Chapter 54: Boot Camp

The darkness before dawn still clung to the sky, the stars like silent witnesses to Joshua's resolve. His body protested as he pushed himself up from his mat, the aches from the previous battle still lingering in his muscles. But he welcomed the pain. It was proof that he had survived, that he had grown.

Sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor, he took a deep breath, shutting out the sounds of the sleeping village. He focused inward, gathering energy from his surroundings, drawing it into his core like a raging tide. The flow of power burned through him, stretching his limits as he willed himself to absorb more, refine more. He clenched his fists, sweat beading on his forehead as the pressure inside him mounted. The sensation teetered on the edge of pain, his core swelling dangerously close to its breaking point.

Not yet.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to endure. He needed to push further. His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. His vision blurred, his limbs trembled, and his breath came in ragged gasps. The energy within him screamed for release, for an outlet, but he held firm. The breaking point was near, and yet he willed himself to remain steady.

Then, just as he thought he might collapse, he exhaled sharply, guiding the energy throughout his body, letting it flow seamlessly into his limbs, reinforcing his muscles, his bones, his very essence. He felt the burning sensation subside into a comforting warmth, a reservoir of power now under his control. His body was drenched in sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but he had succeeded. His capacity had expanded—if only by a fraction—but every inch mattered in the fight for survival.

The first streaks of sunlight began creeping over the horizon, bathing the village in a soft golden glow. Joshua opened his eyes, determination burning in them. He had no time to waste.

He stood, the soreness in his muscles now a dull throb rather than an obstacle. Quickly, he changed into his training attire—light yet durable fabrics that allowed ease of movement. Slipping on his boots, he secured his round shield on his back. His weapons—his energy constructs—were always with him, but that was no longer enough. He needed something more.

A sword. An axe. A hammer. A spear. A bow. He needed to familiarize himself with every weapon available then choose to focus on the one he felt most comfortable with.

His master wielded both bow and blade, seamlessly blending magic with martial prowess. He had seen how deadly her arrows became when infused with wind magic. If he could integrate weapon mastery into his combat style, he could conserve energy while remaining lethal. His abilities were powerful, but they drained him too quickly. Close combat training would bridge that gap.

Joshua fastened the last of his gear and strode out of the house, his footsteps light yet purposeful. The village was just beginning to stir, the scent of morning fires and fresh earth filling the air. But he had only one destination in mind.

The training field.

By the time he arrived, the warriors were already there, putting the younglings through their paces. The air was thick with the sounds of wooden swords clashing, the grunts of effort, the barked orders of instructors correcting stances and techniques. The sight of it sent a thrill through Joshua's veins. This was where warriors were made.

A few of the younglings noticed him, eyes widening in recognition. Whispers spread through the group.

"He's the one who fought in the battle…"

"He took down those monsters by himself…"

"But he failed the warrior's trial before…"

Joshua ignored the murmurs, stepping onto the field with unwavering focus. If they doubted him, so be it. He would prove himself—not to them, but to himself. He approached one of the senior warriors, a grizzled man with scars lining his arms and a perpetual frown.

"I want to train," Joshua stated firmly.

The warrior eyed him, arms crossed. "You are Gifted. What use do you have for a blade?"

Joshua met his gaze without hesitation. "Power alone isn't enough. I need to be prepared for every fight, every situation. I need to grow stronger."

The warrior studied him for a long moment, then, with a sharp nod, he grabbed a wooden training sword from the rack and tossed it to Joshua.

"Then let's begin."

—

Joshua's hand shot up on instinct, fingers curling around the hilt of the sword midair. The weight of it sent a slight shock up his arm—not just from the force, but from the sheer unfamiliarity of wielding a weapon like this.

A deep chuckle rumbled from the towering figure before him. "Good reflexes," the warrior said, his voice like grinding stone.

Joshua looked up at the man—Omar, he had called himself. The warrior stood more than two meters tall, his sheer bulk casting a shadow over Joshua. Muscles rippled beneath tanned, scarred skin, each mark a testament to countless battles. His braided hair hung heavy with beads, his single eye glistening with a bloodlust that seemed barely contained, like a predator moments away from pouncing.

"I'm Joshua," he said, gripping the sword tighter.

"I know who you are, outsider." Omar's lips curled into a smirk. "Apologies, force of habit. But you are no longer an outsider." His voice softened—not in tone, but in something deeper, something resolute. "We fought together. We bled together. You have earned our trust and respect."

A strange warmth settled in Joshua's chest. These warriors, hardened by war, were not quick to trust. Yet here he stood, not just accepted—but acknowledged.

"Thank you," Joshua said, the words heavier than he expected.

Omar nodded. Then, without warning, he dropped into a stance, sword gripped tight in his massive hands. "If you want to learn the way of the warrior, then watch closely."

Joshua's breath hitched as Omar moved.

For a man of his size, he was impossibly fast.

His feet pivoted, shifting weight effortlessly between steps. His blade carved through the air in fluid arcs—slashes, thrusts, parries—each movement honed to lethal perfection. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. It was as if the sword was merely an extension of his arm, his body moving in perfect synchronization with the steel.

Joshua's grip on his own weapon tightened as he watched, entranced.

This was not brute force.

This was art.