The Vengeful One sat cross-legged on the hard-packed ground, her body aching with a level of exhaustion she had never truly known before. Bruises painted her skin like war marks, her tattered clothes barely clinging to her frame. The sun had long set, casting a cool twilight glow over the now-empty training grounds. She stared at the sand before her, fingers idly tracing through the grains, her mind circling the same damn question over and over again.
Why?
Why couldn't she learn this?
For days now, Osric had been breaking her down. 3,479,141 times she had been thrown, countered, beaten, and left gasping for breath. Yet not once—not even once—had she managed to turn the tables.
She had absorbed many of techniques from warriors across history. She could disassemble a man's body with the barest flick of her wrist, yet she could not understand whatever the hell Osric was doing to her.
Her crimson eyes narrowed as she tapped her fingers against her knee in frustration. "Sage. Explain. Again."
Great Sage responded immediately, as patient as ever. "Your difficulty does not stem from lack of knowledge, my Lady. You possess every technique needed to counter Osric. However, you lack the understanding of these techniques on a fundamental level. This is why—"
"No, no, no!" she snapped, rubbing her temple. "That makes no sense. I understand how they work. I know the angles, the pressure points, the stances, the weight distribution. Hell, I've used a hundred different fighting styles before. I should be able to apply this like I have everything else. So why isn't it working?"
A slight pause. Then Sage reworded. "You have memorized the movements, but you have never lived them. You mimic skill, but you do not own it. The difference between you and Osric is that he does not think about how to move—he simply moves."
She exhaled sharply through her nose. "That's just flowery nonsense. I don't think—I react. That's what instinct is for."
"No, my Lady. You calculate. Your body moves based on knowledge absorbed from others. Your instincts are borrowed. Osric's movements are his own—honed through experience, refined through failure. This is what he means when he says you do not know how to fight."
She clenched her jaw, fingers digging into her knees. Borrowed.
That word sat wrong with her. It had never mattered before. Every skill, every technique she had stolen had always functioned flawlessly when she wielded it.
But now…
Now, she was fighting against someone who was entirely their own.
She had nothing to steal from Osric. No lingering memories, no fragments of battle-stained experience to claim. It was raw, unpredictable, and unreadable.
For the first time in a long time, she was truly outclassed.
And she hated it.
"… So what the hell do I do, then?" she muttered. "If I can't just learn it, if I can't just take it, then what's the answer?"
Great Sage hesitated. "You must stop fighting as someone else and start fighting as yourself."
She blinked, her expression darkening. "That doesn't mean anything."
"It does, my Lady. You simply do not understand it yet."
Her fingers curled into a fist. The frustration in her chest built like a coiled spring, her body screaming for something—anything—to make this make sense.
She exhaled sharply, rubbing a tired hand over her face. "Sage, I swear to all the gods, if you say something vague one more time—"
"You are trying to grasp something that cannot be put into words. This is a lesson only your body can teach you."
She groaned, leaning back against the cool sand. "So, what, I just keep getting my ass beat until something clicks?"
"In essence… yes."
Her eye twitched. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"I do not experience emotions, my Lady."
"…Bullshit."
She sighed again, staring up at the stars, her mind a swirling storm of irritation, exhaustion, and something she refused to acknowledge as doubt.
She didn't like lessons she couldn't brute-force her way through.
But here she was.
On the ground.
Again.
And tomorrow, she would be back at it.
Getting her ass kicked.
Again.
She groaned into her hands. "This is the dumbest thing I have ever done."
The world spun violently as she crashed into the ground again, the air forced from her lungs in a sharp gasp. The impact rattled her bones, the familiar sting of pain spreading across her back as dust kicked up around her fallen form. The sky above blurred in her vision, and she had half a mind to just stay there for a moment, letting the soreness settle in.
Then Osric's voice cut through the haze.
"That's it. We're done."
She clenched her jaw, blinking hard as she propped herself up on her elbows. "Tch. The hell are you talking about?" she rasped, shaking off the daze.
Osric stood over her, arms crossed, his ever-worn robe hanging loosely off his wiry frame. His usual smirk was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his sharp, scrutinizing gaze bore into her, a look of irritation creasing his brow.
"I mean we're done. This? The way we've been going at it? It's not working." He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples. "You don't get it. Not really. And at this rate, you never will."
Her eyes flashed with defiance as she pushed herself upright, one knee pressing into the dirt for leverage. "You saying I can't learn?" Her voice carried the barest edge of a snarl.
"I'm saying you're too damn stubborn to listen." He shook his head, his tone lacking mockery this time—just frustration. "Every time you fight, you think you already know what to do. You move like you've got it all figured out, but you don't. You're forcing techniques that don't belong to you, using skills that aren't truly yours, and it's turning you into a damn mess."
She bit the inside of her cheek, anger flaring in her chest. But for once, it wasn't directed at him. It was at herself.
Because she knew he was right.
Osric exhaled sharply and jabbed a finger toward her. "So, starting tomorrow? We're throwing everything out. No more sparring. No more trying to beat me. No more jumping ahead and hoping instinct will save your ass." His expression hardened. "We're doing this from the ground up."
She stiffened, her pride bristling at the words. "From the ground up," as if she were some beginner. As if she were some untrained recruit learning how to throw their first punch.
Osric didn't miss the look on her face.
"Yeah, I know. It pisses you off. Good. Let it." His voice lowered, steady and firm. "But if you wanna actually learn how to fight—not just survive, not just mimic, but really fight—you're gonna have to swallow that damn pride and start over. Until you can understand what I'm telling you, we're doing nothing but techniques. No combat. No shortcuts. No tricks."
Her fingers dug into her knee, nails pressing into bruised skin. She hated this. She hated that no matter how hard she pushed, she wasn't getting anywhere. She hated that she couldn't just brute-force her way to mastery the way she had with everything else.
But most of all, she hated that he was absolutely, undeniably right.
Her teeth pressed into her lip as she forced herself to breathe, inhaling deeply through her nose.
After a long pause, she exhaled sharply and dragged herself fully upright, rolling her shoulders despite the dull ache. "Fine." The word was bitter, clipped. She crossed her arms, tilting her chin up slightly. "But if I do understand, and I prove you wrong—"
Osric grinned, the frustration in his face easing ever so slightly. "Then I'll admit it. But until then? Get ready, Queen. You're about to learn what it actually means to fight."
She scoffed, turning away with a roll of her eyes.
But despite her irritation… deep down, something flickered.
A part of her—a part she refused to acknowledge—felt relieved.
A Few Weeks Prior
The Vengeful One sat alone in her chambers, fingers steepled in front of her as she replayed the battle in her mind. The fight against the Umbra Wyrm.
It should have been a masterpiece—a display of her overwhelming power, of her divine might, of the relentless force that had earned her so many titles. And yet, the more she analyzed each movement, the more she saw the flaws.
She hadn't noticed them at the time. The rush of battle, the thrill of the hunt, Hunt's Euphoria had drowned out the imperfections in a haze of instinct and violence. But now, sitting here, watching the fight unfold in perfect detail within her mind, she could see it.
Her strikes had been too wide. Her dodges, too slow. Her counters, predictable.
Her movements had been sloppy.
She exhaled sharply, leaning back in her chair, her crimson eyes narrowing as frustration crept into her chest. She had fought far better opponents than the Umbra Wyrm. So why had her performance felt... off?
As if sensing her thoughts, Great Sage's voice echoed in her mind.
"Your battle effectiveness in that encounter was notably lower than expected. Your movements, while formidable, lacked refinement."
Her fingers drummed against the wooden desk. "That much, I figured out already, Sage. The real question is why. I've taken the skills of countless warriors, soldiers, and killers. I should be fighting better than anyone. So why did I look like a damn brawler out there?"
A pause. Then, Sage's voice came again, as clinical as ever.
"Your knowledge of combat is extensive. However, it is acquired through mimicry, not true experience. You possess the techniques of others, but not the understanding that comes with mastering them firsthand. As a result, your fighting style is disjointed—functional, but unrefined."
She stilled, letting the words settle.
She knew how to fight—but she didn't know how to fight.
Everything she had absorbed, every battle technique, every movement—it had all been borrowed.
It wasn't hers.
And that meant, in the heat of battle, she was relying on knowledge she hadn't earned.
Her fingers clenched into a fist against the desk. "Tch."
That's why the fight had felt so off.
She had power. She had speed. She had skill.
But she had no foundation.
No true understanding of her own movements. No seamless integration of technique. Just a mess of stolen experience trying to hold itself together.
She exhaled slowly, tilting her head back. This was a problem.
A problem she needed to fix.
Her eyes flickered toward the ceiling, deep in thought. "Sage, if I keep fighting like this, what's my limit?"
"Given your current rate of development, your battle proficiency will plateau. Without proper foundational training, you will continue to struggle against higher-tier opponents—especially those who have refined their own combat styles over a lifetime of real experience."
Her jaw tensed. A plateau. That was unacceptable.
She had already trashed an entire military force. She had rewritten the fate of nations. And yet, she was still only this effective?
No.
She needed more.
More than just stolen techniques. More than instinct. More than the brute force that had carried her this far.
She needed to learn for herself.
She needed a teacher.
Her lips curled into a smirk, her eyes gleaming as the realization settled. "Alright, Sage. Guess it's time I stop pretending I know what I'm doing."
She pushed herself up from her chair, already mapping out her next steps.
The Vengeful One strode through the bustling streets of Ashwynd, her piercing gaze flickering over the city's people as she moved. She had spent the better part of the day asking around—inquiring about skilled fighters, masters of hand-to-hand combat, someone who could teach her how to properly wield the knowledge she had stolen.
Yet, time and time again, the answers had been the same.
"Oh, there's no one like that around here."
"You already fight better than most, my Lady."
"Maybe you should look in Celestafell?"
Useless.
She exhaled sharply, her lips curving into a frustrated scowl as she weaved through the market square. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats and fresh-baked bread, the sounds of merchants haggling and children laughing filling the space between idle chatter.
Her mind churned. There had to be someone. A warrior who had actually mastered their craft—not just some over-glorified brawler or decorated soldier. Someone who knew what it meant to fight, not just how to win.
Then, Great Sage's voice cut through her thoughts.
"Martial prowess detected. Osric the Mantis"
She blinked, her stride faltering for half a second.
"Exceptionally refined technique. Master-level combat experience."
Her head snapped to the side, crimson eyes landing on—
A beggar.
At least, that's what he looked like.
The man shuffled forward, hunched slightly beneath the weight of a heavily patched cloak that was more holes than fabric. His graying hair was long and unkempt, tangled in places where it hadn't been brushed for gods-know-how-long. His beard was just as scruffy, a mess of wiry strands clinging stubbornly to his chin. The remnants of old, worn-down sandals barely clung to his feet as he trudged toward the market stalls.
His clothes were threadbare—beyond repair. A loose tunic that sagged over his lean frame, trousers cinched with an old rope, the fabric tattered from years of wear. His hands were calloused, the skin rough from a lifetime of hardship.
By all appearances, he was just another forgotten soul, lost to the ruins of a dying world.
But Great Sage didn't make mistakes.
Her lips twitched, a dry chuckle escaping her as she folded her arms.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Of all the people in this city—of all the supposed warriors and skilled fighters—this was the one who had exceptional martial prowess?
She turned her gaze back toward the man, watching as he slowly inspected a crate of fruit, muttering something to himself before picking up a bruised apple and flipping a copper coin onto the stand.
At first glance, he was nothing.
But then she thought about herself.
Her own façade. The way she carried herself before her troops, before her enemies, before her people. She looked like an untouchable force, a queen who had mastered the battlefield.
But she knew better.
She knew exactly how poorly she actually fought.
Her smirk widened slightly.
Alright, fine.
She had learned not to judge a book by its cover. And if Great Sage was right, then this ragged old beggar might be exactly what she needed.
Her boots clicked against the stone pavement as she turned and strode toward him.
"You there."
The man barely glanced up, still inspecting his apple.
She took another step closer. "I need a teacher."
At that, he finally looked up, his sharp, hawk-like eyes meeting hers.
And in that single moment, she knew—
Great Sage hadn't been wrong.
The Vengeful One stood before the ragged man, arms crossed, her crimson eyes locked onto his as she made her demand.
"I need a teacher."
For a moment, there was nothing. Just the hum of the marketplace, the occasional chatter of passing townsfolk, and the faintest creak of wooden stalls shifting in the breeze.
Then, he sighed.
Not the sigh of a man honored by such a request. Not the sigh of someone considering it. No, this was the sigh of a man deeply, utterly uninterested.
"…Don't know what you're talking about, lass."
She blinked.
"What?"
The man took a casual bite of his bruised apple, his expression unreadable. "Dunno where you got the idea that I'm some kind of teacher, but I ain't."
Her eyes narrowed. "That's a lie."
He chewed, swallowed, and shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I ain't interested."
Her brow twitched, an incredulous scoff escaping her lips. "Excuse me? Do you even know who you're talking to?"
He didn't even flinch. Just gave her a dry look and took another bite of his apple. "Aye. The city's queen, the big bad Vengeful One. Think I'm blind, lass?"
Her fingers clenched. "Then you know that I don't take 'no' very well."
"Ah." He gestured vaguely with the apple. "That's unfortunate for you, then."
Her lips parted slightly, a rare moment of pure shock flashing across her face.
She—she had just been rejected.
She, the ruler of Celestafell, the conqueror of Voltheris, the Dark Messiah, had just been brushed off by a beggar.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, schooling her expression. "Listen, Osric." She purposely dropped his name, testing if he'd react.
He didn't. Just kept chewing.
She grit her teeth. "I'm not asking. I need a real teacher, someone who knows how to fight. Great Sage says you're the best damn martial artist I'm likely to find."
He huffed. "That so?"
"Yes."
"Then your Great Sage is wrong."
"That's another lie."
He clicked his tongue, finally finishing his apple before tossing the core into a nearby barrel. "Lass, you could have anyone teach you. Go find a palace-trained knight. Some fancy warrior from a faraway land. You don't need me."
Her patience was thinning. "You think I haven't already tried? There is no one else."
"Then maybe you ain't meant to learn."
"Bullshit."
He snorted. "Maybe."
A tense silence stretched between them, her staring him down, him looking like he was debating whether or not he wanted another apple.
She inhaled deeply, exhaling through her nose to quell the rising urge to set something on fire.
"…What will it take?" she asked finally. "Gold? Protection? A place in my court? I can offer you anything you want."
At that, he actually chuckled. "See, that's the problem, lass. You think I want anything from you." His sharp eyes flicked to hers, something dangerous lurking beneath his disheveled exterior. "But I don't. Never did."
She stiffened. There was no lie in his voice. No hesitation. No fear.
He meant it.
He truly did not care about who she was.
And that—that pissed her off.
She had toppled kings. She had rewritten the fate of nations. And yet, this scruffy beggar looked at her as if she were nothing more than another wandering fool.
Her fingers twitched. She could force him. Domination Command could make him kneel, make him obey, make him—
No.
That wasn't what she needed.
She needed a teacher. Not a puppet.
She inhaled, her voice slow, measured. "Is there anything I can say to make you reconsider?"
Osric rolled his shoulders, stretching lazily before stuffing his hands into his tattered cloak.
"Nope."
And with that, he turned and walked away.
She stood there, fists clenched at her sides, watching as he disappeared into the crowd as if their conversation had never even happened.
The Vengeful One had just been rejected.
And she had absolutely no idea what to do about it.