Pain is the Best Teacher

The old man's hideout was as uninviting as ever. Nestled deep in the underbelly of the city, the place smelled like damp stone, burnt wood, and old books—a combination that might've been nostalgic if it weren't for the constant feeling that I was going to get my ass kicked with another one of his ridiculous lessons. I couldn't help but wonder why someone of such skill would tuck himself away in the slums, but I paid him to not ask questions and it would be hypocritical of me to ask questions of him.

Ronan and I stepped into the dimly lit chamber, the flickering torchlight barely doing anything to cut through the oppressive gloom. The old man sat at his usual place, hunched over a worn wooden table littered with parchment and half-melted candles. His gnarled fingers traced the spine of some ancient tome, a scene I had observed almost every single time I arrived here.

He didn't look up when he spoke. "Took you long enough."