Desperation and Mastery
It had been a dangerous encounter, and Alex barely scraped by, but in the end, he managed to persuade the man to teach him. To show him how to fight, how to survive—no matter what this world threw at him.
But training wouldn't begin immediately. He was far too broken for that.
His body bore the brutal aftermath of his previous battle. Wounds that still ached, muscles that barely responded, and a fatigue so deep it felt like his bones had been hollowed out. The man—his soon-to-be teacher—had simply glanced at him and ordered him to rest. There would be no argument, no reckless pushing forward. If Alex was to survive the training, he needed to recover first.
As much as he wanted to leave this damned forest, Alex had no choice but to comply. For three days, he was confined to stillness, forced to let his body heal. The wait gnawed at him, impatience stirring in his gut. Every second felt wasted, but deep down, he knew it wasn't. If he collapsed mid-training, what use would that be?
The man had given him no name, no explanations—only orders. Yet despite his gruff demeanor, he ensured Alex had food, water, and bandages to keep his wounds from festering. It was a silent contract: Alex would live, but only because the man willed it.
Then, on the fourth day, the real hell began.
"Stand," the man ordered. His voice was cold, as firm as steel.
Alex obeyed, his limbs still aching, his body sluggish from days of rest. He barely had time to steady himself before the next command came.
"Swing your sword."
Alex frowned. "How many times?"
The man's gaze was unyielding. "Until your hands break."
Alex's grip tightened around the worn hilt of his weapon. It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a test. This was training.
He took a stance, exhaled, and swung.
At first, it was easy. His arms moved with purpose, the blade slicing through the air. But as time passed, as sweat dripped down his face and his muscles screamed in protest, it became unbearable. His grip faltered, his fingers stiffened, and blisters began to form. The dull ache in his arms turned into fire, his shoulders stiff with pain.
Still, he swung.
The man said nothing, only watching, waiting.
Alex lost count of the strikes. His breath came in ragged gasps. His vision blurred. Pain surged through him, a constant companion. His arms felt like dead weight, each movement slower than the last.
But he refused to stop. He couldn't.
Then, at last, his hands gave out. The sword slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground. His fingers, raw and bloodied, twitched uselessly. His arms refused to lift. He collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, sweat and exhaustion drowning him.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then the man finally spoke.
"Pathetic."
Alex forced himself to look up, his body trembling, his vision swimming.
"But," the man continued, his expression unreadable, "not hopeless."
With a weary, pain-laced breath, Alex gritted his teeth and pushed himself back to his feet. He wasn't done yet.
Rather even if he felt like he needed to give up, he couldn't. Not after what happened to him at the cave or at the forest, if he wants to get out his wretched forest. He'll need to fight and survive and this man was his hope, his ticket in doing so.
At first, he thought it was an exaggeration.
It wasn't.
Morning arrived with no kindness. Before the sun had fully risen, Alex was already standing in the clearing, gripping the worn hilt of his rusted sword. The man stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes as cold as ever. He hadn't drawn his own weapon, hadn't even demonstrated a proper stance. He had simply given Alex one order.
"Swing."
So, he did.
The first few swings were manageable. Awkward, but manageable. His muscles still ached from his previous wounds, but he pushed through the discomfort, the blade cutting through the empty air with slow, heavy arcs.
Then, as the minutes stretched into hours, the pain settled in.
His arms began to burn. His fingers started to cramp, and his grip weakened. Every motion sent dull, throbbing pain through his shoulders, but the man only watched, offering no corrections, no words of encouragement—nothing.
Still, Alex gritted his teeth and kept going.
He wasn't strong. He wasn't skilled. He wasn't anything. But if swinging a sword over and over was what it took to survive, then he would do it until his arms gave out.
And they did.
By midday, his swings were sluggish, his vision blurred by sweat and exhaustion. He could barely lift the sword now, his body screaming in protest, but the man remained unmoved.
His voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Keep going."
Alex sucked in a sharp breath. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. His hands trembled violently, and he knew he was at his limit.
But he forced himself to raise the sword again.
The rusted blade wavered in the air before he swung downward, a weak, pathetic motion that barely carried any strength. His legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed onto his knees, gasping for breath.
The sword slipped from his grasp, landing with a dull thud on the dirt.
For a moment, nothing but silence.
Then, the man spoke.
"Pathetic."
Alex clenched his teeth. He wanted to say something—anything—but he had no breath left to argue. He could only glare up at the man, his frustration and exhaustion warring inside him.
"Get up," the man ordered.
Alex swallowed hard, his body screaming at him to stay down. But giving up meant dying. If he couldn't even do this, then what was the point?
With trembling arms, he pushed himself up. His fingers fumbled for the sword's hilt, and as he forced himself to stand, his legs shook beneath him.
But he stood.
The man watched him, his expression unreadable. Then, with a nod that almost resembled approval, he spoke once more.
"Again."
And so, Alex swung.
Even when his body felt like it would break.
Even when his vision blurred and his breath came in ragged gasps.
Even when the weight of the sword felt heavier than the world itself.
Because stopping wasn't an option.
Not anymore.
While the flesh on his palm tear and blood covered the hilt of the sword, Alex continued to swing and thrust his blade. He kept swinging, day and night until he was told to stop.
"Enough." the man had said but his tone wasn't of disappointment but rather, he was curious.
I suppose the man expected alex to just give up and stop but he didn't. Even if it was painful and his muscles were being torn. He kept going, the tenacity and the will to survive is what captivated the man to take him under his wing. He knew that this boy had no talent or skill but the strength in his soul which made him shine brighter.
The morning air was crisp, but there was no comfort in it. Alex stood with his sword in hand, his grip weak, his body still aching from the previous day's torment. The man circled him like a predator studying prey, his gaze cold and unreadable.
"You're slow," the man remarked. "Your swings are weak. Your stance is pathetic."
Alex gritted his teeth but said nothing. He knew it was true.
The man suddenly moved. In a blink, Alex felt something strike his ribs—hard. He staggered back, gasping, before realizing the man had kicked him.
"Defend yourself," the man said.
Alex barely had time to react before another strike came, this time a sharp jab to his gut. He doubled over, choking on his breath.
"I told you to defend yourself."
He coughed, forcing himself upright, and raised his sword. His arms trembled, and his vision swam, but he refused to drop it.
The man exhaled, almost as if disappointed.
"Pathetic," he muttered.
Then he attacked again.
This time, Alex tried to block—but the moment his sword met resistance, his grip faltered. The impact jarred his already-aching arms, and the blade nearly flew from his hands. Another strike came, sweeping his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs.
Lying in the dirt, pain flaring through his body, Alex clenched his fists.
This wasn't training. This was punishment.
And yet, even as his body screamed for rest, he forced himself to his knees.
The man watched, waiting.
Alex spat out dirt and wiped his mouth with the back of his bandaged hand.
Then, gripping his sword tighter, he stood.
If this was what it took to learn—
Then so be it.
The moment Alex stood, the man attacked again.
There was no warning, no hesitation. A blur of movement, and Alex barely managed to raise his sword in time to block. The impact rattled his bones, his grip barely holding, but he remained standing.
"Better," the man said, his voice calm. "But not good enough."
He stepped forward and struck again—faster, harder. Alex tried to meet the attack, angling his blade to deflect, but his arms were too slow, too weak. The force knocked his weapon aside, exposing his side.
A fist slammed into his ribs.
Alex gasped, stumbling back. Pain flared where the blow landed, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand firm. His breaths came heavy, his body sluggish, but he kept his sword raised.
Again.
The man didn't let up. His strikes came relentless, each one precise and efficient. Alex blocked some, deflected others, but each successful defense only led to another attack he couldn't stop.
A strike to his shoulder sent a jolt of pain down his arm. A sharp kick to his leg buckled his stance. He tried to step back, to recover, but the man closed the distance and sent a boot straight into his stomach.
Alex crashed to the ground, coughing violently. His lungs burned, his body ached, but he still had his sword in hand.
"Stand."
The order came cold and firm.
Alex pushed himself up, hands trembling. His vision blurred, his muscles screamed in protest, but he forced himself to rise.
The man nodded slightly. "Good. Again."
And so it continued.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then another.
Alex was forced to defend, to move, to endure. He learned quickly that trying to fight back was useless—his strikes were sloppy, his movements predictable. He had no technique, no speed, no control. Every time he attempted to counter, the man would punish him with a strike that sent him to the dirt.
But through the pain, through the exhaustion, he began to see it—
The way the man moved, how efficient his footwork was. How he never wasted energy, how his attacks were simple but devastating.
Alex realized something else, too.
The man wasn't trying to kill him.
He could have. Easily. But every blow, while painful, was measured. Controlled. He was forcing Alex to learn the hard way—to adapt, to endure, to survive.
By the time the sun reached its peak, Alex could barely stand. His body was battered, his arms weak, his face slick with sweat and dirt.
And yet, despite everything—
He still held his sword.
The man exhaled and took a step back. "That's enough for today."
Alex wanted to collapse, but he forced himself to remain upright.
He had survived.
But this was only the first day.
Tomorrow, it would begin again.
The moment Alex stood, the man attacked again.
No warning, no hesitation—just a blur of movement.
Alex barely managed to raise his sword in time. The impact rattled his bones, his grip nearly failing. A dull chime echoed in his mind.
[Deflection Failed.]
His arms shook from the force, but he remained standing.
"Better," the man said, his voice calm. "But not good enough."
He moved again—faster this time. Another strike, aimed low. Alex reacted instinctively, shifting his blade to intercept.
[Partial Block Achieved.]
Pain flared up his arms from the impact, but at least he hadn't taken the full brunt of the attack. The system's notifications were a cruel reminder that he was still inadequate. His body lagged behind his mind, his movements too slow, too unrefined.
The next blow came sharp and direct. Alex tried to pivot, to move out of range, but—
[Evasion Failed.]
A fist slammed into his ribs.
Alex gasped, stumbling back. His breathing turned ragged, but he tightened his grip on the sword. He had no time to process the pain. The man was already closing in.
Again.
The attacks didn't stop. Every strike came with precision, forcing Alex to react, to move, to defend. He blocked when he could, dodged when he saw an opening, but the system reminded him of every failure.
[Deflection Failed.]
[Deflection Failed.]
[Minor Injury Sustained.]
A strike to his shoulder sent a jolt of pain down his arm. A sharp kick to his leg nearly took him off balance. He tried to step back, to regain footing—
[Balance Disrupted.]
The man didn't let up. A boot crashed into his stomach.
Alex hit the ground hard, coughing violently. His lungs burned, his body ached, but—
[You have taken consecutive damage.]
[Pain Tolerance +1]
The system's notification flickered in his vision, but it was barely a consolation.
"Stand."
The command was cold, absolute.
Alex forced himself up, his hands trembling, his breathing shallow. Every part of his body screamed in protest. But giving up wasn't an option.
He pushed through the pain. He tightened his grip on his sword.
The man nodded slightly. "Good. Again."
And so it continued.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then another.
Alex was battered, bruised, but still standing. The system continued to remind him of every mistake, but there were changes.
[Deflection Successful.]
[Evasion Successful.]
Small victories. Fleeting, but there.
He wasn't getting stronger. Not yet. But he was adapting.
The man finally stepped back as the sun reached its peak.
"That's enough for today."
Alex staggered, his vision swimming. But he stayed on his feet. He had survived.
A final notification blinked before his eyes.
[Endurance +1]
And the system would make sure he never forgot how weak he still was.
Over the course of the next three months, Alex's swordsmanship steadily improves, albeit without any sudden, magical breakthroughs. His progress is the result of relentless, daily training, pushing himself harder with each passing day. His mentor continues to guide him, and on his own, he tries to train as much as he can.
But frustratingly so, he didn't gain any skills that were useful to him.
"Why..." he muttered, staring at his hands after another failed strike. His arms ached, his body covered in bruises, but the system kept reminding him of his inadequacies.
[Deflection Failed.]
[Evasion Failed.]
[Minor Injury Sustained.]
The system's voice echoed in his mind, cold and indifferent. Each failure weighed heavier than the last, chipping away at his confidence. He had come so far, endured so much, and yet still, the system's notifications mocked him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but he knew that would change nothing.
His mentor's voice broke through his thoughts. "Focus, Alex. Don't let your frustration control you."
Alex gritted his teeth, trying to steady his breath. He forced himself to lift his sword again, the weight of it familiar, but each strike felt slower, weaker than the last. The man attacked, his blade moving like a blur, and Alex raised his sword to meet it.
[Deflection Failed.]
The force of the blow rattled his bones, and he stumbled back. Pain flared up his arms, but he refused to drop the sword. Not yet.
[Deflection Failed.]
[Partial Block Achieved.]
Alex's body screamed, but he kept going. He wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough. The system reminded him of every flaw, every weakness.
The man moved again, faster this time. Alex tried to anticipate, tried to read the attack, but his movements were sluggish.
[Evasion Failed.]
The boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground. He gasped for air, the world spinning around him.
[You have taken consecutive damage.]
[Pain Tolerance +1]
His hands shook as he pushed himself up. The system's message flashed in front of his eyes, but it didn't make him feel stronger. He didn't want to be reminded of his pain, of how much further he still had to go.
"Stand," the man commanded.
Alex forced himself up again, his legs unsteady, his mind clouded with frustration. But he had no choice. He had to keep going. Every failure was a step forward, he told himself.
[Deflection Failed.]
[Deflection Failed.]
[Minor Injury Sustained.]
Another strike landed, and Alex barely managed to block it, the pain shooting through his arm. But this time, there was something different. The pain, the exhaustion, it was all adding up. His sword felt heavier than ever, his arms like they were made of lead. And yet, he still gripped it tight. His frustration bubbled up, and in the heat of the moment, as his mentor moved to strike again, Alex did something he hadn't been able to do before.
Without thinking, his sword came down with all the force he could muster, and for the first time, the strike felt different. Powerful. It was raw, unrefined, but—
[Downward Strike Unlocked.]
[You have leveled up!]
[System Alert: Level-Up!]
[Rewards:
+1 Skill Point
+1 Stat Point (Strength)
+1 Stat Point (Endurance)
+1 Title: "Persistent Fighter"]
[Swordsmanship E-tier → D-tier]
[Swordsmanship Level Up!]
Alex froze as the system notifications flooded his vision. He blinked, trying to process the words.
His sword felt lighter now, the weight of his frustration melting away in that instant. He'd done it. Not through talent, not through skill, but through sheer persistence, through his refusal to give up, the Downward Strike had unlocked.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't graceful. But it was his. And for the first time in months, Alex felt like he was finally moving forward. The system chimed once more, confirming what he had suspected.
[Swordsmanship Level Up: E-tier → D-tier]
[Swordsmanship +1 Level]
[Title "Persistent Fighter" unlocked.]
Alex's heart pounded in his chest. He had leveled up. The system's rewards felt like a small victory, but in that moment, it felt like a shift had occurred. He wasn't just the struggling novice anymore. He had earned this. And while the road ahead was still long, it no longer felt impossible. The first step was behind him.
to be continued.