Rowan blinked, his mind fighting to stay alert as the cold night air began to numb his senses. The old man's cottage stood silent, its wooden structure blending almost seamlessly with the dense forest around it. The sun had long set, and the stars above were just beginning to flicker to life, casting a faint light over the landscape. His body ached, his stomach rumbled, and his legs wobbled beneath him, but he refused to leave. He had come too far to turn back now.
The old man had left him standing outside for hours. It was a test—Rowan knew it. The grizzled warrior had watched him with eyes that were sharp, calculating, as though weighing the worth of his words. But after their brief interaction, the man had disappeared back into his home, leaving Rowan alone to contemplate his choices.
He wasn't going to give up. Not after everything that had happened.
Just as his eyelids grew too heavy to keep open, the door creaked open behind him. The sound was faint, but in the quiet of the night, it might as well have been a thunderclap. Rowan snapped to attention, though his body betrayed his exhaustion with a slight stumble.
The old man, silhouetted by the faint light from inside, stood in the doorway. His expression was unreadable, but there was a slight sigh on his lips as he looked at Rowan, still standing after all those hours.
"Come in," the man grunted, motioning with his hand before turning back into the house. Rowan hesitated for only a second before following, relief flooding him as he stepped into the warmth of the cottage.
The inside of the old man's home was simple, but not without a certain charm. A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting a warm orange glow over the room. The furniture was sparse—just a single table, a couple of chairs, and a bed pushed up against the wall—but everything seemed to have a purpose. The walls were adorned with old weapons and worn maps, relics of a past life, and Rowan couldn't help but be in awe of the history that surrounded him.
The old man sat down at the table, his back straight and his eyes fixed on Rowan. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled, the wind outside howled, and Bash shifted awkwardly on his feet, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment.
"You're persistent," the man finally said, his voice rough like gravel. "But persistence alone doesn't make a warrior."
Rowan nodded, unsure of how to respond. He wasn't exactly sure what he had expected from this encounter, but the old man's bluntness caught him off guard.
"I'm not looking for persistence," Rowan said, finding his voice. "I'm looking for strength. Knowledge. I need to learn how to fight, how to survive in this world."
The old man's eyes narrowed. "Why? What's driving you, boy? You show up at my doorstep, asking for training, but what makes you think you have what it takes?"
Rowan thought of the orcs, of the night in the forest, of the ball of light that had saved him and the strange magic that had coursed through his veins. He thought of Maya, of Stagpeak, and of the dangers lurking just beyond the safety of the town. Most of all, he thought of the uncertainty that hung over him like a shadow, the knowledge that he had been thrust into this world with no clear path forward.
"I don't have a choice," Rowan said, his voice steady. "I need to survive. And I can't rely on luck or magic to save me every time."
The old man stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a grunt, he stood up from the table and walked over to one of the walls, where a series of weapons were mounted. He pulled down a sword—a simple, unadorned blade—and tossed it to Rowan, who caught it clumsily.
"Show me what you can do," the man said, stepping back and crossing his arms.
Rowan swallowed hard. His hands gripped the hilt of the sword tightly, the unfamiliar weight of it making his movements feel sluggish and awkward. He wasn't a fighter—not yet, at least—but he raised the blade and tried to mimic the stances he had seen in books and movies back on Earth.
The old man watched him for a few moments before shaking his head.
"Pathetic," he muttered. "You're holding the sword all wrong. Your stance is weak. You'll get yourself killed in seconds."
Rowan felt a flush of embarrassment rise in his cheeks, but he didn't lower the sword. "That's why I'm here," he said, his voice firm. "To learn."
The old man raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, but there was a spark of something else in his gaze now—curiosity, perhaps.
"Very well," the old man said, stepping forward. "I'll teach you. But understand this: I don't take on apprentices lightly. If you want to learn from me, you'll do things my way. And if you don't keep up, you're out. Do you understand?"
Rowan nodded. "I understand."
The old man gestured for him to follow. "Then let's begin."
---
Over the next few days, Rowsn's life became a blur of training, exhaustion, and frustration. The old man—who, Rowan learned, went by the name of Gareth—was relentless in his teaching. From the moment the sun rose until it set again, Rowan was pushed to his physical and mental limits.
Gareth didn't start with swordplay or magic. Instead, he focused on the basics: strength, endurance, and discipline. Rowan was made to run through the forest, chop wood, and carry heavy buckets of water up and down the hills. It was grueling work, and more than once, Rowan felt like collapsing from exhaustion. But he refused to quit. He couldn't quit.
"Warriors aren't born," Gareth would say, watching as Rowan struggled to lift yet another heavy stone. "They're made. And it's the fire of adversity that forges them."
Rowan didn't complain, though his muscles ached and his hands blistered from the endless labor. Every night, he collapsed onto the small cot Gareth had provided for him, too tired to even think. But even in his exhaustion, he felt a small flicker of hope. He was growing stronger, day by day, and that gave him the motivation to keep going.
It wasn't until the end of the first week that Gareth finally handed Rowan a sword again.
"Now," Gareth said, standing in front of Rowan with his own blade in hand. "Show me what you've learned."
Rowan's heart raced as he took up the stance Gareth had shown him earlier. His grip on the sword was more confident now, his body more balanced and sure of itself. The fatigue from the week's training was still there, but now it felt like a distant hum in the back of his mind, rather than a crippling weight.
Gareth moved quickly, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Rowan barely had time to react, but he managed to parry the blow, though it sent a jolt of pain through his arms. He gritted his teeth and pushed forward, trying to remember everything Gareth had taught him.
The two exchanged a series of blows, Gareth's movements fluid and precise, while Rowan's were clumsy but determined. Each time Rowan made a mistake, Gareth corrected him with a swift strike or a sharp word. But despite the harshness of the training, Rowan could feel himself improving.
After what felt like hours, Gareth finally stepped back, lowering his sword.
"Not bad," he grunted, though there was the faintest hint of approval in his voice. "You've still got a long way to go, but you're learning."
Rowan lowered his sword, breathing heavily. His arms ached, his legs felt like lead, but there was a sense of accomplishment in his chest—a feeling that he was finally on the right path.
"Thank you," Rowan said, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Gareth sheathed his sword and nodded. "You're not done yet, boy. This is only the beginning. If you want to survive in this world, you'll need more than just muscle. You'll need to sharpen your mind as well."
Rowan nodded, determination burning in his eyes. He was ready.