The rest of the training session consisted of similar exercises. Bastar wasn’t joking about the fundamentals. I was taught how to use a sword, while the kids pelted me with anything they could find. They were restricted to things an individual could carry when four of them got clever and picked up a filled weapons rack. I managed to dodge the toss and was impressed by their ingenuity. However, the idea was to train me, not hurt me.

But the weapons rack stayed as I learned how to hold and make simple strikes with each different weapon. I would hold maces, swords, polearms, and axes while dodging or striking at rocks, sticks, arrows, fruit, clothes, and so much more. I learned to fear the four-year-old given free reign and thought about how to weaponize their squeals of glee when they found something interesting to throw or when they hit me.

After a short while, the other children helped by supplying more things while the adults cheered and jeered. Training had mostly stopped while everyone watched the children play with the strange man. Sometimes my attention would slip as I spotted things familiar, like betting and then be brought back by a bucket smacking me.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The thing that was most surprising to me, outside of how hard it really is to strike rocks midair, is how long the kids kept going. I never had a lot of experience with young children, but what little I did have I remembered them being like little rockets. They would have a huge burst of energy that would carry them through their activity before crashing. I was not sure how long we kept going, I just know I started to fail before they did.

I sidestepped a rock while using the stick I currently wielded like a bat to strike at a stuffed goose. My body burned as I did my best to keep it moving. I could feel my legs shake in time with my arms as I watched a favored combination, rock-bucket-rock, came towards me. I was tempted to allow the bucket to hit me just in case it was filled with water. Instead, I dodged and tried to strike the bucket. I said try because my arms failed to lift my stick.

I bent in, hunching over as it became harder to stand straight. My lungs had long ago given up their futile cry for oxygen. I was not positive there was oxygen here, which helped quiet my lungs' complaints. Things finally came to a halt when I was struck by another stuffed animal then hidden under a blanket. Taking the hint, I went down with it and thought about my pillow. This seemed like such a good place to rest.