Father vs Son

The next day, Whiskey-Jack awoke before dawn, the excitement plunging him out of bed. Today marked the beginning of his training under his father's guidance.

He stretched as he entered the kitchen and paused for a moment, noticing something different. The family table no longer blocked the door.

"Mom must feel safe again with Dad finally home..." Whiskey-Jack smiled to himself, with a sense of relief. Stepping outside, he waited for his father, who soon joined him, a serious expression on his face.

"Here," Erwin said, handing his son another mushroom, its soft glow faint but steadily rising and falling.

Whiskey-Jack grabbed the mushroom from his father's hand. "Keep this safe," his father continued. "When you're ready, you'll visit the Creator again. These mushrooms don't grow everywhere, so guard it well."

He nodded signalling he understood, placing the mushroom carefully in his bag by the house. The air was silent and cool, and the world around them seemed to hold its breath.

"So... what are we starting with today?" Whiskey-Jack asked, his voice full of enthusiasm.

"Blades, bows...spears?"

His father couldn't help but chuckle, "Easy there! We start with the basics… hand-to-hand combat."

Erwin dropped into a stance, his body coiling like a spring, his movements sharp and fluid. Whiskey-Jack's stomach twisted with nervous energy. His father's frame was massive, towering over him, his huge muscles bulging.

Sensing the nervous energy in his son's eyes, Erwin's expression softened. "Don't worry. I'll only be defending today. Let's see what you can do."

Whiskey-Jack strengthen his resolve and stepped forward. He tried to mimic his father's stance, but his movements were raw, unpolished, showing the experience difference between the two. Hoping to impress his father early, with a rush of adrenaline, he lunged forward.

A swift kick to his father's thigh was blocked just as quick. Erwin's shin stopped the blow without so much as a flinch.

Whiskey-Jack stumbled back, the pain shooting through his leg like he'd kicked solid stone.

"Damn it!" He shouted in anger, overcome with emotion he threw a barrage of punches, hoping one would land. His fists moved wildly, each one stopped by a flick of his father's wrist, each block feeling like an immovable stone.

His knuckles began to throb. His father was barely moving, and didn't appear to be showing sign's of exhaustion.

Whiskey-Jack slouched back, gasping for air, his muscles aching. The cold air burning his lungs as he tried to steady himself.

"Hmph…" Erwin's voice was low, disappointed. "We have a long way to go." Whiskey-Jack's shoulders slumped. "You can't let your anger control you. It clouds your judgment. With time, you'll learn control and technique then your fighting will improve.

"If you let emotions drive you, you'll lose your edge." Erwin's tone softened, "Rest for now. We'll pick it up again tomorrow."