Ron shook his head.
The night's moon watched, its cold light blessing the land once again. The wind accompanied, hailing from the east, bringing news of the coming of midnight.
Hubert swung his wooden sword, again and again. Its already dulled edge became duller, and its sharpness was naught. To the tree, his target, a target of practice, one that was struck hundreds of times.
Deformed by strikes, its barks wounded by tears and scratches, some shallow and some deep. While leaves were continuing their descent, birds migrated from their nests above to trees in the surrounding area.
One landed on Dareon's head, watching as he sat on the ground. Glaive by his side, Dareon's finger itched for the same action.
Though his body showed otherwise, with necks that had been dropping and eyes that had been closed occasionally.
Hubert continued. Sweat had formed since the evening, mingling with the ground under him. Once hard and stern, now transformed into a shallow soft and mushy mud. While his forearms steamed as the sword moved, cutting the air and then the tree in a weak manner.
Ron shook his head again.
"Again?" he exclaimed, questioning with a frustrated tone.
There had been hundreds, if not thousands, of strikes that he sent flying to the tree. The aftermath of each of his attempts resulted in his body part being kicked by Ron for improper posture.
Ron nodded, answering in silence.
"Ugh," Hubert groaned, rolling his eyes. His black hair was messy by the blowing of the harsh wind and his muscles worn out and exhausted by the amount of stress they had experienced.
"Six hundred…," Ron muttered, a count of Hubert's effort.
"And not a single one fits your requirement?" Hubert asked.
Ron nodded, answering.
"..." Hubert bothered not to respond.
And so was Ron.
Then Hubert turned to the tree's trunk once again. Tired gaze of baggy eyes returned their focus, while hands that trembled became still upon the target.
He lifted up his sword. Then swung it down.
Another failure as Ron shook his head.
Hubert looked straight into Ron's blank eyes, staring him down as he opened his dried lips. But before a single sentence came, Dareon cut him off.
"Good night, teacher, good night, Hubert," Dareon said, standing up with all his conscious strength.
"Uh, yeah, good night, Dar," Hubert bid as he and Ron watched Dareon, stumbling upon the uneven and thin grassed ground.
Then they turned to each other.
Hubert waited.
Ron shrugged.
Then the night was replaced by midnight and midnight was soon also displaced by dawn.
Thud
A low dull but piercing sound echoed through the morning air. Waking up the chickens and birds from their slumbers. While the morning dews had barely formed on the leaves of the tree.
"One…" he began. The first strike of the day, toward the same tree he had previously struck the night before. Where premature dews showered upon him, bringing in a wave of freshness.
An eye that blazed with determination, passed by a drop of dew as he swung the dull wooden sword once again.
"Two…" the jagged tree's barks were on the ground, the castration worsened of its trunk.
"Three," continuing, the bird watched from the nearby trees, woken from their nest of sticks and rubbles.
"Four," the ants awoke from their hobbles in the ground.
"Five," the millipede crawled slowly, camouflaged by its dark red brownish shell with the tree's skin.
"Six," the morning sun's light intensified, rising as it peeked from the horizon in the far distance.
"Seven," the clock moved, the short hand on its way to the number 6.
"Eight," the bunch of servants came out, some from the dormitory building and some from the servants quarter
"Nine," the horses neighed in the early morning, awoken by the graces of the stable boys.
"Ten," curtains thrown open from the dormitories around him.
"Eleven," instructors made their way to their halls, gathering for the early meetings and materials distribution.
"Twelve," cooks finished their preparation and began delivering various plates into the dining hall.
"Thirteen," an owl flew from inside the forest, returning as the sun came, with a moveless squirrel in its talons.
"Forteen," the sun rose, its light was light orange.
"Fifteen," maids and nurses carried baskets made of wood, filled to the brim with cloth of bedsheets and uniforms.
Among them, Ivanna, as she glanced ever so slightly and uncaringly at Hubert as she giggled with her fellow nurse.
"Sixteen," the cold air became warmer.
"Seventeen,"
"Eighteen,"
"Nineteen,"
"Twenty…" Hubert then relaxed his grip over the sword.
"Why does it not feel right?" Sighing, the cold air entered his lungs as he stood, watching over his result of practice. His eyes nailed straight toward the mutilated tree, with crevasses formed by his strike, now deeper than ever.
Left foot forward, right foot backward, joints bent, center of gravity placed, eyes straight. Then swinging, forearms still, abs clenched, wrist rotated, center of gravity shifted, and eyes straight. And the latter half of the edge struck open an even bigger wound in the tree's body.
Time continued. The clock's short hand reached seven, and the bell rang a loud sign of morning to those still asleep. The morning sun became even hotter, as if frying his already reddened skin.
"Another!" he continued, it was the second hundredth strike.
"Again!" frustration took control of him. Yet he resumed.
Each strike was deeper and stronger than the one before it. At which point the wound was a quarter way of the tree's whole thickness.
"One more!" his grip over the sword strengthened with the passing of time, and his strike became swifter and quicker.
"Ugh!" again, he swung.
"Ha!" again.
"Take this, you tree!" again.
And again.
The short hand showed ten.
Thud
He stumbled backward, the sword spent and splintered, as was the tree's trunk. The ground was softened by his sweat, tainting the sleeve of his long black trouser. His ragged shirt was drenched in sweat, while the mark of his shoe was on the face of the ground.
"Ha… Ha…" gasping for air, Hubert was.
Exhausted, yet not satisfied. Brows curving inward, his fingers flickered through the dented grip of the sword. Though the embracement of the ground was like a respite to him.
He looked onward, to the tree, once again questioning.
"Why, you ask?" a voice came from the side, seductive and high pitched. The smell of her fragrance was noticeable, like the essence of a waterfall surrounded by a pack of flowers.
"Who?" he turned around upon the unmemorized voice, gripping his sword in caution.
It was Veronica, the first hall master.
"Oh, young man, do not be startled," Veronica said, her right hand gracefully bringing up her trustworthy smoking pipe.
"First hall master," Hubert got up and bowed ever so slightly.
Phew
She blew out smoke from her glossy red lips.
"Hubert," Veronica bid.
"What brings you here, hall master," Hubert asked, sword still in hand.
"Hmm? Are you saying I shouldn't be here then? As far as I'm aware, isn't this still a part of the academy?" Veronica answered with a smirk as she crossed her arm as a support for her bosom.
"Ah, yes, hall master, pardon my mistake," Hubert bowed again, though his eyes stared sharp to her.
"And you are pardoned, as long as you don't stare at me like how I'm that tree over there," Veronica pointed with her gaze.
Hubert turned around, realizing it was his training tree he struck repeatedly that she was talking of.
"I was practicing with this tree over here, is it allowed or is it not because it is still a part of the academy's property?" Hubert asked, a tone that slightly barked.
Veronica's eyes widened slightly, though she soon took a breath from her wood smoking pipe again. Leaving Hubert stranded for an answer, she blew out the smoke to her side again.
"I don't care about the tree, no one ever does except that Javarius guy, in fact," Veronica answered.
"Then I am much gladdened that my practice session hadn't turned into one of a punishable crime," Hubert bowed so slightly once again.
"Though I must admit. I came here not for the tree, but for you,"
Hubert's heart skipped a beat.
"Me?" he said as he pointed to himself.
"Yes, you, especially that thing in your hand," Veronica elaborated.
Hubert's heart skipped another beat. He thought his identity was compromised, something that bothered his mind since the first time he went unconscious, the mark of the church that was already removed.
"Wh-what is in my hand?" he asked, stuttering.
Veronica stepped forward. Her flagrantness struck Hubert's nose stronger each step she took.
"Kid, hitting a tree may not be a crime. But to steal a sword? Under my watch too?" Veronica asked, her glance was seduceful, but sharp and resolved like a hidden dagger.
"O-oh, this sword? Hall master, pardon, but I've gotten thi-..." Hubert hesitated, unknowing from where Ron actually acquired such a sword.
"Go on, kid," Veronica urged.
"I… got it from the training field. Someone left it there on the bench," Hubert answered.
Veronica looked at him, straight in the eyes, as if gouging his eyes. Her face got closer and closer, examining every single movement of his facial muscles.
Then she pulled her face back and brought the pipe in front of her mouth.
"Weird… I'll investigate more on this, and then I'll come back to you, kid," she said as she turned her back on him and left the place.
"Yes, first hall master," Hubert bid with a bow.