The days blurred into exhaustion as Elias threw himself into Victor's brutal training regimen.
Every morning, they practiced the basics. Repetitive drills of footwork, stances, and balance that quickly bled into monotony. Whenever Elias thought he'd made progress, Victor would correct something small yet essential. "Your grip is too tight," he'd say, or, "Your center keeps shifting." There was no encouragement, no praise—just an endless string of corrections that left Elias feeling like he was constantly two steps behind.
Afternoons were for sparring, where Elias would attack with the raw energy that drove him, only to be met with Victor's effortless precision. Time and time again, Victor disarmed him with a single calculated movement, leaving Elias sprawled on the mat, humiliated and breathless. His frustration swelled with every defeat. He wanted real fights, something to test his strength—not this relentless cycle of failure. But the more he let his anger take hold, the sloppier he became, and the harsher Victor's corrections grew.
"You're rushing again," Victor would say coldly. Or, "Your mind is louder than your sword. That's why you keep losing."
The words stung deeper than the bruises.
One evening, after yet another grueling match, Elias sat on the dojo steps, head bowed as he caught his breath. His hands shook, and the corrupted sword lay beside him, humming its familiar, venomous whispers in his mind.
"You're wasting your time."
"Even if you trained for a hundred years, you will never beat them."
Elias's fists tightened, his knuckles white. Kairo's rage surged within him, memories of betrayal and failure spilling over and fueling the anger already seething in his heart. He could feel the weight of the sword pressing down on his chest, as though its grip extended beyond his hand, clawing at his very soul.
And then, unbidden, Ava's face flashed before him—body broken, her breath shallow. The guilt that came with the memory gnawed at him like a wound that refused to heal.
He reached for the sword, feeling its cold pulse against his skin. It would be so easy to give in, to let the sword's twisted power consume his doubts, his weakness. All he had to do was let go and let it take control.
But then Victor's words echoed in his mind, cutting through the darkness.
"Training isn't just swinging a sword until you get better. It's discipline. Patience. Control."
Elias forced a sharp, shaky breath, and after a moment, placed the sword aside. Not tonight.
The tension between Elias and Victor only grew thicker as the days passed. Elias's frustration finally boiled over during yet another sparring session, his swings wild and reckless. Victor dodged each one with a grace that only made Elias angrier, and with a quick shift, Victor knocked the bokken from Elias's hands, sending it clattering to the floor.
"That's enough!" Elias snapped, his voice raw with anger. "This isn't working! I need real training—not this... this nonsense!"
Victor looked at him with the same unflinching patience, the bokken resting against his shoulder. There was no anger in his gaze, only the steady calm of a man who had heard it all before.
"You think this isn't real?" Victor asked, his voice quiet.
Elias glared, his breathing ragged. "I'm not getting stronger. I'm running out of time."
Victor studied him for a long, tense moment, then bent down, picked up the bokken, and held it out.
"You're right. Because this isn't about getting stronger," he said, his tone deliberate. "It's about learning control. Without it, you'll destroy yourself and then destroy anything else."
Elias took the bokken, his hands trembling. He hated the truth in Victor's words, hated that they echoed something he already knew deep down. Then with a yell, he smashed it on the floor with a heavy thwack and sprinted away.