The early morning light bathed the courtyard of the academy in a soft, golden glow. The air was crisp and filled with the lively energy of students bustling about, preparing for another day of training. Birds chirped their cheerful melodies from the surrounding trees, as if eager to witness the day's events.
As the students streamed out from the towering castle that served as the heart of their training grounds, a sense of anticipation filled the air. The boys gravitated toward their preferred form of combat, engaging in sword fights with a vigor that showcased their determination. Their shouts of challenge and the clashing of wooden blades echoed through the courtyard.
Conversely, the girls, on the opposite side, focused on perfecting their archery skills. Each arrow released from their bows cut through the air with precision, striking their targets with accuracy and grace. It was a mesmerizing display of skill and discipline.
Amidst this lively commotion, Alfred found himself in a peculiar situation. He stood at the edge of the bustling courtyard, uncertain of what he needed to do.
Suddenly, a playful yet powerful slap on his back caught him off guard. It was Garf, the seasoned warrior with a grizzled appearance and an aura of strength. However, his gesture was a tad too enthusiastic, and Alfred nearly stumbled forward from the force.
"I will be your partner in training, as you are behind everyone because you came late to the academy…and you drank angel blood. It would be a shame to waste that potential," Garf declared with a friendly grin, his deep voice resonating with genuine warmth.
Alfred, still a bit off-balance from the friendly shove, tried to inject some humor into the situation. "I already have a trainer for my blessing," he replied.
Garf glanced at Alfred. "Well, it's a good thing I'm here to train you in something else," he responded, walking over to a wall to retrieve a wooden sword.
"Train you to fight with your muscles" With a casual flex of his biceps, he tossed it to Alfred.
The sword sailed through the air, but Alfred, made no attempt to catch it. Instead, it landed unceremoniously in the sand nearby.
Garf raised an eyebrow, his beard rustling with curiosity. "You were supposed to catch that, you know."
"Oh we already started?" Alfred scratched his head sheepishly as he retrieved the wooden sword from the ground. He examined it briefly, then, to Garf's surprise, he held it by the wrong end, as if the sword's handle were a two-headed axe.
Garf sighed in mild disbelief and frustration at Alfred's initial reaction. He had expected some level of incompetence given Alfred's lack of training, but this was starting to test his patience.
"We should probably begin with how to properly hold a sword," he suggested, grabbing one of the wooden swords and demonstrating the correct grip with both hands. "See? Now you try."
Alfred mimicked the grip on one end of the wooden sword, but when he attempted to do the same with his other hand, he once again faltered.
Garf's shock was evident as he watched Alfred struggle to align his hands properly.
Undeterred, Garf walked over to Alfred and gently corrected his grip, guiding each of his hands to the correct positions on the hilt. "Now you see? Remember that," he instructed, taking a step back to give Alfred some space.
Garf retreated to his designated spot, silently wondering, 'Why couldn't a kid like Bran could drink that angel blood?'
Then Garf spun back to face Alfred. "Now, your footing should be wide…. What are you doing?" he questioned with a mix of bemusement and frustration as he noticed Alfred holding the sword in the middle rather than the hilt.
Alfred, still processing the information about his grip, replied, "Holding it like you showed me."
A sense of impending doom crept over Garf, who dropped to his knees and pounded the ground in frustration. "Oh God, why are you testing me with this kid? I only have a couple of years until retirement!"
Regaining his composure, Garf got back on his feet and continued with the lesson. "Forget it. Just come at me with all you've got!"
Alfred, not fully comprehending the nuances of swordplay, stood still for a moment before dashing toward Garf, sword in hand. His approach was more akin to wielding an axe, as if he intended to cleave Garf like a tree.
Garf, seasoned and patient, flicked his wrist with a quick movement to deflect Alfred's wild attack. The wooden sword in Alfred's hands was easily knocked away, landing with a soft thud in the sand.
"That's all you've got? Again," Garf calmly urged, his voice laced with a hint of disappointment.
Alfred nodded, his determination unwavering. He knew he had to learn, and he wasn't one to give up easily. He lunged forward once more, attacking the wooden sword as if it were a deadly foe. But the sword was sent flying through the air again.
Garf couldn't help but shake his head. "This will be not enough to kill any vampire, even if it were a cripple. Again," he instructed, his tone tinged with a mix of frustration and concern.
Alfred, his frustration growing in tandem with Garf's, attacked again. And yet, once again, the outcome was no different. The wooden sword whirled away from his grip, landing in the sand a few feet away.
"The angel blood use seems to be a waste," Garf remarked, his voice tinged with resignation. He gazed at Alfred, the wrinkles on his weathered face deepening as he contemplated the situation. Teaching Alfred was going to be more challenging than he could have ever imagined.
Alfred retrieved his wooden sword, his frustration growing with each attempt. He was determined to prove himself, and yet, with every swing, the sword was sent spiraling away from him.
"You will not be able to save anyone like this! Again!" Garf's voice echoed across the training courtyard. His stern admonition pierced through Alfred's determination, striking at the heart of his deepest insecurities.
The words cut deep, revealing the core of Alfred's aspirations and motivations. His goal in life was to become strong enough to save others, a promise he made to himself, especially after being unable to protect his mother. Garf's assessment had hit too close to home.
Fuelled by a potent blend of frustration and anger, Alfred's muscles tensed as he picked up his wooden sword once more. In that fiery moment, the weight of his goals bore down on him.
Garf's calm demeanor remained unchanged as he once again beckoned Alfred to attack.
With a focused determination, Alfred charged forward, sword held in the same manner, his muscles quivering with intensity. His swing was powerful, just like the storm of emotions churning within him.
As Garf engaged in the familiar defense maneuvers, his experienced hands working to spin away Alfred's wooden sword, he remained focused on the task at hand.
Little did he know, Alfred had something new brewing within him. The frustration, the desire to prove himself, and the sheer determination had kindled a spark deep inside the young cadet.
Alfred powerfully attacked with his right hand holding the weapon. As the wooden sword arced toward Garf, on Alfred's other hand, his fingers began to glow with a faint, ethereal light
With his glowing hand, Alfred reached for Garf's throat, his movements fueled by the whirlwind of emotions and desires.
Garf's eyes widened in alarm as he suddenly realized the imminent danger. His long goatee, like a sentient entity, snaked its way toward Alfred's arm, attempting to disarm the threat by wrapping around it.
"Snake throw!" Garf bellowed, his body twisting and contorting with practiced precision. In a swift motion, he flung Alfred away, using his lengthy beard like a weapon.
He hurled Alfred away with the force of his beard, causing the young cadet to fly backward, his trajectory resembling that of a ragdoll.
Alfred hit the ground with a thud, tumbling but ultimately landing in a heap. His anger and determination remained palpable, his fingertips still glowing with the potential of his untamed blessing.
Garf, now furious at the unexpected aggression from his young charge, glared at Alfred.
His beard moved like a snake while growing, and it seemed to writhe with annoyance. "Brat, how dare you?" he growled, his voice laced with irritation.
Yet, before the confrontation could escalate further, the academy gates, massive and imposing, began to open with mechanical creaking and the ominous rattle of chains.
The disturbance interrupted the intense training session, leaving both Garf and Alfred momentarily stunned by the unexpected interruption.
A group of six headsmen, their arrival accompanied by the clattering of hooves, burst into the courtyard atop powerful horses.
Each of them wore the signature tricorne hats but in whit, a symbol of their elite status among the headsmen.