Several days had passed since Zephyr's training with Arlund began.
They were only a few days away from reaching the empire's borders, and from there, it would take them a bit longer to arrive at the city of Western River—where they would meet the man who had assigned them their mission.
The weather had started to improve slightly now that they were leaving the heart of the desert.
Currently, Zephyr stood facing Arlund, just as he had every evening before.
He gripped his sword with both hands, eyes locked in concentration on the relaxed man standing before him—unbothered by the boy preparing to attack.
Zephyr lunged, swinging his blade down vertically.
Arlund dodged as usual, but this time Zephyr had anticipated it.
As the sword descended, Zephyr swept it horizontally toward Arlund.
Still, the seasoned mercenary leader wasn't caught off guard.
He ducked swiftly beneath the swing, seized Zephyr's leg—which had come too close—and yanked it hard, sending the boy tumbling to the ground.
Arlund released Zephyr's leg and returned calmly to his place.
"Good, boy," he said, nodding with approval. "You're improving."
He smirked. "At this rate, you might be able to land a hit on me… in about two years."
"Get up."
Zephyr ignored the sarcasm; he'd grown used to it by now.
He rose, retrieved his sword, and prepared to attack again—until Arlund signaled him to stop and gestured behind him.
Zephyr turned and saw Zakrox approaching casually.
The tall, broad-shouldered man stopped between the two and looked at Zephyr.
"Boy," Zakrox began, "in your opinion, what's the most important thing on a battlefield?"
Zephyr thought for a moment. "Your weapon?"
Zakrox shook his head.
"Victory?" Zephyr guessed again. Another shake of the head.
Silence fell for a brief moment before Zakrox continued.
"The most important thing on a battlefield… is survival.
What's the point of entering a fight if you're going to die in it?"
"To survive," he said, "you must use everything at your disposal—your hands, your feet, your head, your fingers, your teeth, your nails… even your ass, if you have to."
"And if possible, use your enemy's body against him."
Zephyr nodded, understanding the message.
Zakrox was right—if you enter a battle, you must survive. And to survive, you must fight with everything you have.
Zakrox continued, "This brings me to you. You fight Arlund with both hands on your sword, locking yourself into predictable movements. That's a mistake."
"Use your weapon. Use your hands. Your feet. Your elbows. Do you understand?"
Zephyr nodded. "Yes. I understand.
"Good. Now attack."
Zephyr assumed his stance, quickly thinking of his next move.
He lunged forward, thrusting his sword. Arlund dodged it, as expected, and Zephyr followed up with a kick to his thigh.
But before his foot could land, Arlund blocked it with the sole of his own foot.
Zephyr didn't stop. He swung his sword from left to right.
Arlund ducked swiftly beneath the blade, and Zephyr instinctively stepped back—fearing Arlund would try to grab his leg again.
But the mercenary leader had other plans.
He swept Zephyr's legs with a swift kick and sent him crashing to the ground once more.
Arlund approached and gave him a small nod. "Well done, boy. You're improving. The key is thinking with your mind. Over time, your body will learn the moves."
Zakrox then spoke up, "Once we reach the empire's borders, we'll pass through a forest. I'll teach you how to use a bow there. Be ready."
With that, he turned and left.
Zephyr and Arlund resumed their training.
That Night
As usual, Zephyr returned to the campfire, sword in hand, warming up his body with practiced swings as he waited for Arlund.
But this time, Arlund arrived with someone else.
The man walking beside him was tall, lean yet muscular, his body sculpted like a statue.
He wore a sleeveless outfit that revealed his chiseled arms, and his sharp features gave his face a striking appearance.
His hair was shaved on the sides and left longer in the middle.
On one belt, he carried two medium-length swords.
On another strapped across his torso, several short daggers.
This was Saryn.
In ancient tongues, Saryn meant "the sharp wind before the storm"—unseen but foreboding, a herald of imminent death.
Zephyr had already met most of the mercenaries, at least on a surface level, and he knew their names.
His impression of Saryn was that he was quiet, rarely spoke, and interacted mostly with Arlund and Zakrox.
So Zephyr was surprised to see him here.
He looked at Arlund, puzzled, but the captain wasted no time explaining.
"I brought Saryn tonight because he's close to your age and highly skilled in hand-to-hand combat.
From now on, you'll train with him daily in close-quarters fighting."
Zephyr nodded in understanding, glancing toward Saryn.
Saryn returned the nod and said, "I'll be harsh with you. You'll have to endure it."
Without another word, he unstrapped his sword belt and tossed it aside, followed by the dagger belt.
He pulled off his leather gloves and threw them down too.
Then—without warning—he stepped forward and delivered a swift kick to Zephyr's thigh.
"Ahh!" Zephyr cried out in pain.
Before he could recover, Saryn grabbed him, lifted him, and slammed him to the ground.
Then he walked back to where he stood and said flatly,
"What are you waiting for? Get up."
Arlund, watching from the side, laughed and called out,
"Boy, I'll leave you with Saryn. I'm sure he'll take great care of you."
He turned and walked away, humming a faint tune.
Zephyr's thigh throbbed as if it had been struck by an iron bar.
He rubbed it painfully, glaring at Saryn.
"Why did you do that?" he asked, annoyed.
Saryn raised a brow. "What? You thought you'd enter a fight and come out without pain?"
"This pain is nothing. A tickle, compared to poison in your veins or a sword carving out your flesh."
"Now get up."
Zephyr tried. The pain in his leg made it difficult, but he eventually stood.
"Attack me," Saryn ordered.
Zephyr shook his leg to ease the pain, then charged forward.
He tried to bring Saryn down, but the man stood unshaken.
Saryn pushed him back effortlessly
"What are you doing?" he snapped. "Use your fists, your legs—hit me like I'm the man who killed your parents!"
Hearing that, Zephyr clenched his fists in fury and threw a punch at Saryn's face.
Saryn blocked it with ease, grabbed Zephyr's hand, and drove a fist into his stomach.
Zephyr collapsed, gasping for air, his lungs empty, his stomach twisted in pain.
He nearly vomited as he struggled to breathe.
After a few minutes, he regained control.
His eyes glinted with rage as he looked at Saryn.
Saryn scoffed. "What? What are you angry about?"
That smirk… it only fueled Zephyr's fury.
He stood and charged.
Only to be dropped again by another punch to the gut.
"Ughhh… damn it…"
Drool dripped from Zephyr's lips to the sand. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
His stomach churned violently.
Saryn stood over him. "Where did you come from, kid? You can't even land a single hit."
"I said get up."
Still crouched, Zephyr trembled in pain
"I said get up."
He did—shaking, hurting.
Saryn smirked again. "Trembling already, little whelp? You'll tremble more once you see where I'm taking you."
"Come. Attack me."
Zephyr dashed forward and threw another punch. Saryn dodged it with ease.
"Again," he said.
Zephyr kept swinging.
Saryn evaded or blocked every strike—effortlessly.
This continued for over an hour.
Zephyr's punches slowed.
Sweat drenched his body.
Breathing became harder.
Finally, Saryn said, "Let's end this."
He dodged Zephyr's final punch, grabbed his collar, and drove a knee into his abdomen.
Zephyr dropped, gasping again, rolling on the ground as his lungs screamed for air.
Then—
"Haaah… haaah…"
A sharp inhale.
The air returned.
It was a terrible sensation—suffocating, then gasping back to life.
Zephyr never wanted to experience it again.
His anger reached its peak.
He looked at Saryn, who now sat casually nearby, watching him struggle.
"Why… why are you doing this?" Zephyr asked, furious.
Saryn replied coldly, "You should be grateful."
"Grateful? For getting beat up?" Zephyr snapped. "What are you, some kind of sadist?"
Saryn chuckled.
"I'm saving your life. And you're angry about it?"
Zephyr was about to yell, but Saryn cut him off.
"Remember this rule. Hang it around your neck like a charm:
The blows that don't kill you… make you stronger."
Saryn retrieved his belts, rearmed himself, and pulled Zephyr to his feet.
He patted his shoulder, turned, and walked away.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I'll be waiting here."
Zephyr sat on the ground, his abdominal muscles trembling from the pain.
But his thoughts lingered on Saryn's words.
Every strike teaches something…
It made sense.
But as he writhed in pain, he muttered to himself,
"Damn that sadistic bastard…"
Eventually, when the pain dulled, he stood and headed toward his tent.
The Next Morning
The group resumed their journey, growing ever closer to the empire's border—and their ultimate goal.
As for Zephyr, all he could think about…
…was how much Saryn would beat him again that night.