Chapter 5 Training

Later that day, after a meager breakfast and some light bickering over fire placement, Gerald stood across from me in the clearing, arms crossed, watching like a hawk sizing up prey.

My sword was already in hand.

I rolled my shoulders and dropped into my stance—feet braced, knees bent, blade at the ready. The familiar rhythm of my master's training echoed in my mind.

"Begin," Gerald said.

I moved.

Step. Slash. Pivot. Twist. Downward arc. Backhand recovery.

The same sequence I'd drilled a hundred times since arriving in the forest.

I reached the final strike and held the pose, breathing hard.

Then I glanced up.

Gerald was unimpressed.

"That was… acceptable," he said slowly."If your opponent were blind. And paralyzed. And made of hay."

I frowned. "You said 'begin,' not 'impress me.'"

He stepped forward and tapped the flat of my blade.

"You waste energy in every second step. Your shoulders twist too much on your recovery swing. And your weight shifts before your lead foot lands—which tells your opponent what you're about to do."

I blinked.

"…What?"

He dropped into a low stance and mimicked my motion with eerie precision—but refined. Cleaner. Sharper. His body moved like water through cracks in stone—unhurried, yet unstoppable.

"Swordplay isn't about looking flashy. It's about surviving. Kill fast. Waste nothing."

I crossed my arms, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "I wasn't trying to look flashy."

He arched a brow. "You flared your cloak when you turned."

"I tripped over it!"

"Exactly."

He stepped behind me. "Again. Slower. This time, let your body follow the sword—not the other way around."

I exhaled, reset my stance, and began again. Step. Slash. Roll the hip. Let the blade lead—

"Stop," he said. "Your left foot landed before your elbow finished the arc."

I reset.

"Again."

Another swing. Sharper this time.

"Too wide. Again."

I grit my teeth and tried again.

And again.

By the tenth repetition, sweat slicked my brow and my shoulders ached. But my blade moved cleaner. Crisper. Less drag. Less noise.

Gerald finally stepped back.

"…Better."

I didn't respond, too focused on steadying my breath.

He gave a faint nod. "Still sloppy. But no longer suicidal."

"Charming feedback," I muttered.

He turned away, back to the fire.

"We'll go again after lunch."

"You mean after I go hunt, and you sit there sharpening sticks?"

He raised a hand lazily in farewell. "Partnership, remember?"

I growled under my breath.

Still… I hadn't realized how much I'd been overcompensating. How much movement I'd wasted.

{[]}{[]}{[]}{[]}{[]}{[]}

After lunch—a barely acceptable roast of forest fowl that Gerald seasoned far too smugly—we sat in the shade near the edge of the clearing. The fire had burned down to a quiet smolder, and the breeze brought the scent of pine and moss drifting lazily through the trees.

Gerald leaned against a fallen log, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-closed like he wasn't paying attention.

But I knew better by now.

"So," he said suddenly, "let's talk about your Ljósbrandr – First Form."

I looked up, startled. "…My Dawnbreaker Slash?"

He cracked one eye open.

"That's the one. Your signature technique. Your big opener. The thing you swing around like it's supposed to end every fight before it begins."

I frowned. "It's not just flash. It's fast, clean, and I've trained it longer than anything else."

"Mm. It's not bad," Gerald said, sitting up now, brushing some dirt off his knee. "But it's built on too many assumptions."

I narrowed my eyes. "Assumptions?"

He pointed lazily with two fingers. "You assume your opponent won't block. You assume they'll be standing still. You assume the momentum of your body will carry through cleanly, and that you'll end in a strong stance. And most dangerously…"

His eyes locked with mine.

"…You assume it'll work."

I tensed. "It has worked."

"Against beasts. Not against like me."

There was no venom in his voice. No mockery. Just fact. Cold and flat as steel on your throat.

He stood, drawing a simple stick from the ground like it was a blade.

"Show me again. Slow."

I sighed, stood up, and mimicked the opening.

Feet aligned. Breath drawn. Step forward—twist—draw—slash.

He watched carefully, then circled me.

"Your footing is decent. Your posture's good. But this—" he tapped my wrist lightly, "—gives too much tell. It announces what's coming."

I adjusted slightly.

"Better."

He stepped back.

"The name 'Dawnbreaker' implies overwhelming speed and radiance. Fine. But the technique must follow that intent. Precision. Economy. You want to break through someone's guard before they realize the sun has risen."

I blinked. "That's… poetic. Did you come up with that on the spot?"

"My father's instructor beat it into me. Repeatedly. With the flat end of a blade."

I groaned and returned to my stance. But his words stuck.

Precision. Economy. Speed before realization.

A flash of light—before the dawn is even noticed.

"Try again," he said.

"No power this time. Just thought. Clean. Refined."

I inhaled deeply.

Then moved.

This time, the slash felt different. Tighter. Not weaker—sharper. No flourish. No wasted motion.

Gerald didn't clap. He didn't even nod.

But I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

Just slightly.

"…That," he said, "was closer to something that might actually kill me."

Then, suddenly—he bellowed:

"NOOOOOOT!!!"

His voice echoed through the clearing like a warhorn.

I jumped in place, startled. My foot slipped slightly.

"Are you kidding me?!" I shouted. "You could've just said 'Not quite' like a normal person!"

Gerald crossed his arms, deadpan. "Feedback works better when it's traumatizing."

I growled under my breath, gripping my sword harder. "I swear if you yell in my ear one more time—"

"You'll miss the follow-up swing," he interrupted smoothly. "Because you're still tense. Again."

I forced down a snarl, returned to my stance, and this time?

I imagined his smug face at the end of the blade.

{[]}{[]}{[]}{[]}{[]}{[]}

We took a short break under the dappled shade of a pine tree. I sipped from my waterskin while Gerald tossed small rocks at a squirrel that kept chittering at him from a branch.

"So," he said casually, flicking a pebble that narrowly missed the squirrel's head. "Why are you even in this forest? Let me guess—your noble family kicked you out after realizing you were too useless to inherit anything but bad posture?"

I turned to him with narrowed eyes. "Training, obviously."

Then I leaned back on my hands, giving him a sly grin. "And what about you? What are you doing this deep in the woods? Let me guess—you were dating a female monkey, but she cheated on you with a raccoon, and now you're nursing your heartbreak among the wildlife?"

Gerald blinked slowly.

"Harsh." He put a hand to his chest, mock-offended.

"For your information, she was half monkey. And very emotionally supportive until she threw a coconut at my face."

I snorted, nearly choking on my water.

"So it was heartbreak?"

"Please," he said, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. "I don't get heartbroken. I get… emotionally redirected."

"That sounds like what someone says right before crying into tree bark."

He nodded solemnly. "Oak is particularly absorbent."

I laughed, despite myself.

Gerald grinned.

For a moment, the forest felt less heavy. Less dangerous.

Almost… normal.

Then, suddenly, his expression shifted. His eyes sharpened, gaze flicking toward the treeline behind me.

"Get up."

The tone change was instant.

The lightness vanished.

I rose in one fluid motion, hand going to my sword.

The [Miðgarðr Rune] beneath my skin began to pulse again—urgent, alert.

Something was coming.

The pulse of the [Miðgarðr Rune] beneath my skin intensified—its rhythm sharp, urgent, like a drumbeat before war.

Gerald's voice dropped, low and clear.

"Don't panic. It's organic."

I turned toward the rustling treeline just as the underbrush exploded.

A monstrous creature bounded into the clearing—taller than a horse, broader than any bear. Its body was wrapped in thick, matted fur, a deep slate-gray streaked with pale glowing veins. Antlers jutted from its skull, not like a deer's, but jagged, obsidian-like branches. Its eyes—glowing molten gold—locked on me.

"What… is that?" I whispered, stepping back.

Gerald shrugged lazily.

"Duskfang Stag. Rare. Magical. Territorial. You're lucky—it usually rips people in half before they can blink."

I blinked.

"LUCKY?!"

"Yup." He stepped back and sat down on a rock. "You've got this."

I whipped around. "You're just going to sit there?"

"Think of it as practical experience. You want to get better, don't you?"

The beast lowered its head, snorting black smoke from its nostrils as its hooves cracked into the ground like hammers.

My fingers clenched around the hilt of my sword.

"Fine," I muttered, setting my stance. "If I die, I'm haunting you."

"Noted," Gerald replied. "But if you die well, I'll carve something cool on your gravestone."

The Duskfang charged.

It was fast—terrifyingly fast. For a beast its size, it closed the distance in a heartbeat.

But my body moved.

Training kicked in. The Rune burned hot against my spine, feeding my instincts.

I leapt aside, narrowly avoiding its first lunge, and twisted mid-air, landing in a crouch.

Ljósbrandr – First Form: Dawnbreaker Slash!

I drew my sword with a flash of light and struck in one fluid motion, aiming for its exposed flank.

CLANG!

Sparks flew.

My blade skidded across its thick hide like steel on stone.

"Adjust your angle!" Gerald called out behind me. "You hit too shallow—try the underside of the ribs!"

The beast turned and roared—a deep, warping sound that made the trees shiver.

I grit my teeth and charged again, this time feinting left, then diving right.

A slash to its side.

Better. Blood—black and smoking—splattered the grass.

The stag shrieked and swung its massive antlers.

I ducked, rolled, sliced upward toward its leg joint.

It kicked me backward, sending me tumbling.

Pain flared through my shoulder, but I forced myself up.

Gerald still hadn't moved.

Still watching.

"Your form's improving. But you're hesitating before each swing—commit or retreat. Don't get caught in between."

I wiped the blood from my lip and narrowed my eyes.

"Right. No pressure at all, huh?"

Gerald shrugged from his perch on the rock.

"Better now than on your first real mission."

The Duskfang roared again and lowered its antlers, smoke curling from its mouth like the breath of a furnace. It charged—its hooves shattering roots beneath it, eyes locked on me like a living storm.

This time, I didn't dodge.

I didn't flinch.

I met it.

The Rune on my back burned hot, wild with clarity. 

Focus.

My muscles responded, light sparking at the edge of my blade as I inhaled once, steady.

I moved faster than instinct.

The world narrowed.

The air split.

[Ljósbrandr – Third Form: Horizon Fang]

A slash so fast, so flat, it seemed to erase the space between us.

I ducked beneath the beast's raised head and twisted into the strike—not above, not below, but across.

A horizontal arc of pure momentum, slicing from hip to shoulder like drawing a line through the sky.

The beast didn't even scream.

It just stopped.

And then collapsed—two clean halves sliding apart in the dust.

I stumbled backward, falling hard onto the dirt. Pain exploded through my limbs like wildfire. My arms trembled, vision blurred, and the world spun in dizzy spirals above me.

The [Miðgarðr Rune] flared—dim, warning me of my own limits. I had poured everything into that strike.

And now?

I could barely move.

The victory felt like a knife's edge.

"Ghh… damn it…" I hissed, clutching my side.

Using the full power of the Rune—and pushing into the Third Form of Ljósbrandr—was like setting fire to every muscle in my body.

The ache was everywhere. Deep. Gnawing. My limbs trembled, and my breath came in ragged gasps. I couldn't even lift my sword.

Then the earth trembled.

I turned my head, dread clawing up my spine.

Another one.

Another Duskfang lumbered out from the treeline—this one even larger, its fur darker, steam rising from its nostrils like smoke from a dying forge.

"Odin's beard," I breathed. "Another one?!"

I tried to move. My arms refused. My Rune pulsed weakly in protest.

I was spent.

"Relax," Gerald said, stepping forward, voice steady. "I'll handle this."

He walked calmly between me and the charging beast—unarmed, unfazed.

Then he grinned, eyes sharp with something wild.

"Come on, you stupid, snarling abortion of a moose."

He raised his voice, taunting it. "Come get some!"

The Duskfang snarled and charged—massive hooves thundering across the ground, jaws gaping with a roar that split the sky.

"Gerald!" I screamed.

But he didn't flinch.

He planted his feet, shifted his stance—and coiled his right arm.

His muscles tensed, veins bulging beneath skin like writhing serpents, pulsing with restrained fury.

The air around him twisted.

Something primal rippled in the atmosphere, warping it like heat above fire.

Then he exhaled—and slammed his fist forward.

"ΩMEGA FIST OF DESTRUCTION."