Breaking the Form

The training hall was silent except for the sound of Orion's breathing. The air smelled of sweat, metal, and the faint electric hum of training drones standing at attention in the corners. Orion wiped his face with his sleeve, exhausted from the last drill. Varun stood before him, arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his scarred face. In front of him lay a weapon on a stand. Not a sword. Not a spear. Something else.

Orion narrowed his eyes. "What am I looking at?" he asked, his voice edged with curiosity and skepticism.

Varun smirked, tilting his head slightly as he studied Orion. "A weapon you'll probably never master," he said, his tone laced with both amusement and challenge, as if daring Orion to prove him wrong.

That got Orion's attention.

He stepped closer. The weapon was in three parts—a Khopesh, a Light Spear with two tips as the focal point of the weapon, and a chain linking the second retractable tip which could be extended. Orion frowned. The Khopesh, he recognized from history—an Egyptian sickle-sword, curved for cleaving. The Spear was something else entirely—not too long, not too heavy, he was not sure if it could be even called a spear at this point.

But the retractable chain? That made no sense. A spear was already meant to control distance—keep opponents at bay, dictate engagement. So why complicate it with a chain?

"…This is a joke, right?" Orion picked up the weapon, turning it over in his hands. "This thing isn't practical. You can't balance three styles at once."

Varun chuckled, shaking his head. "You think I don't know that?" His voice was dry, almost mocking. "I trained dozens of warriors before you, and none of them could use it. Not one."

Orion raised a brow, his grip tightening slightly on the weapon. He met Varun's gaze, searching for the reasoning behind the challenge. "Then why teach me?" he asked, his tone measured but laced with quiet curiosity, trying to gauge Varun's intent.

Varun's gaze held steady, his voice measured but firm. "Because you're the only one who might survive it." His arms remained crossed, but there was something in his stance—an expectation, a weight behind the words that made Orion's grip tighten around the weapon.

Varun paced slowly, his boots clicking against the polished floor.

"This weapon has been passed down from my master's master. It was supposed to revolutionize close-quarters combat, but no one—not even my master—could fully control it. The Khopesh is designed for short-range cleaving. The Spear is for mid-range control. The chain forces you to think beyond both—controlling space, movement, and rhythm."

He paused, watching Orion struggle to shift the weapon between its forms.

Orion's brow furrowed as he turned the weapon over in his hands, his grip adjusting instinctively. His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful, yet edged with skepticism. "It's contradictory."

"Exactly," Varun said. "Everyone who tried to wield it had the same problem: their instincts clashed. They'd fight like a spearman, then a swordsman, then a chain-fighter—but never all three at once. Switching between styles isn't enough. The only way to use it is to merge them into something new."

Orion frowned, gripping the handle. "So why do you think I have a chance?"

Varun crossed his arms, his gaze steady. "Because you're the only five-year-old I've seen who's already trying to come up with his own fighting style—without even having formal training." His tone was dry, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—curiosity, maybe even a hint of approval.

Orion looked up.

"You didn't grow up with rigid martial forms drilled into you since birth," Varun continued. "Your technique is still fluid, still adapting. You don't have bad habits to break—only instincts to sharpen."

Orion considered that. It was true—he had learned mostly from experience, not strict training. He fought based on what made sense, not what was taught.

"Still…" He turned the weapon over, testing its weight. "This thing is insane. It's like writing with two hands at once."

Varun smirked. "And that's why everyone else failed."

The first time Orion held the chain, it felt foreign in his grip— a bit heavy yet deceptively fluid, like a live serpent waiting to snap at his own hand. Varun had given him no instructions, only the simple task: control it.

Orion flicked his wrist, sending the metal links into motion, only for the chain to lash back awkwardly, wrapping around his forearm and nearly yanking him off balance. He barely contained a curse. Varun, standing a few feet away with arms crossed, said nothing.

The second attempt was just as disastrous. He tried swinging it in a circular motion, attempting to mimic the controlled arcs he'd seen in historical footage of chain-wielding warriors, but the momentum was off. Too much force, and the chain rebounded unpredictably; too little, and it lost speed, becoming nothing more than dead weight.

By the third attempt, his frustration seeped into his movements. He tightened his grip, put more strength into his wrist, and tried to control the recoil. The result? The chain snapped back, catching him across the ribs with a dull, painful thud.

"You're fighting it," Varun finally spoke, his tone almost bored. "The chain is not an extension of your arm yet."

Orion exhaled through his nose, rubbing the sore spot on his ribs. Not an extension of my arm… yet.

He studied the weapon again, shifting his stance. If the problem was control, then maybe the approach wasn't about brute force, but about rhythm. He took a different approach, letting the chain drop loosely from his hand before giving it a slow, deliberate flick. This time, instead of snapping wildly, it swung in a smoother motion.

Better.

Not good, but better.

For the next hour, he repeated the movement—small, controlled flicks, guiding the chain's motion rather than trying to force it. The bruises stacked up on his arms and torso, evidence of every mistake, but the progress was undeniable.

Varun watched in silence, nodding slightly when Orion finally managed to make the chain move in a continuous, controlled arc around his body without losing balance.

"Now," Varun said, stepping forward for the first time since the lesson began, "try catching it mid-motion."

Orion's fingers flexed instinctively. That sounded a lot harder than just keeping it moving.

He was about to learn just how much harder.

The Khopesh felt wrong in his grip.

Orion had handled blades before—in fact, his favorite weapon was the Chokuto, the blade that like an extension of his own arm. The straight, single-edged sword had a balanced weight and precise edge that made every movement feel natural, almost instinctive.

Unlike the Khopesh, the Chokuto required no adjustments to his grip, no second-guessing of angles—it was direct, efficient, and deadly in its simplicity. But the moment he held the curved, hooked weapon, he knew this was something entirely different.

The weight distribution was off-center, the curve forced a different cutting angle, and unlike a straight sword, it didn't just slice—it dragged, hooked, and cleaved. The design made it unwieldy for the standard slashes and thrusts he instinctively tried to use.

Varun, who had been watching him struggle without a word, finally sighed. "You're fighting it again."

Orion frowned, adjusting his grip as he studied the weapon. "I'm trying to use it like a sword," he said, his tone edged with frustration.

"And that's the problem." Varun's arms remained crossed, his gaze unwavering. There was no condescension in his tone, only an expectation that Orion would piece it together himself.