As I stand on the sidelines, I observe Tiberius and Quintus engaging in a fierce sparring match on a small hill in the Pratus. Dressed in armor and wielding swords, they clash and strike with precision and skill. Though the reason for their combat eludes me, I don’t interrupt.

Their sparring match is not just a simple duel between friends but also a showcase of their distinct personalities. Quintus, with his large strides and powerful swings, approaches the battle with a bold and aggressive mindset, attempting to overpower Tiberius and disarm him with brute force. On the other hand, Tiberius, who is more reserved and meticulous in his movements, employs a more defensive strategy. He flawlessly parries his friend's attacks with expertise and rigor, waiting for the right moment to strike back with calculated counter-stabs.

Despite their differing techniques, one thing becomes unmistakably clear to me as I watch the two of them fight: their fighting styles do not align with their respective disabilities. Tiberius, on top of missing a leg, is also smaller and less physically imposing than Quintus and does not hold his own well against his friend's aggressive attack. Quintus, who is larger and stronger, should be able to overpower Tiberius with brute force, yet Tiberius is able to match him blow for blow because most of Quintus’s swings are going wide; he struggles with spatial perception, resulting in wide and poorly-timed swings. Well, considering he’s missing an eye, it shouldn’t be a great surprise.

It's easy to assume that with skill and training, these shortcomings can be overcome. However, as my diminutive friend Raissa explained to me, skills are not a solution to problems but rather the result of having solved problems; you get the skills through hard work, determination, and experience. In a way, it’s like in a video game, where you clear a difficult level and are rewarded with a new ability or a power-up that will make it easier to navigate the game in the future.

In the case of Tiberius and Quintus, their current practice may never yield the desired results because the problems they face are not solely physical but also mental and emotional. But you know what’s different here from a videogame? In most videogames you grind skills. Here, it’s all about overcoming the challenge. You don’t get better when you repeat the same action repeatedly, but only when you slowly improve during each iteration.

I stop for a second, realizing where my trail of thoughts has led me. Damn, how come my brain is working so well today? I look around, blinking several times. You know how you don’t really notice when you are not ill? Like, if you have a stomachache, that’s the only thing you can think about. But when you don’t, you don’t really go around thinking, ‘woohoo, what a fantastic day, I have no stomachache!’

Suddenly, I realize that’s what I’m going through. My head feels lighter than usual. My anxiety has subsided slightly, and both my perception and analysis skills are working better than usual.

This doesn’t feel the same as when I was young, since a lot of my memories are clearly still muddled in my head, but it’s certainly an improvement on average.

Have I been eating something different? Could it be the magic practice?

Well, something is up.

Maybe.

Or maybe I’m just paranoid.

Fifty-fifty, I’d say.

My hands start itching as I watch the two fight. I used to do some boxing after my father brought me to his friend’s gym, but my being lazy meant that I never committed to it–also, my mother thought that I would become stupid if I were hit in the head too many times.

But it’s been a while since I have challenged myself in any sport. Watching the two [Soldiers] sparring, I realize that this could be a great occasion to bond with them.

...

“Hey!” I shout to Tiberius and Quintus as they stop their spar to wave at me. Well, not both. Quintus is still not a big fan of mine, but at least he doesn’t hate me too much, unlike the other guy, who didn’t even get a haircut... Arminius. Yep. Wow. I actually remembered his name.

“Joey,” Tiberius leans against a tree to catch his breath. “We are sparring.”

“Yep. I can see that. How is it going?”

“It’s going as if we had three swords up our asses,” Quintus swears and uses his sword as a cane.

“It’s not easy to spar in our condition,” his friend adds. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing. I have the bread and a favor to ask you. But please, don’t mind me; continue. We can talk when you are done.”

Tiberius nods silently and pushes himself away from the tree.

“You up for another round?” He asks Quintus.

The only reply is the other Elf taking a few large steps and going for another big swing.

There’s frustration in the way Quintus handles the blade. And there’s resignation in the way Tiberius swings his. Their dance looks like a divorced couple that has somehow been forced to go to salsa classes together and keeps stomping on each other’s feet.

With all my experience with anxiety and its byproduct, fear, it’s easy for me to spot a behavioral pattern here. A friend of my father’s used to explain to me how the heavy machinery he operated worked. Apparently, the company they bought the machines from had to change the pedal mechanism of a metal press because of all the accidents it’d caused in the workplace. It turns out that when an operator would get his hand caught in it, instead of releasing the foot pedal, they would just press harder by reflex–he told me it was as if something in their brain couldn’t let go. Essentially, Humans are not built to let go of things, even when they are quite literally killing you.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

An abnormally heightened state of anxiety produces the same exact result. It paralyzes you. It freezes you. It ensnares in a net so tight that you can only suffocate while inadvertently tightening the strangling hold even further.

Some people think it’s cool to say, ‘doing the same things over and over and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity.’ I’ll tell you what. I think that’s the definition of every living being. Humans – and probably Elves, as well as pretty much anyone else – are a product of routine and habit. Walking down different tracks in the wild ensures that you are much more likely to die than if you were to walk down an already scouted and paved road.

If you can stop yourself and reevaluate your current actions, it probably means that not only are you quite intelligent, but you also have the right personality traits that bring you to do that. It’s a complex mix, truly. That’s why I don’t blame these two for not seeing it. It’s not up to everyone’s ballpark.

Plus, they come from a different society with, yes, more skills, but also not much philosophy or literature focused on the mind.

I wait on the side as they swing their weapons clumsily.

Shoot! I haven’t realized it!

My brain suddenly sent shivers through my whole body. Looking at the poor combat skills the two are displaying, I realize what I’ve been missing. The [Vow: Debt of Honor] makes much more sense if you consider that the enemies these two would face on the battlefield are not just regular enemies but people with levels and classes.

The first time around, this had completely eluded me.

Huh.

Well, now it makes sense why the military doesn’t want them. Even a little disability could cost you an entire formation. Say a person has lost an eye and doesn’t cover your flank properly – that could get the entire platoon slaughtered.

It’s equally fascinating as it is terrible because of its implications.

But…

I might have a solution for all of this.

Again, my Lorenzo-powered vision made me realize so many things.

I have been a tad too passive until now.

“Yo!” I scream at the two. “Can I join?”

They both stop to look at me with skeptical expressions.

“Tiberius, tell the Human not to disturb us while we spar,” Quintus says.

But the other person keeps his eyes on me, frowning. Drying some of the sweat on his forehead with his sleeve and briefly glancing between his friend and me, Tiberius walks unevenly up to me and gives me his sword.

“I think this will be very entertaining,” he announces as I walk up the small mound of soil to face Quintus.

“Do you have any experience with blades?” Quintus looks annoyed.

“Nope,” I say. “I boxed a bit when I was young. Nothing more.”

“Well, I will make those ears less green, then,” Quintus smiles contentedly.

I inhale deeply, train my eyes on my adversary, and rise to the balls of my feet. I tightly grasp the sword with my left hand and keep the right one free.

My surrounding becomes quieter as I steady my breathing.

I am not a clown. Lorenzo made that clear.

“Well, Human?” Quintus says with a smirk. “Are you ready?”

“Did they teach you to be arrogant and underestimate people when you were in the military, or did you just get a terrible education from your parents?”

“Shit,” Tiberius swears as Quintus suddenly lunges at me, his swings wild and predictable.

Sure, I don’t know anything about swordplay… which is why I’m handling the sword with my left hand. And yeah, I’m not a lefty.

But as Quintus lunges, probably thinking I will do what Tiberius would have done, I step forward. It’s his left eye that’s gone, so that’s my right flank – and I know just what to do.

Two seconds after he stepped toward me, Quintus opened his eyes, lying on his back.

“Fudging popsicles put on a cross,” I swear as I hold my right hand and hiss. “Jesus, St. Peter, and St. Anna. Ohhh, hssss. This hurtssss.”

I blow on my hand, hoping it will somehow cool the pain.

Quintus tries to get up, but his arms give in, and he falls again.

Tiberius, standing on the side, is looking at us with his mouth ajar.

I continue with the hissing and almost swearing until Quintus finally gets up on his shaky legs.

“Did you… did you just punch me?” The previously angry Elf now looks at me in disbelief.

“You were being a little child,” I shrug. “I’m sure you are much better than me with a sword, man. But why would you swing widely like that, huh? I have zero levels in [Fighter] or whatever class you need to put people to sleep, yet, look at yourself. How many levels do you have? Twenty? Something like that? If you don’t have an eye, you need to fight more defensively. Hell, I’d even get a shield if I were you. Also, have you thought about training your senses? Closing your eyes and trying to feel the wind or some stuff like that? I’m sure if you tried hard enough, you would get useful skills to help with your conditions. If you want to be a fighter, that is.”

I’m not sure if it’s the physical effect of the punch on Quintus’s brain or the fact that I have just knocked him out cold, but he’s clearly listening because his face goes through a dozen different expressions as I’m talking.

“You lied,” he suddenly says. “How do you have this much fighting experience?”

UFC commentary, my mother’s documentaries on the Renaissance, YouTube breakdowns of Henry Cavil’s swordplay in The Witcher?

“I have second-hand experience,” I say. And it is somehow true. “You could be doing much better than you currently are, Quintus. I don’t know what skills you have, but where I come from, there are guys in red who fight with a blindfold over their eyes.”

By this, I mean there are multiple actors who played Daredevil. But who doesn’t need a little encouragement?

“Sure, if I were you, I wouldn’t care as much, considering that you would still have to go back to the military and probably be put on the frontlines as a meat shield – or in positions where you would either have a much higher chance of dying or you simply wouldn’t matter much. And Tiberius…”

I keep up my little competency-related speech before they interrupt me and decide to use their skills to beat me up.

“Tiberius, if you want to fight, you need to get a metal leg. Put that on your forefoot. If someone tries to sweep it with a kick, they will break their shins. It would mean you’d need a lot of strength training, though, and you’d be winded faster than others, but maybe that would earn you some great stamina skills or something; I don’t know. You guys are the skill/class experts. I’m just trying to give out some suggestions. And what I’m trying to say is this: if you want to get better at fighting, you can. If I were you, I wouldn’t care about the people who quite literally left you in the middle of the road. But hey, that’s me.”

What I said is both arrogant and a bit preachy.

Does it make it wrong, though?

“Joey,” Tiberius says, a bothered expression painted all over his face.

“Tell you what,” I say to the two, “what if I have an opportunity for you two?”

I need these two to make a point at Happy Bakery. Because yes, I’m not just going there alone.

I need support.

And I might or might not have been hatching some plans for the future, you know.