The early light of dawn slips through the trees, casting faint shadows on the ground as I make my way to a small clearing I found on the edge of Briarstead. My breath fogs in the morning air, each exhale a reminder of the effort it's taken just to get here, to be awake this early. Elara's words from yesterday echo in my head, her mocking grin still fresh in my mind.
"Keep your feet steady, don't lean forward. You'll trip over yourself before your enemy even gets the chance to throw a punch."
I tighten my grip on the wooden staff I've taken from an old fence post. It's splintered and worn, hardly a weapon, but it's enough to train with. Enough to remind myself I'm serious about this. I plant my feet in the soft earth, bracing myself, and try to mimic the stance Elara showed me. Knees bent, shoulders squared, weight balanced. It seems so simple when she does it, like it's as natural as breathing. For me, it feels like I'm one wrong move away from falling flat on my face.
I thrust the staff forward, trying to channel everything she said about keeping my movements controlled, deliberate. Instead, my grip slips, and I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I eat dirt. Frustration flares up, hot and sharp, and I swipe the staff through the air again, harder this time. It's useless. Every swing feels awkward, every step clumsy. The more I try to remember Elara's instructions, the more I feel like I'm doing everything wrong.
I take a deep breath, rolling my shoulders back and forcing myself to try again. Step, swing, brace, keep my weight steady—there's a rhythm to it, I know there is. But no matter how many times I repeat the sequence, it's like my body refuses to cooperate. My foot catches on a root sticking up from the ground, and I go sprawling, the staff slipping from my hands and clattering to the ground beside me.
"Dammit," I mutter, picking myself up and brushing the dirt from my clothes. A System alert pings at the edge of my vision, reminding me of the penalty I received for failing the herb-gathering quest. I ignore it, pushing the thought away. I can't afford to keep getting penalties like that. If I don't improve, if I don't get stronger, the System's punishments will only get worse. But as I stare at the staff lying uselessly on the ground, I wonder if I'm really cut out for this. Maybe Elara was right to laugh at me. I'm no warrior. I'm just a villager who barely knows how to swing a stick.
But that's not enough to stop me. Not anymore. Gritting my teeth, I pick up the staff again and plant my feet, determined to try once more.
Hours pass, and each attempt is more frustrating than the last. My shoulders ache, my legs feel like they're about to give out, and my hands are raw from gripping the rough wood. Every time I make even the slightest progress, I slip up again, tripping over my own feet or losing my balance. The staff clatters to the ground for what feels like the hundredth time, and I let out a growl of frustration, kicking at the dirt.
"This is pointless," I mutter, the words bitter on my tongue. But even as I say it, I know I can't give up. I can't afford to. The System's penalties, the memory of those wolves, the look in the elder's eyes when he told me I'd have to be stronger—all of it pushes me forward, even when every part of me wants to quit.
As the sun rises higher, I force myself to keep going, repeating the movements over and over until my muscles burn. I'm drenched in sweat, my clothes sticking to me, but I don't stop. The frustration is like a fire inside me, fueling me, driving me forward. I swing the staff, my movements clumsy but determined. Each mistake only makes me more stubborn, more unwilling to back down.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, something clicks. I take a step forward, shifting my weight just the way Elara showed me, and the staff moves with me, sweeping through the air in a smooth arc. It's not perfect, not even close, but for the first time, it feels right. I can feel the balance, the control, and a surge of satisfaction fills me, pushing back the frustration.
But the victory is short-lived. I stumble on the next swing, nearly losing my grip, and the frustration crashes back down, heavier than before. I grit my teeth, determined to keep going, but every step feels harder, every movement more forced. My muscles are screaming in protest, and my head throbs from the effort. I can barely stand, let alone fight.
Just when I'm ready to collapse, another System alert pings in my vision. This one's different, though. It's not a penalty. It's a reminder.
System Alert: Inactivity Penalty Imminent. Failure to complete training will result in debuff.
I stare at the message, my chest heaving. The System isn't giving me a choice. If I don't keep training, if I don't keep pushing myself, it's going to punish me. There's no room for weakness, no mercy. I have to keep going, whether I want to or not.
With a groan, I pick up the staff again and force myself to stand. The sun is high now, casting harsh shadows across the clearing, and every part of me aches. But I can't stop. I swing the staff again, my movements sloppy and uncoordinated, but I push through the pain, the exhaustion. I don't know how long I keep going, but eventually, the frustration starts to fade, replaced by a dull determination.
I don't know if I'm making any real progress, but for now, just the act of trying feels like enough. I keep swinging, keep moving, my body aching but my mind strangely calm. The frustration is still there, lurking beneath the surface, but it's not as overwhelming as before. I can feel a change, a small shift in my mindset. I'm not just fighting against the System, against the penalties, against my own weaknesses. I'm fighting for something—for the chance to survive, to prove to myself that I can do this.
When I finally stagger back to Briarstead, the sun is dipping low on the horizon, casting the village in a warm, golden light. My body feels like it's been through a grinder, every muscle sore, every joint aching. But there's a strange sense of satisfaction, too, a quiet pride that I managed to push through, even when everything inside me wanted to give up.
As I make my way through the village, a few of the villagers glance at me, their expressions a mix of curiosity and pity. I ignore them, keeping my gaze focused ahead. I don't need their approval. I don't need anyone to understand what I'm going through. This is my fight, my struggle, and I'll face it alone if I have to.
Back in my small hut, I sink onto the bed, my limbs heavy with exhaustion. My mind drifts back to Elara, to the way she moved through the forest with that effortless grace, her every step calculated, controlled. She's a warrior, someone who's mastered her own strength, her own skills. And if I want to survive in this world, if I want to face whatever the System throws at me, I need to become like her. I need to be strong, disciplined, unbreakable.
As I drift off to sleep, my last thought is of the next morning, of the clearing in the forest, of the staff waiting for me. Tomorrow, I'll try again. Tomorrow, I'll push myself harder, force myself to be better. I don't know how long it'll take, how many days, weeks, months I'll have to endure this. But I know one thing: I won't stop. Not until I'm strong enough to face this world on my own terms.