Shameless Beggar

Fenix sat at the edge of his bed, his fingers gripping his knees tightly. His crimson gaze was fixed on the ceiling, yet his mind was replaying his humiliating defeat in the arena. The sharp sound of wooden blades clashing, the sheer force behind Garrick's attacks, and the searing pain of being knocked to the ground over and over again.

"Pathetic."

Garrick's final words rang in his ears like an unshakable curse.

Fenix had thought he was improving.

He had sparred daily with Dante and Mira, building endurance, growing familiar with combat movements. But… compared to a real warrior, he was nothing.

"Where do I even start?"

He wasn't like the nobles. He hadn't been raised with formal swordplay. The only fights he'd known were those of survival—dirty, desperate, instinct-driven. That wouldn't be enough to stand at the top.

Training with his friends was good, but he needed something more.

He needed a real warrior.

And there was one person who had already crushed him effortlessly.

The gym was filled with the rhythmic clang of metal weights, the low hum of treadmills, and the sound of heavy breathing from Awakeneds sculpting their bodies into weapons.

Fenix stepped inside, scanning the room.

His eyes landed instantly on the tallest, most imposing figure present.

Garrick Drakar.

The Legacy warrior stood near the back of the gym, a sleeveless training shirt clinging to his sculpted form, his obsidian-black hair damp with sweat. His arms flexed as he swung two training blades in precise, deadly arcs—each motion filled with purpose, every movement a lesson in efficiency and power.

Fenix approached.

This was his chance.

"I need to talk to him."

Step by step, he moved closer. Garrick's golden eyes did not even flicker in his direction.

Fenix cleared his throat. "Hey."

Silence.

"I was wondering if—"

Garrick finished his swing, pivoted, and walked right past him.

Fenix frowned. Did he just ignore me completely?

He followed. "Look, I just—"

Garrick grabbed a nearby towel, wiped his neck, and still didn't acknowledge his presence.

This guy… wasn't even pretending to listen.

Fenix gritted his teeth.

Fine.

If Garrick wouldn't acknowledge him normally…

Then he'd force him to.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees.

The moment his knees hit the gym floor, the entire room fell into stunned silence.

The sound of weights clanking halted.

The Awakeneds on treadmills stopped running.

A dumbbell nearly rolled off a bench because its owner froze mid-rep.

All eyes turned to the bizarre sight of a teenager kneeling before Garrick Drakar.

Garrick himself tensed.

A flicker of something—annoyance? embarrassment?—crossed his features.

Fenix, taking full advantage of the situation, spoke loudly and clearly.

"Please! Teach me!"

Murmurs erupted in the gym.

"Is that… Fenix?"

"What the hell is he doing?"

"Did he just kneel?"

Garrick's golden eyes twitched. His jaw clenched. The color of his ears darkened slightly.

For a split second, Fenix saw it.

Emotion.

Garrick wasn't as cold as he pretended to be.

Still, the Legacy warrior hissed through gritted teeth.

"For the love of the gods, get up and stop this nonsense."

Fenix did not move.

"Not until you listen."

Garrick pinched the bridge of his nose. "I swear to—" He exhaled sharply, looking around at the staring crowd.

"Fine," he growled. "Just—just stand up already."

Fenix smirked inwardly.

"Got you."

Fenix stood, dusting himself off. "So, you'll teach me?"

Garrick crossed his arms. "No. But you can follow along. Stay out of my way, don't slow me down, and don't speak unless it's necessary."

That was more than enough.

Fenix nodded. "Deal."

Each morning began at dawn.

Garrick's training routine was brutal.

Sword Drills – Hundreds of strikes, over and over, until Fenix's arms felt like lead.

Endurance Runs – Through the city-like campus, with weighted vests pressing down on his body.

Hand-to-Hand Combat – Garrick never held back during spars, and Fenix spent most of them eating dirt.

By the end of the first week, his muscles ached constantly.

By the second week, he stopped shaking during sword drills.

By the third week, he could block some of Garrick's lighter attacks.

By the sixth week, he wasn't just surviving—he was adapting.

And Garrick noticed.

Though he never praised him, there were moments—tiny moments—where his expression softened.

A glance.

A small nod.

A slight adjustment in Fenix's stance.

Fenix clung to those moments like victories.

Despite his grueling schedule, Fenix still made time for:

Messaging Sylis. Sometimes casual, sometimes teasing. Once, she sent:

"Still alive, or did Drakar kill you?"

Fenix: "Alive, but barely. Tell my story."

Catching up with Dante & Mira. Occasionally sparring, though he was too exhausted most of the time.

Talking to Professor Aldric Voss. After survival classes, discussing combat strategies and mental resilience.

Even with his new routine, Fenix wasn't alone.

One night, after an especially grueling session, Fenix sat in the empty gym, staring at his reflection.

His body had changed.

Stronger.

More refined.

More controlled.

But he wasn't satisfied.

"I still don't know actual technique."

He needed a real teacher.

Garrick wouldn't teach him directly.

But maybe… someone else could.

His mind drifted to Aldric Voss.

Fenix clenched his fists, determined.

"It's time to stop following."

"And start learning."