Master Kiev led our small five person procession through the College. There seemed to be more people out and about today than when we had arrived three days ago, but then we had shown up close to the end of the day. As our group moved down the sandstone streets, I couldn’t help but notice all the people rushing about like they had important business to attend to, and they probably did.

Most of the people I saw wore light brown uniforms, which Kiev had indicated were the entry level Cadets, while those with light brown with a wide dark brown stripe on the outside of their pants were Disciples at mid-level. These two types of trainees made up the majority of the people at the College. Trainees were only able to switch over to the dark brown uniforms in their eighth year, or when they were in the final classes leading up to graduation and afterward. This indicated Pledge status.

Kiev further explained that while the Protectorate Program took ten years to complete from beginning to end, some managed to complete the Program in a little more or less time. What was most important was that the trainee reach the three levels of the Program, which were Cadet, Disciple, and Pledge, and these were determined by achieving specific requirements and skills.

I thought it all very fascinating and couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live here at the College and go through the Program and be a part of this amazing community. I could feel the hum of it as I moved down the street, an earnest vibe completely fixed on a singular goal in mind. It was electrifying.

There was also another vibe. One I tried my best to ignore as we passed the training areas. At first, our little entourage hadn’t gotten much attention, but the word must have spread, because by the time we were a five minute walk into the College, we’d gather quite a crowd.

Some followed behind us. Some simply stopped what they were doing and watched as we passed. But all of them had a solemn look on their face like someone had died. Were they thinking of Pledge Haxley? Had he been well known here at the College?

I wondered at what Ethians did for their dead. That was one topic that had never come up with Dur-rele or my conversations with Kiev. I’d have to remedy that, and maybe see if I could pay my respects to him. I had barely known him, but he had died while protecting me. I felt I should do something to honor him.

By the time we arrived at the quat-lo training courtyard, we had dozens trailing behind us. Most of them were in the light brown, but there were a few of the darker uniforms mixed throughout. Not one of them said a word. They simply followed along as if they were a part of the our group.

I wasn’t sure what to think about this new development, but when I looked to Master Kiev, I saw a satisfied grin on his face. I immediately relaxed, if he was happy about this, then I imagined it was a good thing. It certainly made me less concerned about Gunther’s intentions. And I supposed that was the point, with this many people around anybody would be a fool to try something against me.

Our group passed through a large archway, that led into a wide open training courtyard that looked to be about sixty yards square. In the center, about a dozen or so combatants faced off with each other as each pair were in varying stages of battle.

The walls of the courtyard were dotted with spectators here and there. All of them intent on the battles taking place between the sparing pairs. But none more so than a tall willowy man standing just apart from the wall watchers.

He was like a tree that had rooted himself into the flagstones of the courtyard. His body lean, straight, and absolutely motionless. He had on the familiar dark brown pants just like Master Kiev, but the similarities stopped there. This man had no coat. Instead, he had on a black shirt that stretched tightly across his slender torso and arms, and a head as bald as the day he was born. The man stood with bare feet planted firmly and hands clasped tightly behind his back. His eyes were like that of a raptor as he peered intently at the fighters before him. I got the distinct impression that nothing happened in this courtyard that this man did not see.

Master Kiev led us along the wall so not to disturb the fighters. He then stopped next to the lone figure. He halted a few feet away and gave a respectful nod of the head.

“Master Meh-len may I present His Highness Prince Adar.”

The other Master didn’t respond at first. He kept his rapt attention on his students, but after a moment, he spoke as he stayed facing the courtyard. His response short and crisp.

“I know who he is.”

I waited for him to say more, but apparently, that was all I was going to get. The Master didn’t move so much as a muscle as he continued to watch the combatants. I looked to Kiev. He shrugged, and then pointed to the fighters. I took the hint and turned to watch the activity as well.

A moment later, Master Kiev leaned over to whisper to me. “Forgive me. I should have warned you. Master Meh-len can be a bit… shall we say, prickly most days. He takes his job quite seriously here as a Quat-lo Master. Let’s watch the combatants until he is ready for you.”

I nodded already engrossed in what the combatants were doing. Since we had entered the training area, several of the fights had ended. Now only five sparing partners were left. The finished combatants had taken places against the walls of the courtyard to watch the remaining fighters.

I was memorized. I had spent countless hours practicing with my dad over the years, but I had never had the opportunity to actually watch two people locked in combat like this. To see the lightening quick movements in action from both parties. To witness what it looked like when a fighter was hit with a move you couldn’t quite see and stumbled away in defeat.

Part of me wanted to jump right in and another part cringed at the prospect of trying to match any of these people in skill. Even though dad had claimed I was capable and proficient at quat-lo, I had no doubts that many of those in the courtyard could wipe the floor with me. That thought sent a thought of terror through me. Would my assessment actually be fighting one or more of these people? Suddenly, I didn’t feel quite so confident in my ability to do this.

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It also started to sink in that the walls of the courtyard were filling up quickly with those who had followed us through the College. Before long, almost the entire wall space had been filled. That made my stomach lurch as I realized they had come to watch my assessment.

I honestly hadn’t given the assessment much thought. What with all of Dur-rele’s lessons keeping me occupied, the prospect of getting a new Protector and looking through the files, and then the attack, I hadn’t considered how this assessment might go. I certainly hadn’t prepared myself for this much of an audience.

My palms started to sweat and I wondered if maybe this was a mistake. My mind started to immediately running through a bunch of scenarios to get out of this. But then I heard my dad’s voice coming to me from one of my new memories.

“Do you know what is the difference between a man who loses a fight and one who wins?”

In my mind’s eye, I could see him standing there above me with arms crossed and shoulder slightly leaning against the wall of the training room we always used for the quat-lo lessons. My fourteen year old self was sitting at his feet, my head against the wall, my body soaked in sweat, and still breathing hard from all the exertion. I couldn’t help but notice that dad didn’t look even a little tired or winded, even though we’d just been practicing hard for close to two hours.

“He’s a better fighter,” I managed to get out between rasps.

Dad reached to the shelf behind him and picked up a bottle of water and towel and handed them down to me. “Being a better fighter isn’t always a guaranteed win. You can be the best fighter in the room and still get your ass handed to you. All it takes is one slip up, one moment where you aren’t completely focused that can end a fight. And then suddenly, you aren’t the best anymore. The person who beat you gets that honor.”

My dad twisted back around and pulled off a bottle of water for himself. He took a moment to screw off the cap and take a long swig. By this time, my breath was starting to level out. I took a swallow of my own water, and then looked back up at dad, waiting for him to tell me the answer to the question because I was at a loss for where he was going with this.

I waited as he downed the entire bottle. The room completely silent except for my dad gulping down that water. Once finished, he put the lid back on, walked over to the recycling bin clear across the room to throw his bottle away, and then went back to the center of the room where we always did our lessons.

“You ready?”

I looked at him incredulously. “But we just stopped for break. Besides you didn’t answer the question.”

Dad gave me a leveling look that I always knew to take seriously. “I am answering it, son. The key to winning a fight is to not be so concerned about who is the better fighter, but who has the determination and stamina to make it to the end. Certainly, it can be easier to find that will power to win if your life is on the line, but what if it isn’t? What if you are just sparring with another?”

“Then you do the best you can.” I said standing up and setting my half empty bottle and damp towel on the shelf beside me. I really didn’t want to start another set yet. I was exhausted, but I knew from experience that Dad wasn’t going to let up until I did what he asked.

Dad shook his head. “This isn’t some Hallmark moment, Michael. This is about doing more than your best. It’s about bringing your all. You go into every single fight assuming it is life or death, whether it truly is or not. Always bring all of you to a fight. And always be ready to go the extra mile, even if you are exhausted, especially when you are exhausted. Fight through the tiredness. Fight through the fear, the doubts, the worry. Fight like your very existence depends on it. Every. Single. Time.”

I swayed on my feet as I walked toward him and I had to stop to catch my balance. “But what if I am too tired to fight? Because I could really use a break right now, dad.”

And from the moment I stopped speaking to my next breath, dad moved like a blur from the center of the room towards me. I saw him coming. I saw the sharp motions of his arms and hands. I saw the way he suddenly stopped and leaned in hard to his right with his feet spread in solid support of his next move. More importantly, I saw the palm of his right hand that was facing me and zooming in right towards my exposed chest. Fear flushed through my entire body as I saw it coming––the hand of death.

Dad explained in great detail the science behind the signature move called the hand of death. He said that if a punch was delivered to the space right above the heart, if hard enough, could disrupt a person’s heart rhythm and cause death. He did say, though, that it took an immense amount of power for it to actually be lethal. Most who learned quat-lo could only manage enough force to cause an opponent to stagger back, or inflict enough pain to distract long enough to deliver other blows that could be lethal.

My dad said he had only ever known a small few who could actually create enough force to cause a death by that move, and of course, dad proudly admitted that he was one of them. But he also said, that if you saw that move coming, always assume it was going to be a killing shot, and act accordingly.

And I did. I suppose by this time, I had had enough training that my instincts kicked in, and even though I was dead on my feet, I moved. I only barely managed to twist and rotate my torso so that when his hand flew toward me, it kept going right on past. But I knew dad wouldn’t stop there. He’d keep pressing me, so I came up with my own attack with straight fingers into his left side. He rotated out of the way, and sent another attack.

A back and forth of blows and near hits went on for several minutes before he managed to land a hard jab across my temple that had me on my knees. My loss was inevitable, of course, I still hadn’t gotten to the point where I could actually win a fight against him, and at that point, I wondered if I ever would.

I sat there for a long moment breathing hard and holding a hand to my throbbing head. My dad stood over me with a warm smile. “See, and you thought you needed a rest. Well done, Michael. Well done.”

“But I still lost,” I rasped.

“True, but you managed to keep going even when you were tired and you didn’t want to fight. You also managed to avoid that hand of death I threw at you.”

I stood up on trembling and exhausted legs almost afraid to ask the question that had been on my mind since he’d made that move against me. He had only ever just demonstrated the hand of death to me, never using it in a direct fight, claiming I hadn’t been ready yet. “Dad, would it really have killed me if I hadn’t have moved in time?”

The man gave me a frown. “Son, I want you to know that I would never give you a task I did not think you were capable of handling. That being said, in order for this training to work, I have to push you and test your limits. There is no room for half-measures. You have to believe I am serious in every move I make. It’s the only way your training will be successful. Do you understand?”

I nodded as I met his hard gaze. I won’t lie when I said I had to choke back a lump in my throat back then. But as I stood in my present remembering, I felt myself send my dad a silent thank you. Not only for his hardness then, but being able to remember it now. I realized it didn’t matter how good any of these people in the courtyard was, or that they would be watching me, I would give it my all––just like my dad had taught me.