Chapter 8: The First Lesson

Kael went to bed earlier than usual, his mind buzzing with anticipation. When his father shook him awake the next morning, the sky was still dark, dotted with fading stars. Garrick tossed him a wooden practice sword, its surface worn smooth from years of use. "Meet me outside. Don't dawdle," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The air was crisp, the village still asleep, as Garrick began the lesson. "Swordsmanship starts with two things: footwork and control," he said, pacing in front of Kael. "You can't swing a blade if your feet are tangled. Watch."

Garrick demonstrated a basic stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, sword held at the ready. Kael mimicked him, but Garrick nudged his ankle with the tip of his own wooden sword. "Wider. You're not dancing, boy. You're preparing to kill or be killed."

For hours, they drilled footwork—advancing, retreating, sidestepping—until Kael's legs burned. Then came the swings: horizontal slashes, vertical chops, diagonal cuts. Each motion was repetitive, mechanical, maddeningly simple.

This is beneath me, Kael thought, gritting his teeth as he repeated the same strike for the twentieth time. I've spent two years training in the woods every day. I don't need to practice swinging a stick like a child.

Garrick seemed to read his mind. "You think this is easy? Try landing a clean strike on me."

Kael lunged, but Garrick deflected the blow with a lazy flick of his wrist, then tapped Kael's ribs with his sword. "Dead."

By midday, Kael's arms felt like lead, and his patience had worn thin. "Why are we wasting time on basics? I've trained harder than this on my own!"

Garrick's gaze hardened. "You've trained differently. Swinging a sword isn't like brawling in the dirt. One mistake, and you lose a hand—or your head." He stepped closer, his voice low. "I never had a teacher. I learned by fighting monsters, and half the time, I was just lucky to survive. You want to end up gutted in a ditch? Keep rushing."

Kael clenched his jaw but said nothing.

After a grueling afternoon of drills, Garrick finally sheathed his practice sword. "You'll train like this every day for a week. Master the basics, and we'll spar. Fail, and you'll wish I'd left you to the goblins."

Kael scowled. A week? I could learn this in a day. But he nodded, biting back a retort.

Instead of returning home, Kael slipped into the forest, wooden sword in hand. He moved through the trees, practicing footwork on uneven ground and testing strikes against moss-covered logs. The familiar solitude calmed him.

Fine. If he wants basics, I'll give him basics.

But as he swung, his mind wandered. Why stop at a sword? He adjusted his grip, merging Garrick's rigid forms with the fluid, instinctive movements he'd mastered in his past life. A horizontal slash bled into a sweeping kick; a thrust dissolved into a feint, his body moving as if guided by muscle memory from another world.

This could work, he thought, a smirk tugging at his lips. Who says swordsmanship has to follow rules?

By nightfall, sweat soaked his tunic, but his frustration had dulled. He'd carved notches into a dozen trees, each strike sharper than the last. As he trudged back to the village, Kael glanced at the stone blowgun hidden in his satchel. It hummed faintly, its energy intertwining with the ache in his muscles.

Inveris to strengthen my body. Gaianis to strike from afar. And a sword to bridge the gap.

But mastering Gaianis would require a teacher. Someone who understood external magic. Someone like Thalor.

Tomorrow, he vowed, I'll ask him. If I can learn even a sliver of Gaianis, I'll weave it into my swordplay. Fire, lightning—whatever it takes to surprise Garrick.

For the first time, the pieces fit. He wouldn't just master the sword—he'd reshape it, blending old instincts with new power.

End of Chapter 8