Chapter 3: The First Step
Muriel was awake long before dawn. It was cold under the stairs, but he had slept well enough.
"Time to start," he whispered, his thoughts on the training schedule in the life before.
First, he had to see how strong he was now. He tried to do a push-up; his arms were quivering, and he could barely do one.
"This body is so weak," he said to himself, "but I can repair that."
He started with simple stretches, knowing from his past life that it would help prevent injuries.
His body was stiff and sore, but he kept going. With every stretch, his muscles felt a little bit looser.
A group of mercenaries passed his place of hiding, strong men with big muscles, sharp weapons.
Muriel watched them carefully, noting how they moved and the manner in which each of them carried their weapons.
"That will be me someday," he mused, "but for now, first things first: I had to be more strong.
He found an open area behind a few old buildings. It was ideal for his training.
"Start with the basics," he said to himself, starting immediately to do minor exercises.
Ten knee bends. Rest. Ten more knee bends.
Five push-ups. Rest. Five more push-ups.
His arms and legs were in agony; he was covered in sweat from head to toe. He didn't let up.
"You there!" cried a hoarse voice. "Boy!"
A man of broad shoulders with two swords watched him, a mercenary.
"What are you doing?" he asked the mercenary.
"Training," Muriel said shortly.
The mercenary laughed. "Training? You're just a weak child!
Muriel went on with his exercises as usual, quite uncaring of what the rest thought.
"Wait." the mercenary peered closer at him. "Aren't you that weak boy from the healing tent?"
"Yes," Muriel said. "But I won't be weak forever."
The mercenary stopped laughing. He watched Muriel continue his exercises.
"If you want to get stronger, you have to eat more," added the mercenary.
Muriel nodded. "I know. But I have no money for food."
The merc seemed to consider this for a moment. "Come with me. I have a job for you."
The mercenary then took Muriel into a very large tent indeed, many arms lay scattered about on the pavement.
"Clean these weapons," the mercenary said, "and if the work is good I'll give you some food.
Muriel remembered the way to clean weapons from his past life. He picked up a sword and began to work.
The mercenary watched him clean the first sword. "You know what you're doing," he said in surprise.
"Yes," said Muriel. He did not say how he knew this.
He had spent the morning cleaning weapons; his hands hurt, but he said nothing.
The mercenary had brought in bread and dried meat at noon.
"You did good work," the mercenary said. "Come back tomorrow if you want more food."
Muriel ate slowly, saving half the food for later. In the slums, you never knew when you would eat again.
He had then retired to his training spot after eating. Food in the belly made his body feel stronger.
He began practicing the basic movements of the Drunken Sword Style. As he did not have a real sword, he used a wooden stick.
Some children saw him and burst out laughing. "Look at the weakling playing with a stick!"
Muriel ignored them. He continued perfecting his moves.
The sun had traversed the sky. Muriel continued training until his arms could barely move.
"Enough for today," he said to himself, for his body was in need of rest to become stronger.
Coming across a stream of cool, clear water, he drank greedily from it, then washed the sweat from his body.
He peered into the water and saw that he was thin. His silver hair was dirty, his black eyes exhausted.
"I will change," he vowed to his reflection. "Day by day, I will become stronger."
He went back to his hideaway under the stairs. His body ached, but it was a good pain.
Tomorrow he would train again. And the next day. And the day after that.
Lucky that the mercenary made the offer to clean weapons for food, for this way he would indeed have food that could help him get stronger.
With night's full falling, Muriel smiled to himself. He had taken his first real step toward power.
In his past life, he had spent years honing the skills of the sword. He would do it again now, only better.
He had slept, dreaming of all the moves he would practice, for the Drunken Sword Style was only the beginning.
His body may be weak now, but his mind wasn't. And with a mind and body working in conjunction, he would be strong.
The slum noises didn't disturb him tonight; he was too tired from training to care. More pain, more training, more chances to be stronger-the next day promised it all, and Muriel was ready to take it on.