What is a warrior?
"You are now the disciples of the Great Warrior Majestir," he announced after gathering about five of them.
They were weak—men who only knew how to swing a sword and defend themselves, nothing more.
"We shall start training now," he declared before launching an attack, striking each one of them without warning.
There was no hesitation. No mercy.
He gave them the same treatment Majestic had given him and deemed it the ultimate way to train and become a true fighter.
One day, while traveling, they stopped at an inn.
Inside, the atmosphere was warm, a stark contrast to the cold world outside. The murmur of conversations filled the air, and men sat at wooden tables, drinking and chatting.
Majestir stepped forward, scanning the room before raising his voice.
"Is there any warrior brave enough to face me?"
A moment of silence followed—then a voice cut through.
"I will."
The one who spoke was a soldier, clad in steel armor. He stood with the presence of a seasoned fighter, unshaken by Majestir's challenge.
His companions, however, were quick to intervene.
"Are you seriously going to fight a nobody? You are a great warrior of our kingdom," one of them protested, rising from his seat and placing a hand on the soldier's shoulder.
The soldier didn't turn fully but glanced slightly behind, his face partially visible as he replied.
"A duel knows no differences—power, wealth, age. In a duel, nothing matters."
His companion, still unconvinced, hesitated before reluctantly stepping aside.
And with that, the duel was set.
The entire inn emptied as people rushed outside.
The setting was vast and desolate—an endless snow-covered field stretching in all directions. There were no trees, no buildings, nothing but white as far as the eye could see.
The inn was the only thing standing in this frozen void.
The two warriors stood face to face, surrounded by onlookers who had abandoned their meals and chores to witness the duel.
A circle formed around them. Some placed bets, others simply watched, their eyes fixed on the fighters.
The air was heavy with tension.
Both warriors unsheathed their swords.
They stepped in opposite directions, moving horizontally, eyes locked onto one another.
Their grips tightened—so strong they could have shattered stone.
They waited.
Watched.
Each waiting for the other to falter.
But then—
NO??!!
Majestir shattered tradition.
Without warning, he attacked instantly.
It was a reckless, unorthodox move—a move so unexpected which the soldier barely managed to escape
His footing wavered, and regaining balance was impossible in the brief moment he had before Majestir struck again.
The blade sliced through his shoulder, cutting through flesh and steel alike.
Blood stained the snow.
The watching soldiers rushed forward, bringing the duel to an end and declaring Majestir the victor.
But the battle had ended long before that.
The soldier knelt in the snow, breath heavy, body trembling.
His pride was in ruins. His confidence shattered.
His arm—his sword arm—was severed, the steel chainmail that had once protected it now nothing more than torn metal.
A soldier with no arm was no soldier at all.
He could never fight again.
Tears welled in his eyes as his companions tried to aid him.
But these were not tears of pain.
These were the tears of a man, flowing as though they could flood the world itself.
Tears of loss so vast, so deep, that words could never capture their weight.
Tears flowing from a direct hit to his very sense of existence.
They would not stop.
He felt no pain—only an overwhelming sadness, an unbearable pity for himself.
His legs, too, betrayed him.
He could no longer stand.
The very ground where his severed arm lay became his prison.
The crowd, sensing the depth of his grief, watched in silence. Some whispered words of comfort, others looked away, unable to bear the sight.
And then—
"You deserve death, but it looks like you are saved today."
A voice cut through the stillness.
Majestir.
He stood with his students, looking down at the fallen warrior with cold indifference.
"The weak have no place in the art of fighting, for it is the supreme art of this world."
His expression was devoid of sympathy, his words laced with scorn.
"You weaklings disgust me. Labeling yourselves as warriors? Such ignorance is almost admirable… but I despise it more."
His voice remained steady, unwavering.
"You are nowhere near worthy of being called a warrior. Even the thought of it disrespects me."
The soldier, still clutching his bleeding wound, slowly lifted his head.
His face was pale. His body broken.
But his spirit was not.
And in a voice calm yet unyielding, he spoke.
"A warrior isn't power. He is will."
Silence.
Not a single breath was taken.
The cold wind brushed against their clothes, the only sound that dared to break the stillness.
The soldier continued, his voice firm, carrying an undeniable truth.
"Anyone who shames others cannot be called a warrior. A warrior is a title of respect. Your understanding of it is poisoned by arrogance. It is a path that leads only to destruction."
His eyes locked onto Majestir's, unflinching.
"One day, when you meet a real warrior, you will understand what it means to fight someone worthy of that name."
His words held no hesitation. No anger. Only certainty.
Majestir's expression darkened. Rage burned inside him.
He wanted to silence the man.
But he couldn't.
Not here. Not now. The presence of too many soldiers made it impossible.
Clenching his fists, he turned away.
With his students following behind, he departed.
The crowd's appreciation rang in his ears.
But in his heart—
There was only hatred.
They made their journey back with alarming victory that echoed throughout the town eventually reaching even Majestic and Soist.