23# Blades Were Made to Kill.

The sun had barely begun to break through the dense forest canopy when the sound of wood clashing echoed again.

Clint stood there, his body soaked in sweat, breath heavy. The scars from the last few days still stung, but he had stopped counting them. Time had become smoke—irrelevant. All that mattered now was the blade in his hand, the heat in his chest, and his master's cold, watchful eyes before him.

— "Your guard is wide open… again," Darius said, stepping forward like a shadow.

Clint tried to block, but the wooden sword was already pressed against his throat.

— "Dead again," Darius sighed, pulling back. "If this were a real duel, your head would be rolling."

Clint clenched his jaw, twisting his wrist to relieve the sting from the last hit. Mantra training had become manageable. But swordplay… that was another matter.

— "I'm not a knight, Master," he muttered.

— "And I don't want you to be," Darius replied coldly. "Knights duel for honor. Warriors kill to survive."

Clint stayed quiet.

— "That's what you'll learn from me. To fight to kill. Forget the graceful forms, the elegant steps, and all that nonsense about fair fights." He stepped closer, eyes like steel. "You'll learn to slash, thrust, break, tear… whatever it takes. And when you hesitate, even for a second…" — he pointed the wooden blade at Clint's heart — "...you die."

Clint swallowed hard.

— "Pick up the sword. Low stance, blade centered. Never expose your side. Never let your feet get stuck."

Clint inhaled deeply and adjusted his posture as instructed.

— "Now what?"

— "Now… attack me like you want to kill me."

Clint's eyes widened.

— "What?"

— "You heard me. If you come at me with fear, I'll drop you. And this time, I won't hold back."

Darius stood motionless, his guard completely open, sword lowered.

Clint hesitated for just a second.

Darius moved like lightning.

Clint hit the ground with a grunt, his arm throbbing.

— "Dead again," Darius said mercilessly. "Get up."

Teeth clenched, Clint rose. His pride burned more than his bruises.

— "Again."

And so it went.

Days blurred together.

Morning training, silent lunches, more training in the afternoon, barely cooked fish at sunset. Then sleep, body broken, only to repeat it all again.

Clint began to understand.

It wasn't about technique. It was about intent.

On the third day of sword training, he finally deflected a strike and countered.

— "Finally. But still hesitant," Darius said. "You can't attack expecting me to block. You have to believe you're going to kill me."

— "That's not easy, Master."

— "It's not supposed to be easy. It's supposed to be real."

Clint growled. He gripped the sword tighter and launched three quick thrusts. Darius deflected all three effortlessly.

— "Now we're getting somewhere," the master murmured.

Time moved.

On the fifth day, Clint struck Darius in the shoulder. The master didn't even flinch.

— "I let you. But if that makes you proud, you're still a fool."

On the sixth, Darius taught him how to disarm with a twist of the wrist.

— "And when he's on the ground, finish him. If you hesitate… you die."

On the seventh day, Darius pushed him to his limit. His movements were blurs. Clint stopped seeing the sword—he just reacted.

And then, on the eighth day, it happened.

Clint's wooden sword moved in a straight, precise line. Fast. Cold.

It stopped just short of Darius' throat.

The master froze.

Silence followed.

— "Hmm," he murmured at last. "You're starting to get it."

Clint said nothing. His chest rose and fell quickly. His grip was steady.

Darius stepped back and sheathed his wooden blade.

— "That's enough for today. Tomorrow… you'll learn to kill with one hand. With the other. With a broken leg, if needed. Because if you have to fight, and can't retreat, then you'll have to win."

Clint nodded.

Darius turned, but paused just before vanishing into the trees.

— "Clint."

— "Yes, Master?"

— "That intent you had… hold onto it. That's bloodlust. Controlling it is what separates a beast from a warrior."