Kael's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. Despite his years of training under his father, the renowned Lord Eldric Thorne, and the discipline instilled in him, Kael felt a humbling realization—that he knew less than he thought. Noctharis was ruthless, his critique hitting every flaw with precision. There was no room for ego or pride in this training.
"First," Noctharis instructed, "you must understand the essence of each movement. Swordsmanship is not about speed or strength but about purpose and precision. We begin with the basics: horizontal slash, vertical slash, and piercing thrust. Master these, and you can build any technique upon them."
Kael exhaled slowly, his body stiffening with determination. He had been practicing swordsmanship for years, but this felt like starting from scratch. Noctharis's words struck deep, and Kael's mind sharpened, focusing entirely on the task at hand. He nodded. "Fine. Where do we start?"
"Slowly," Noctharis said firmly. "Speed is meaningless without control. Perform each movement at a fraction of your normal pace. Only when you can execute the technique flawlessly can you increase the speed."
Kael adjusted his stance, positioning himself with the sword in both hands. He had heard similar advice before, but there was something different in Noctharis's tone. The weight of centuries of experience carried in those words. Kael took a deep breath, clearing his mind as he raised his sword to begin.
"Hold the sword with both hands," Noctharis instructed, "but don't grip it too tightly. The blade should rest lightly, with the tip angled outward. Swing horizontally, maintaining balance. Keep the motion smooth and controlled—no jerks, no wasted movements."
Kael began the motion slowly. Normally, the horizontal slash would take only a fraction of a second, but now, under Noctharis's watchful eye, every movement felt agonizingly slow. Each muscle in his body strained, his arms burning with the effort to keep the swing smooth and controlled. His body fought against the unnatural slowness, but he persevered, determined to meet Noctharis's high expectations.
"Return the sword to the starting position," Noctharis's voice resounded, his tone even more demanding. "Reset your stance before the next slash. Control your breathing. Don't rush."
Kael reset himself and prepared for the next motion—the vertical slash. He raised the sword above his head, positioning it so the blade was perfectly vertical. Kael exhaled as he began the downward motion, but Noctharis's voice interrupted. "Do not move a single muscle that isn't necessary. Your body should be a coiled spring, releasing energy only where it's needed. This is control."
With every ounce of focus, Kael brought the sword down, straight and true. His arms screamed, but he kept the motion precise, resisting the urge to speed up. Each second felt like an eternity, but he fought to maintain control. By the time the sword reached its intended target in the air, his body was tense, but the movement was smooth.
Finally, the piercing thrust. Kael aligned the sword with his dominant eye, stepping forward as he extended the blade in a straight line. He resisted the urge to lunge, concentrating instead on precision. The tip of the sword was aimed at an invisible target, and he could feel the fine-tuned control coursing through his body. When the thrust was complete, he swiftly retracted the blade, resetting his stance. No openings, no hesitations.
Each technique took minutes to complete. By the time Kael finished a single cycle of three movements, he was drenched in sweat. His hands trembled, and his body felt like it was about to collapse. He wiped the sweat from his brow, frustration creeping into his voice. "Why is this so hard?"
"Because you're undoing years of bad habits," Noctharis's voice was blunt but not unkind. "But this is the foundation of mastery. Speed will come later, but only if you have the discipline to master the basics."
Kael gritted his teeth, shaking off the pain. He continued, each movement more precise than the last. He focused on the purpose of every swing, every thrust. It wasn't about power. It wasn't about speed. It was about control, about understanding the essence of every action. Slowly, Kael began to understand the rhythm of the sword, the subtle balance between the body and the blade. He wasn't just moving through the motions anymore; he was beginning to truly grasp the potential of each technique.
By the end of the session, his body was trembling with exhaustion. His muscles screamed in protest, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in his chest. It was a small victory, but it was a victory nonetheless. For the first time in years, Kael felt like he was truly learning something new.
The past two weeks in the fortress had been grueling. Each day began the same: the faint light of dawn creeping through my small, damp room, the ache of my muscles reminding me of the relentless training I'd subjected myself to. Hunger gnawed at me, sharper than the pain in my limbs, and forced me out of bed.
The mess hall had become a daily ritual—a necessary one now that Liana was gone. The girl at the counter, the one with the tan skin and kind eyes, always gave me an extra portion of food. I appreciated it more than I could express, but I hadn't asked her name. At first, it didn't seem important, but now it felt too awkward to ask. I couldn't bring myself to admit that I had no idea who she was after speaking to her for days. So, I settled for polite nods and small talk, avoiding the obvious question.
Her kindness didn't make the food any less bland. It was a far cry from the meals Liana used to prepare. I couldn't help but wonder how she had managed to bring me something better every day. Had she truly gone out of her way to cook for me herself? The thought left me with a strange mix of guilt and gratitude.
Once breakfast was done, my real day began. The training grounds were massive, filled with soldiers sparring, practicing drills, or barking orders. I stood out like a sore thumb, and not in a good way. The soldiers here despised me. To them, I was just the exiled noble sent here as punishment, a pampered brat who didn't belong among them.
I ignored their stares and whispers as I made my way to the far corner of the grounds. It was better this way—isolated, away from their judgmental eyes. Nochtaris, as usual, was waiting. The ancient dragon never missed an opportunity to criticize me, his deep, booming voice echoing in my head.
"Your form is sloppy. Your strikes are weak. Do it again," he commanded as I performed the horizontal slash for what felt like the hundredth time.
My swordsmanship wasn't terrible; in fact, by most standards, it was above average. But Nochtaris didn't care about "most standards." To him, my technique was riddled with flaws. Every movement was analyzed, dissected, and torn apart. He demanded perfection—or something close to it.
By the second week, I could execute the three core techniques—horizontal slash, vertical slash, and piercing thrust—in under thirty seconds. I thought that was impressive. Nochtaris did not.
"Thirty seconds?" he scoffed. "A true swordsman would do it in less than a heartbeat. Until you can match that, you are still nothing but a novice."
I clenched my jaw, my grip tightening around the hilt of my sword. "That's impossible," I muttered under my breath.
"Impossible is an excuse for the weak," he snapped. "You'll get there through discipline, not complaints. Now again."
And so, I practiced. Slowly, deliberately, as Nochtaris instructed. Each movement was broken down to its essence: the wide arc of the horizontal slash, meant to strike multiple enemies; the direct, decisive line of the vertical slash, designed for overwhelming force; the piercing thrust, an extension of the body, swift and precise. I performed each technique as if moving through water, minimizing unnecessary motion and focusing on balance.
It was exhausting. Every muscle burned, every joint ached. By the end of the day, my arms trembled so badly I could barely lift the sword. But there was no denying the results. My strikes were sharper, my stances more stable. I was improving—slowly, but surely.
The evenings were no easier. After the physical toll of sword training, I returned to my room to practice mana control. Nochtaris insisted that I learn to sense the "essence within mana," an idea that sounded simple but was anything but. For the first week, I felt nothing. Just the usual hum of mana around me, vague and unfocused.
"Stop trying to force it," Nochtaris chided. "Essence is subtle. It will come to you only when you stop chasing it like a fool."
It was infuriating advice, but it worked. By the second week, I began to feel something—a faint ripple beneath the surface, like the first drop of rain before a storm. It wasn't much, but it was progress.
"Good," Nochtaris said. "Now expand it. Sense everything within fifty meters. Only then can we move to the next step."
Fifty meters? I could barely manage a few feet. But there was no arguing with him. I pushed myself harder, each night straining to extend my awareness a little further. The strain left me drained, my head pounding with exhaustion by the time I collapsed into bed.
Despite the monotony and the relentless challenges, I felt...alive. For the first time in years, I wasn't just existing. I was growing. Each day was a step forward, a small victory in a life that had been defined by failure and regret.
I didn't know how long this would last or where it would lead me, but one thing was clear: I would not stop. I couldn't. Not until I had the strength to rewrite my fate and escape the shadow of the villain I was supposed to become.