing his being with a renewed sense of vitality. With a languid stretch, he embraced the promise of the day, allowing its potential to unfurl before him like a blossoming flower.

But amidst the luminous splendor, a solitary figure loomed in the chamber—a figure that stirred a flicker of unease within Micah's breast. It was Asiris.

Asiris stood with an air of quiet authority, a silent sentinel amidst the dawning day, his presence unexpected and unsettling. Micah's brow furrowed in confusion, his troubled gaze flitting to the intruder as he fought to discern the purpose behind this early visitation.

"Um, sir, is something amiss?" Micah inquired, his voice tinged with apprehension at the sight of Asiris' solemn countenance.

"No, but it would be wise for you to accompany me," came Asiris' cryptic reply, his words laden with a gravity that sent a shiver down Micah's spine.

"Very well," Micah assented, his curiosity piqued yet tempered by a sense of trepidation. "Allow me a moment to attire myself, and I shall join you presently."

With a decisive nod, Asiris withdrew from the chamber, leaving Micah to rouse his slumbering companion, Peter, from his nocturnal reverie. "What is the matter?" Peter murmured, his voice heavy with drowsiness as he struggled to emerge from the depths of sleep.

But Micah offered no explanation, his attention already consumed by the enigma of Asiris' summons. With a swift departure, he left Peter to his dreams, the echo of his footsteps fading into the stillness of the morning.

Determined to meet the day's challenges head-on, Micah hastened to attire himself in the regal garb befitting his station, the assistance of the castle's attendants hastening his preparations. "I trust this attire meets with your approval, Your Highness," the attendant remarked, her hands deftly fastening the intricate clasps and buttons of Micah's princely vestments.

"Indeed, it is most suitable. I am grateful for your assistance," Micah replied with a gracious nod, his demeanor poised and dignified despite the lingering sense of unease that gnawed at his insides.

With his attire impeccably arranged, Micah descended the grand staircase of the castle, where a messenger dispatched by Asiris awaited him, a silent harbinger of the mysterious summons that awaited him below. The journey to their destination was marked by a transition from the plush carpets of the castle's interior to the verdant expanse of the training grounds beyond—a subtle shift in terrain that did not escape Micah's notice.

As they approached their destination, Micah's curiosity swelled within him, a potent mixture of anticipation and apprehension churning in the depths of his being. What trials awaited him in the arena below? What secrets did Asiris hold in store?

The door to the training arena swung open with a resounding creak, ushering Micah into a vast expanse bordered by towering trees and lined with meticulously laid stone. The crisp morning air filled his lungs, invigorating him with a sense of vitality as he surveyed the scene before him.

Standing amidst the arena, a wooden staff clutched in hand, was Asiris—a figure both familiar and enigmatic, his features obscured by the shifting shadows of the morning light. "Ah, Micah, you've arrived," Asiris greeted, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through the arena.

Micah approached cautiously, his gaze flickering to the wooden staff that Asiris held aloft. "And what, pray tell, is the purpose of this gathering?" Micah inquired, his curiosity tinged with a hint of skepticism.

"This, my dear Micah, is the Wooden Training Center—or WTC, as it is colloquially known," Asiris explained, a wry smile playing upon his lips. "It is a place of learning, of growth, and of discovery."

Micah's interest was piqued, his skepticism momentarily set aside as he absorbed Asiris' words. "And what, precisely, am I to learn here?" he pressed, his gaze never wavering from Asiris' inscrutable visage.

"Combat," came Asiris' simple reply, his tone brimming with a sense of purpose. "Swordplay, to be precise."

With a deft motion, Asiris offered Micah a wooden staff—a humble instrument, yet one that held the promise of skill and mastery. Micah accepted the proffered staff with a mix of curiosity and trepidation, his fingers curling around its smooth surface as he weighed its significance.

"As with any art form, swordplay requires discipline, focus, and precision," Asiris explained, his voice a steady cadence that echoed through the arena. "Let us begin."

And so, under Asiris' watchful gaze, Micah embarked upon his first lesson in the ancient art of swordplay. With each strike and parry, he felt the rhythm of combat coursing through his veins, a primal energy that stirred something deep within his soul.

Asiris guided him with patience and wisdom, his movements fluid and effortless as he demonstrated the intricacies of the martial dance. "Study your opponent's movements, anticipate their actions, and strike with purpose," Asiris instructed, his voice a guiding beacon amidst the chaos of battle.

And so, Micah learned. He learned the delicate balance between offense and defense, the art of anticipation and reaction, and the exhilarating thrill of victory and defeat.

But amidst the flurry of wooden blows and strained muscles, something else began to stir within Micah—a power, ancient and primal, that lay dormant within the recesses of his being. With each strike of the staff, he felt its presence growing stronger, its tendrils reaching out to embrace him with a whispered promise of greatness.

And then, in a moment of revelation, it happened. Asiris lunged forward with a swift and decisive blow, his staff aimed squarely at Micah's chest. Instinct took over, and Micah reacted without thought, his own staff meeting Asiris' with a resounding crack.

The wooden staff splintered beneath the force of Micah's blow, shattering into a thousand fragments as if struck by lightning. And in that moment, Micah felt it—the surge of power, the rush of adrenaline, the undeniable truth of his own potential.

Asiris regarded him with a mixture of astonishment and pride, his gaze piercing through the veil of uncertainty that had clouded Micah's mind. "You have unlocked something within yourself, Micah," Asiris declared, his voice a solemn affirmation of the path that lay before them.

And so, as the morning sun climbed ever higher in the sky, Micah stood amidst the ruins of his shattered staff, a newfound sense of purpose burning brightly within his heart. For he had glimpsed the depths of his own power, and in that revelation, he knew that his destiny had only just begun.