The training ground near the Church of the Tithes, surrounded by low wooden fences, pulsed with its chaotic rhythm. The ground beneath was trampled into hard clay, dusted in places with brown powder.
Here trained not only swordsmen but also spearmen, archers, and even axe throwers. Wooden dummies bore the marks of countless strikes - deep cuts from swords, dents from maces and spears. Shouts and the clash of steel filled the morning, turning the grounds into a living symphony of battle. The stone walls, silent witnesses, absorbed the energy of each strike, echoing them dully. Even the wind, weaving between the fighters, seemed a part of their battle.
The heavy scent of sweat and dust hung in the air, while the commanders' shouts rolled like distant thunder. Voivode Yaromir, a tall man with close-cropped hair and a serious gaze, patrolled the grounds, issuing sharp remarks and correcting the warriors' techniques.
As soon as Alexander appeared at the edge of the grounds, the noise instantly died down. The warriors, engrossed in their training just a second ago, froze in place, while Voivode Yaromir, usually impeccably composed, raised an eyebrow in surprise.
Everyone knew the prince was recovering and had already started issuing orders, but his appearance here, at the training grounds, was unexpected. The gazes of the gathered warriors focused on Alexander.
Alexander was clad in training armor typical of his time's warriors. A light chainmail covered his torso, reinforced with leather strips over the shoulders. A leather helmet with iron inserts protected his head. On his arms and legs were simple bracers and greaves made of tanned leather - sufficient to withstand light blows but not designed for serious combat. Tightly fitted leather gloves allowed him to grip his weapon firmly without losing finger dexterity.
At his waist hung a training sword - a crude but reliable weapon for practicing movements. In Alexander's hands was a longsword, Raziai, a true masterpiece of forging. Its blade, despite the dust and heat of the training ground, gleamed with a cold shimmer, as if emphasizing its uniqueness. This sword seemed more than a weapon - it was a symbol of its owner's strength and resolve.
Yaromir, accustomed to order on the training ground, involuntarily frowned at the sight of Alexander. - The prince should be resting after his injuries, not showing off here, - he thought but remained silent. His duty was not to question but to obey. He immediately hurried toward the prince.
- My prince, - Yaromir said, bowing deeply. - We were not expecting your visit
- Yes, I haven't trained in a long time and decided to fix that, - Alexander said calmly, trying to make his voice sound confident. But inside, he was tense.
- Their gazes are burning through me... They expect something great from me, but what if I embarrass myself? - the thought flashed in his mind. - I should've practiced alone first, without witnesses, but it's too late now. There's no turning back. Only forward. - He took a deep breath, gritting his teeth, as if convincing himself: - I can do this. I must do this
Alexander immediately turned to Voivode Yaromir.
- Voivode, set aside a space for me. I need a small area to practice
Yaromir frowned, watching the prince. - His body hasn't fully recovered, and he's already challenging himself. Hot-blooded youth. - The voivode slowly clasped his hands behind his back, never taking his eyes off Alexander. - But look at him. This young man isn't just here to train - he's challenging himself despite his injuries.
Yaromir felt both pride and concern for the young prince. Alexander's determination was inspiring, but his not-yet-healed wounds could lead to new injuries if he overestimated his strength.
However, the voivode's duty was not to judge but to observe and support. If the prince decided to step onto the training ground, he must have a compelling reason, and Yaromir respected that decision even if he didn't fully understand it.
- As you wish, my prince, - Yaromir said, though a faint note of doubt crept into his voice. - Just remember, the retinue respects strength, but they respect wisdom even more. You're not fully healed yet. Please, don't overexert yourself. - He paused, meeting Alexander's gaze. This advice was his way of showing care without crossing the boundary of subordination
After a brief silence, Yaromir gestured to an open space away from the main groups:
- Over there, you can train without disturbance. If you need anything else, just say the word
- Good, thank you. That spot will do, - Alexander nodded curtly, heading toward the designated area. Behind him, like shadows, followed Mstislav and Myrnomyr, always ready to assist if needed.
Meanwhile, the warriors discreetly observed his every step. Some with curiosity, others with a hint of skepticism. The tension in the air was palpable, and a murmur spread like a light breeze among the fighters.
- Is he really here to train, or just to show off? - one warrior muttered, eyeing the prince with doubt. - But his movements... there's something strange about them
- If it's just for show, why does he have that sword? Did you see how he holds it? This isn't mere demonstration, - another replied, not taking his eyes off the prince. His voice was quiet, but there was respect in it.
The murmurs grew louder, like a wave, surrounding Alexander. Though the voices didn't reach his ears, the warriors' gazes spoke volumes. They weren't just watching - they were evaluating him, weighing him on invisible scales.
- They say the prince is a skilled warrior, but it's still hard to believe, - one of the older warriors said softly, closely watching Alexander's every move.
Alexander was only 20 years old, but rumors claimed he had already reached the level of masters - a feat that seemed almost impossible.
- How can someone so young master the art of combat on par with seasoned fighters? - a master of the longsword murmured under his breath. - Maybe it's just talk... Or maybe we're witnessing a future legend. Time will tell
While the warriors murmured among themselves, Alexander had already taken his place in the designated area. Slowly, he drew his longsword, Raziai, from its sheath. The blade gleamed, reflecting the sunlight, almost as if it came alive in the prince's hands. Every engraving on the weapon seemed deeper, as though it held the secrets of past battles.
Alexander ran his fingers along the elegant engravings, feeling a subtle vibration travel from the hilt to the blade. - I'm with you, Alexander, - the sword seemed to whisper, resonating softly in his palm.
This was no mere weapon - it radiated a power that couldn't be ignored. The edges of the blade shimmered in the sunlight, creating a nearly hypnotic glow that drew the attention of every nearby warrior.
The soldiers froze, as if under a spell cast by the sword. Their curiosity mixed with awe filled the air. Mstislav, noticing the unwelcome attention distracting the warriors from their training, turned sharply and gave them a stern glare.
- Don't you all have something to do? Get back to your exercises, - he barked curtly. - The prince doesn't need an audience
The warriors, slightly embarrassed, reluctantly returned to their tasks, though many couldn't resist stealing glances at Alexander. Mstislav's rebuke stung - they were soldiers like him - but his position at the prince's side forced them to swallow their pride in silence.
Unbothered by their attention, Alexander set the book he always carried nearby and opened it to the desired page. There, the movements of legendary swordsmen were described in detail, techniques he intended to recreate.
Alexander understood that the path to mastery was long, but his body and mind seemed instinctively drawn to this art.
He selected techniques from Johannes Liechtenauer (Germany, 14th century) and his Mastery of the Longsword (Langschwert), as well as from William Marshal (England, 12th century) and his Medieval Knightly Swordsmanship. Alexander himself knew the Bogatyr School of Combat (Kievan Rus, 10th-11th centuries) and their techniques for fighting with long swords and axes.
As he studied the book, Alexander mentally divided the techniques into three components.
- Liechtenauer taught wielding the sword like a painter uses a brush: strength lies in precision and rhythm. William Marshal - he was a master tactician; his strikes didn't rely on speed but on calculated execution. And the Bogatyr school? Every movement carried the strength of the earth itself - a power capable of smashing walls. If I can combine these approaches, I could create something no one has ever seen.
Alexander immediately set a goal for himself - to merge these three combat arts into a single style, taking the best from each. It was an audacious plan, but he believed that with determination, he could make it a reality. However, before mastering advanced techniques, he needed to start with the basics and re-learn the fundamentals of combat.
He raised his sword and began practicing his strikes.
From the very first movement, it was clear that his body wasn't fully recovered. Raziai seemed to resist him, as if testing him. The blade moved with its own will, sometimes straying from the intended trajectory, other times abruptly changing its angle. One strike veered off course, nearly missing a training dummy. Another almost slipped the sword from his grip, forcing Alexander to pause.
- Move, body! - he mentally commanded himself, clenching his teeth.
Mstislav, standing at a distance, frowned as he observed the prince. His gaze followed every movement Alexander made, noting each misstep and every effort to correct them. A mixture of respect and concern filled his expression. He was used to seeing Alexander as a ruler - a resolute administrator - but not as a warrior.
- A bit more, and he'll hurt himself, - Mstislav muttered, folding his arms across his chest.
His eyes lingered on Alexander's tightly clenched fingers and the slight trembling in his step.
- Hot-headed youth... He should be resting, not swinging a sword, - he continued quietly, speaking more to himself. - I need to keep an eye on him to make sure nothing goes wrong. He's the prince, after all - he has no right to falter
Mstislav took a step closer but refrained from interfering. His duty was not to obstruct but to remain ready to act if needed. The other warriors also watched the prince with growing interest.
- He's truly strong... but there's something odd about him, - one of the younger warriors whispered, frowning. - I've heard he used to move like a beast - fast and powerful. But now... it's as if he's learning from scratch. - He paused for a moment. - And yet, he trains until he recovers completely. That's unsettling
An older warrior shook his head.
- Unsettling? It's inspiring. If he can train like this after being injured, what excuse do we have? Maybe we should ask him how he does it
Alexander's breathing was uneven, his muscles burned, and his fingers seemed incapable of holding the hilt firmly. Each swing felt heavy, almost clumsy, as if his body stubbornly resisted his will. But Alexander refused to give up.
- Mistakes are the first step to mastery, - he reminded himself. - I must make my body and weapon work in harmony
He raised his sword again, focusing on fluidity of movement. Gradually, with each swing, his body began to remember: his muscles moved more confidently, his breathing steadied, and his movements grew sharper.
The blade, which initially felt alien and uncooperative, started to respond. With every strike, Alexander felt a subtle connection forming between him and his weapon, as if the sword itself acknowledged him.
- Not yet, - he silently urged himself, feeling the fatigue creeping through his body. - You must keep moving. One more strike. Another step forward
His muscles ached, but he pressed on. Each new strike brought him closer to reclaiming his lost skills, filling his body with renewed strength.
Gradually, his speed increased, but not without missteps. The blade occasionally sliced through empty air, and once nearly slipped from his grip. Alexander bit his lip, forcing himself to concentrate. - No, not like that. Let's try again, - he mentally ordered, executing another swing.
With each movement, Alexander sensed the sword becoming an extension of himself, as if his body recalled the techniques it had once mastered. This wasn't just training - it was a journey toward restoration.
Mirmomir stood silently, a faint smile playing on his lips as he observed Alexander's every move. His sharp eyes caught every detail: the twist of the torso, the grip on the sword, the rhythm of the strikes.
- This isn't just practice, - he murmured softly, more to himself than anyone else.
As the foundational skills ceased to challenge Alexander, his movements became more precise, clean, and polished. The sword obeyed him, as though it were a natural extension of his arm.
- Phew, the basics are fine, - Alexander muttered, catching his breath. - Time to try more advanced techniques
Exhaling deeply, Alexander lowered the sword and stepped back. His shoulders ached, and his breath was still uneven, but the satisfaction of progress brought a small smile to his lips.
However, his body reminded him of its limits: wounds that had yet to fully heal throbbed dully, and his muscles protested against the rigorous exertion. Every strike demanded effort that the previous Alexander hadn't needed.
- The real Alexander… - the thought flickered through his mind.
The previous Alexander, the one who had owned this body, never made unnecessary movements. Every strike was precise, efficient, and deliberate. He could fight for hours without fatigue, his strength verging on superhuman.
It was this incredible stamina and strength that allowed him to survive that ambush. Alone against all. His blade descended upon his enemies like a thunderbolt, never missing its mark. Even when surrounded, he didn't falter. His strikes, like thunderclaps, tore through the ranks of his foes until his body was drenched in blood and sweat, yet he fought on.
- He was a monster on the battlefield, - Alexander thought, gripping the sword more tightly, recalling those memories.
Now he felt that strength, but it was not fully his yet. His wounds, imperfect technique, and extraneous movements all held him back from reaching the level this body seemed destined for.
- But I will make it mine. I'll even become stronger than he was, - Alexander resolved firmly.
His gaze lingered on the hilt of the sword, as if making a promise to himself and his weapon that he would achieve perfection. Then he carefully set the sword aside and sat on a wooden stump. His body ached, but his mind remained sharp. Alexander immediately reached for the book he always kept nearby.
Flipping to the necessary page, he scanned the detailed descriptions of complex techniques by legendary swordsmen. Each maneuver was vividly illustrated with trajectories of strikes, stances, and strategic methods. As he read, scenes of battles came alive in his mind.
After a brief rest and reading, Alexander noticed how quickly his body recovered. This ability astonished him. It wasn't just the inherent strength of his predecessor, Alexander - it was a combination of physical prowess and unrelenting training.
The original Alexander had dedicated himself entirely to physical conditioning, spending hours refining his skills through relentless combat and duels. This had granted him immense power and unparalleled endurance, earning respect even from seasoned warriors. But such focus came at a cost. His obsession with martial prowess left little room for education or statecraft.
His weaknesses were apparent. Unlike his brothers, he showed little interest in governance, avoided council discussions, and ignored administrative duties. This made him an unlikely candidate for the throne, and his father, Yaroslav the Wise, merely granted him the small town of Iziaslav, seeing no greater potential in him.
Now, with Alexander from the future inhabiting this body, everything had changed. He could use his intellect, knowledge, and experience from his own time to fill those gaps and rise to a completely new level.
- With this strength and knowledge from the future, I can overcome any obstacle, - Alexander thought, clutching the sword hilt. He wasn't just aiming for strength. He wanted to become a master at everything, surpassing anyone - whether on the battlefield or at the council table.
Slowly closing the book, Alexander ran his fingers over its cover, as if bidding farewell to yet another chapter of theory. Another moment passed, and the sword was back in his hand.
- Well, let's try, - he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of determination.
The sword rose confidently, ready for the next stage of training. Alexander began to replicate the techniques he had just studied in the book. His movements were cautious at first, but with each swing, they grew more assured, turning theory into practice.
He started with the techniques of Master Johann Liechtenauer. Zornhau, he thought, raising the sword for a cutting strike. The blade hissed as it sliced through the air, breaking through an invisible barrier. His movements were sharp but precise, as if each strike sought the weak point of an imagined opponent.
Next, he transitioned smoothly to Krumpthau, guiding the blade along a complex trajectory. Alexander focused on maneuvering the blade to bypass an imagined defense, delivering a deadly strike at an angle. With each repetition, his movements became smoother, and the rhythm steadier.
- It's like a symphony, - he murmured, pausing and closing his eyes to better feel the rhythm of the fight.
He then turned to the techniques of William Marshal. These movements required precision and strategy. Alexander envisioned an enemy clad in heavy armor, identifying its weak spots. Each strike was short but calculated, aimed at maximizing impact with minimal effort.
Finally, he embraced the methods of the Bogatyr school, relying on sheer power and broad motions. Wide, slashing strikes carved arcs in the air, creating a steel barrier around him. Every twist of his body, every swing of the blade was infused with the strength of the land, embodying the spirit of a warrior defending his home.
- To unite them into one… - he thought, combining the three styles into a single technique. This wasn't merely combat - it was a quest to find his essence, to craft an art that would become a part of him as a warrior. - This will be my goal. To create and perfect
At some point, Alexander stopped, exhaling heavily, and opened his eyes. His heartbeat was steady, his body gradually adjusting to the strain, but his gaze remained focused, as if he were still in battle. Looking around, he noticed a crowd had gathered: Voivode Yaromir, Mstislav, Mirmomir, and the rest of the warriors stood silently, watching him intently.
The air seemed frozen. The warriors were silent, as though even their breathing could disrupt the rhythm Alexander had created with his movements.
- He's like Perun himself with a sword. Could a human really move like that? - whispered one of the younger warriors, unable to take his eyes off Alexander.
His companion, an older soldier, smirked:
- Don't be quick to admire. True strength shows in battle, not in training
One of the younger warriors gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to test his skills against the prince. But a more experienced warrior standing nearby stopped him with a subtle gesture, as if saying: "There's no point. You're not ready."
At first, they had watched as the young prince awkwardly executed the simplest movements. His hands trembled, the sword seemed unyielding. The warriors exchanged glances, some even smirking to themselves, thinking it was all for show.
But minute by minute, the situation changed. Alexander's strikes became sharper, his movements more confident. The body, which initially seemed to resist his will, gradually started to obey.
With each new strike, with every motion, he improved. The basic techniques, which at first seemed alien to him, now looked flawless. When Alexander paused to catch his breath and moved on to more complex techniques, the warriors realized they were witnessing something extraordinary.
Every movement the prince made displayed an understanding of his weapon. His grip was steady - his right hand held the sword close to the guard for control, while his left hand lightly supported the end of the hilt, increasing the force of the strike.
The sword Raziyushchy, long and elegant, was not just a weapon but a tool perfectly balanced for combat. Its Damascus steel blade shimmered coldly, reminding the warriors of the legends surrounding this weapon.
His technique didn't just astonish - it inspired. The elite warriors of the retinue, accustomed to witnessing mastery, now understood that the young prince was demonstrating a level few could reach even after decades of training.
They didn't recognize the first two styles, but elements of the Bogatyr school were familiar. Seeing how masterfully Alexander blended these techniques, they began to understand that before them stood not just a young prince but a warrior capable of inspiring and leading them into the harshest battles.
The warriors froze, as though time itself had stopped. Their gazes darted between his sword and his face, filled with disbelief and a newfound respect. Some saw him as an inspiration; others as a challenge to their notions of mastery. Even nature seemed to hold its breath, allowing the sound of his movements to fill the space entirely.
Some gripped their own sword hilts, inwardly preparing for an imagined duel; others simply shook their heads, acknowledging that such techniques were, for now, beyond their reach.
When Alexander finally finished, a profound silence hung over the training grounds. No one dared to break it, fearing to disturb the invisible rhythm the prince had created. One of the warriors, about to speak, muttered:
- Prince, this is… - but he fell silent, unable to find words to express what he had witnessed.
Alexander slowly lowered his sword, wiping sweat from his brow. His breathing steadied, his gaze firm and confident. He scanned the crowd, meeting the eyes of the warriors, filled with awe, doubt, and a hidden challenge.
He saw that his warriors were astonished. They understood that they had just witnessed something extraordinary - an art of combat based on principles they didn't yet know but could feel the power behind. These were techniques crafted by masters of the sword, whose names were etched into history. Alexander understood the principles of the strikes and movements, but theory alone wasn't enough.
- I've mastered the principles, but now I need real experience, - he thought.
The memories of the previous Alexander held countless duels and battles. This body was accustomed to these strains, but the current Alexander had yet to test himself in a real fight. Raising his eyes, he addressed the gathered crowd:
- I wish to hold a duel. Who among you is ready to show your skill? - his voice was calm, but the challenge in it was unmistakable.
Silence enveloped the training ground, as if even the wind hesitated to disturb it. The warriors exchanged glances - some gripped their sword hilts, while others averted their eyes, clearly trying to process what they had just heard.
***
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