Rafe sat and watched a pink haired girl on the big screen. His father was probably somewhere backstage. He hadn't seen them in months, and now he was finding out what they'd been up to. He slumped his shoulders.

First his mother had gone, and now they too had left. She sounded good though. And maybe this would help his father get over his years old heart break. He was relieved on his father's behalf, he truly was.

He should have been happy for his sister too, but they'd never been close. He was alone, always alone, forever alone. He sat on the chair and watched his father's latest star sing. She was a stranger to him, such a familiar stranger.

****

He woke up with sweat pouring out of his eyes, like it normally did when he had those kinds of weird dreams. It was sweat and nothing else, he was sure. Just sweat.

When he woke, he remembered nothing of those dreams. They quite helped him actually. Helped him to wake up earlier than most people and train even before his official training was set to start.

Of course even as he performed his drills, he watched the young prince of the village perform what ought to have been his millionth drill of the day. Perhaps stronger people didn't need to sleep as much as weaker ones.

That seemed unfair to him, but it wasn't entirely impossible. He'd never be able to catch up to Noid if the boy naturally needed less sleep. It got him to thinking about Noid’s advice.

‘There is no fight you are incapable of losing. There are matches were you are incapable of winning though,’ he'd said.

When the soldier had asked, the boy had shuddered.

‘The reason is simple. You are a swordsman, a warrior. Never underestimate anyone. If you are the stronger party, then your opponent will either have an ace up their sleeve, or they could go for mutual destruction. Most fights though, you'll be the under dog, at least in the beginning, though you can steal win if you trained right. If you remember a solid foundation is better than a hastily built house.

‘There are existences out there though, that you cannot injure even if you tried. A swordsman is cautious, and under the right circumstances cowardly, at least the kind of swordsman I'm trying to create.’

The unnamed mercenary recruit shrugged at the long explanation, frowning in pretend consideration. In truth, the recruit had chosen his own philosophy, just believe in his own sword, and if his sword failed, then he'd be dead.

Since arriving at the Wilde mercenary company, Noid hadn't been training him personally, Jonathan had.

Jonathan Wilde was the president of the mercenary company, and he'd once trained Noid in the art of swordplay as well. Even if he was a master, Jonathan was proficient in only one sword style.

Noid knew the four major schools of swordplay, and he had knowledge of a few techniques from lots of lesser schools. He even had techniques he'd picked up from other weapon specialists like spear users, dagger wielders, hatchet men even.

Still, at his graduation from basics to sword school selection, Jonathan had taught him all he knew about the lost saint style. He also knew the basics of the demon god's promise, but he was hopeless in the dwarven rock crushing school.

As happened everyday, the two fought for little over thirty minutes.

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The revered sword saint style was fast, even if the thrusts were weak. If it made contact with flesh, it would penetrate pretty deep, no question about it. It was the style Noid used when he crouched low and used both hands in a series of diagonal slashes.

Noid was only advanced tier though. It was different sparring with a master tier swordsman. Especially on the rare occasions Jonathan demonstrated his sword barrage. A thousand slashes, impacts, a very high end number for a master according to him, and he had such precise control over what they'd cut.

All the months he'd spent traveling with Noid, and now here at the town, the soldier had spent just over a year training since the war ended. He wasn't anywhere near the intermediate rank in the lost sword saint style though.

And his battles with Jonathan always left him scrambling just to keep up with the man's barrage. And then he'd run out of juice while the older man had barely broken a sweat.

“Hmm, is it me, or are you getting a lot faster?” Jonathan asked.

The soldier snorted, exposing his teeth in a self deprecating smile, and rubbing the back of his head.

“It's definitely just you.”

“No, no, listen kid, you're definitely faster than before, and your coordination is good too. Your stamina and strength are increasing at a very slow rate, but your speed and reactions are definitely improving.”

“So, when do you think I'll graduate from the beginner rank?”

The man shrugged. “All men are not created equal, kid. We can't all be geniuses with stamina so ridiculous it's illegal,” he said while sparing a glance for the still drilling Noid.

Jonathan walked off to take care of other responsibilities as the president of the company. The short spar was his morning cool off segment, according to him.

Thirty minutes a day, even if completely exhausting, were no where near enough for the soldier to achieve his goals. He did have nothing to do except train, train, and train all day, so he went off to join a couple of the other recruits in their own drills.

In his day, Noid had sparred off with the most experienced mercenaries, and he'd still been a child then. With the war having lasted an indeterminate amount of time, and the year he'd spent traveling and staying in this village, the soldier wasn't sure he still counted as a teenager.

Still, he did not have the pride to challenge the trainers head on. Instead, he took part in the standard mock battles the trainers had organised because of the existence of Noid, that perpetually young swordsman.

The soldier clicked his tongue as he dueled a spear user in a magically modified field. Every extra minute they spent, the air grew heavier, such that even moving their legs got harder with time.

It was both an effective way to train up stamina and strength, but also a time keeping measure. The soldier hated fighting spear users, especially this particular girl. She had long red hair, and long arms that the trainers said made her a perfect spear user.

She was good at it though. He liked watching her long athletic legs dance back after she executed a glancing strike. He tried to keep up, but he had to exert himself to try and bridge the long distance gap. She grinned as she deflected his swings with the simplest of movements. She was definitely the best.

He grinned back, enjoying the exertion. The air got heavier, and before he knew it, there was no more dancing, no more grace. Just strong swings and thrusts, simple backwards movements and heavy breath. He got impatient. This was his chance. He'd thought this before, and he'd been wrong then, but he could feel it this time.

He darted in, already crouching low to use the heavier air to his advantage. The girl brought the butt of her spear close to her body, and deflected his first swing as she usually did. She was proficient at the close range too, and that was why she was considered an advanced spear user.

Her deflection must have not gone to plan this time, because she showed a hint of surprise after impact. The soldier felt a hint of pride, but didn't let that distract him for the time being. He swung and swung. And then he noticed she hadn't moved her spear for the last few swings, just leaving it to guard most of her flank.

He smiled, and fast as he could, changed the angle of his crouch, of his swing. He saw the moment her eyes widened in realisation, and he just smiled bigger.

His sword descended to end this farce once and for all, only to be stopped by her well armoured forearm. It did cut through armour and flesh to be honest, but he was unable to penetrate bone yet. The girl gritted her teeth to keep from crying out, but then she grinned in satisfaction.

The soldier realised his sword was stuck in the bone, and fighting without it was just… The butt of the spear struck him straight on his forehead, disorienting him for an instant. Enough time for him to be eviscerated with impunity.

They were sweating and panting and leaning against each other by the time the magical dueling field had collapsed.

“I…lost again…” the soldier gasped out.

“Yeah…but you almost…had me. You are definitely fast…I can hardly follow your swings anymore. I am supposed to win, I am an advanced level warrior, you know.”

“Yeah, well, that's enough if that. Maybe we can talk about something more interesting,” he asked hopefully.

“Like why your eyes have been glued to my chest this whole time?”

He turned all his attention to her chest, then up into Celene’s red face. He shrugged without shame or remorse.

“I think you know why my eyes have been on your chest this whole time.”

The girl blushed harder, he hoped.

“You…” she huffed. “Maybe if there was any chance any hell you could beat me.”

The soldier lost all his other fights that day, but he performed like that on most days. He called his fellow trainees recruits, but they were experienced adventurers one and all. They were just taking lessons from their betters in between assignments.