The chill of the morning air was cut with a surprising announcement from Garrick, "This is it, the final day. Eldrige would hang me by the balls if you don't come out of this a bit better." His voice, typically filled with condescension and mockery, carried a hint of seriousness that was new to Argon.
A flicker of surprise crossed Argon's eyes, hidden behind the dark visor of his helmet. Was Garrick finally acknowledging his tenacity, or was this just another ruse in his litany of psychological tactics? Whatever the reason, Argon took the opportunity. He needed to improve, and if Garrick was finally willing to teach him, he wouldn't refuse.
With the usual taunts set aside, Garrick began demonstrating the basics. "You aren't going to master any flashy moves, especially not in a day," he grumbled. "Focus on the fundamentals. Good footwork, balance, and the correct grip. Your artefact will do the rest."
For once, Garrick's words were not insults but actual advice. He demonstrated how to hold a sword correctly, adjusting Argon's grip and posture. "Hold it like it's part of you, not like it's some tool. You should be able to control it as naturally as you control your own limbs."
Next, he taught Argon how to position himself, explaining the importance of keeping his centre of gravity low and his movements fluid. Garrick explained, his voice firm yet instructional. "You need to be able to move, adjust, react. You can't do that if you're planted like a tree."
Then came the footwork. He showed Argon how to advance, retreat, and sidestep, ensuring his movements were nimble and quick. "The fight isn't won just by strength. If you can't position yourself correctly, you'll be cut down no matter how much power you have."
Finally, he demonstrated the basic strikes, parries, and thrusts. He corrected Argon's form, sharpening his movements and refining his strikes.
In the warm glow of the morning sun, Garrick stood tall in the centre of the training circle, his Dayless armour glinting ominously. On the opposite side, Argon listened attentively, his sturdy figure imposing in his own suit of armour.
Garrick began with the basics, teaching Argon a decisive strike aimed at the top of the opponent's head. This strike, while basic, was intended to disorient or potentially incapacitate an opponent.
Next, Garrick demonstrated a swift, precision strike aimed at the wrist. A successful hit could disarm an opponent or, at the very least, impair their ability to retaliate effectively.
The third technique was a powerful strike aimed at the torso. Here, Argon's strength was put to good use, intending to deliver a heavy blow that could knock an opponent off balance or even wind them.
The fourth move was a well-timed thrust aimed at the opponent's throat. This required precision and impeccable timing, as the targeted area was small and often well-guarded.
Garrick then showed Argon a set of pulling techniques. These manoeuvres involved a tactical retreat or evasion from an incoming strike, coupled with a counterattack delivered in the same swift motion.
Next was a series of counterattacks. These required Argon to react quickly and decisively, striking the opponent as soon as they launched their own attack, exploiting the brief opening in their defences.
The seventh technique taught was about disrupting an opponent's attack. This involved striking the opponent's weapon with one's own, potentially throwing them off balance and creating an opening for a follow-up strike.
Then, Garrick demonstrated a technique of lifting an opponent's weapon. This technique was designed to disrupt the opponent's defensive posture, creating an opening for an offensive strike.
The ninth move was a continuous series of strikes and footwork patterns designed to increase Argon's speed, agility, and endurance. This was less of a fighting move and more of an intense training drill.
Finally, Garrick taught Argon a set of evading techniques. These involved swiftly stepping back or to the side to avoid an incoming attack, creating an opportunity for a counterstrike.
Argon spent his days mastering these techniques, his blade cutting through the air in an unending dance of offence and defence. His understanding of combat deepened, evolving from simple brute force to a more nuanced strategy. He was no longer a brawler relying solely on his strength; he was becoming a warrior.
The day was long, the training intense, but Argon absorbed every bit of it. He practised each move until his muscles ached and his body screamed in protest. But he didn't stop. Not until Garrick was satisfied. For once, Argon felt that he had made a significant step forward. He was no knight, but he was no longer just a commoner with a sword either. He had evolved, and he had Garrick's training to thank for it.
Garrick stood back, crossing his arms over his broad chest, a smirk tugging at his lips. His dark eyes glinted with amusement and perhaps, just perhaps, a sliver of respect for the determination that Argon displayed. He watched Argon repeating the moves, his large form dancing around the training circle with growing skill and confidence.
"Ten moves," he finally spoke, his voice grating like steel against stone. "Even a fuck face like you should be able to remember that." His words were harsh, but his tone held a new note of concession, the mockery somehow softer.
The Dayless knight moved to sit on a nearby bench, his gaze never leaving Argon's form. He watched as the burly man continued to practice, his body flowing through the sequences of the newly learned moves. There was an intensity to Argon's focus that had not been there before. It was a new sight for Garrick, and in spite of himself, he found a grudging sense of satisfaction.
"You practice this shit a ton," he continued, his words slicing through the still air, "and you might qualify to be my squire and bootlicker." His laughter echoed through the training circle, a rough, throaty sound that seemed to echo his newfound regard for Argon. He had expected the lowborn man to be a pushover, but Argon had proven him wrong. The commoner had shown an iron will and determination that was hard to ignore. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to Argon than met the eye.
Garrick stood up, the hint of amusement evaporating from his eyes as he reverted to his usual self. His deep voice echoed across the training circle, a grating command demanding attention. "We're leaving tomorrow," he declared, casting a scrutinizing gaze over Argon.
He chuckled, a harsh, grating sound that bounced off the stone walls of the circle. "Bring your master," he drawled out sarcastically, his lips curling into a mocking smirk. "Oh, sorry, I keep forgetting who's the slave and who's the master."
His eyes turned cold, his voice dropping to a low, deadly whisper. "Buy some horses and arrive with them at the manor at sunrise. We set off early." The unspoken threat in his words was clear. Do not be late.
Argon stood still, processing Garrick's words. He glanced at the knight and spoke, his voice calm despite the throbbing pain coursing through his body. "We already have two horses," he replied, meeting Garrick's gaze unflinchingly.
Garrick's smirk widened, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Oh, so you do have a brain in that thick skull of yours," he mused, chuckling darkly. "Maybe you should have shut the fuck up instead of trying to show off. Now, I might have to kill your horses just to teach you a lesson."
His words were ice-cold, the threat clear. A silence descended on the training circle, filled with tension and unspoken warnings. Argon knew he had no choice but to tread carefully. He had entered a game where Garrick held all the cards, and he couldn't afford to lose.