After the introductions, Ruk had been led to the training grounds, where they were all separated and given different teachers. By luck, it seemed, his teacher ended up being their new unlikely companion, Kash the blade master.
Over the next day, Kash witnessed the unsightly display of Gant attempting to use a weapon. At first, Gant had tried to protest, but he quickly learned it was one of the human traditions that everyone is taught weapon arts. This tradition stemmed from an old custom—so old that there were no written records of its inception, only scriptures mentioning that the tradition had already existed.
Gant fumbled with his blade. Given his size, he had been handed a wooden driving sword to practice with. The thought of wielding one of those butchering blades made Gant nauseous, but they assured him they wouldn’t give him a reaping blade. The reaping blades, which he had seen in the slums, were a variation of the driving sword, designed specifically for harvesting blood. They were planning on outfitting him with a basic driving sword, that is, if...
"How can you not even swing the blade correctly?" Kash had stopped yelling. By this point, his tired and annoyed tone felt even worse. "Out of the three of you, somehow you have the least ability to wield a blade. I assumed with those huge arms you’d be a natural at handling a driving blade." Kash snatched the blade from Gant’s hands. Gant sighed—this was the tenth time Kash was about to show him how to swing it. No matter how many times he saw the motion, it felt as though his arms just wouldn’t move correctly, like an iron rod was preventing them from bending properly.
Not hearing the thump of the blade hitting the stuffed post, Gant looked up to see what the holdup was. "Are you going to show me the swi—?" Kash stood in the basic attack position of a driving blade, locking eyes with Gant. It was clear he hadn’t entered the stance for a demonstration.
"I hope you can dodge better than you can swing, because I'm about to teach you the importance of tBahe fundamentals." Kash sank deeper into his stance, staying in the first position. It seemed he was really going to teach him the fundamentals—from the business end of a blade, a wooden one, at least.
In a flash, Kash was upon him. Gant hadn’t even had a chance to argue. Very quickly, he learned that he was definitely not nimble, as his attempt to dodge the blade landed him flat on his back, just barely missing the wooden edge by the hair on his head. He tried to let out a sigh, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kash entering the second stance in the Driving Sword attack formation. He had memorized what they’d taught him, and from that position, he knew he was in trouble. Before he realized it, the sword was coming between his eyes, and all he could do was block it with his arms. Gant wasn’t a stranger to pain—he had fought many times in the slums for just a morsel of food—but this stinging sensation was something entirely new. His eyes remained clenched shut, a habit when expecting a blow. The sting didn’t ease, but he soon realized it wasn’t truly painful—more of a buzzing feeling.
"You... you broke the damn sword." Kash looked bewildered. Gant, too, was shocked. The sword was meant to emulate the weight of a driving blade, and considering it was made of dense wood, it was surprising that it had broken in half. No matter how many times he glanced back at Kash still holding the handle, he couldn’t piece together how he had been the one to break the practice sword.
After he was born, Gant had been malnourished for years. The streets had never been kind to a lone orphan, and he had never had an opportunity to display any strength. Whenever trouble arose, he would always lower his head and step aside, avoiding confrontation. He had always known there was some royal blood in him, and this must have been the effects of that infamous dragon’s blood—the blood said to give some people the ability to raise mountains and destroy landscapes. He must have somehow tapped into one of its lesser gifts of strength.
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A silence fell between him and Kash after Kash’s initial scolding. The only words that eventually came out of Kash’s mouth were a low grumble, "If that were a real sword, you’d be in two right now."
Gant knew better than to argue, but he did feel he deserved a bit of praise for his actions, even if he didn’t want Kash to know how he had done it. He felt confident Kash wouldn’t chalk it up to dragon blood, or the reaping swords would have been pulsing for his blood, which, for some reason, they hadn’t. Gant let out a low grumble in response. "Still br—"
Before he could finish, Gant noticed Kash’s knuckles tighten. For the entire exercise, Kash had been breathing calmly, but now his breath grew shallow, and he locked eyes with Gant. His tone started off monotone, speaking in a level voice as he said, "Your technique is so poor it’s a shame to let you go out there and just become food for the monsters. You will have an entire army of people with you while you act as the alleged vanguard of humanity, but you will die so quickly it will seem like nothing happened. YOU WILL TRY TO BLOCK ONE OF THE GOBLIN WARLORD'S SWORDS WITH YOUR ARM AND DIE!" By the end of his speech, Kash was screaming.
For once, Gant didn’t feel his heart quicken at the idea of death. It seemed Kash’s speech resonated with Gant, but in a different way. He felt no emotion at the thought of letting humanity down. Humanity had done very little for him, other than kick him to the curb and spit on whatever food he managed to scrounge from the garbage—a common occurrence in the slums.
Gant’s steady gaze seemed to calm Kash. It appeared Kash assumed his speech had gotten through to him. The sword master resumed his posture, entering the second stance again. He had already grabbed another blade without Gant noticing, determined to continue teaching him. But before Kash could continue, Gant noticed something.
"Stop! That’s a metal blade you’re swinging at me!" Gant rolled out of the way. Kash was going slower and less precise; if the sword master wished, he could have killed Gant many times over, and Gant knew it.
"It’s sheathed, don’t worry. This way, at least the most I’ll do is bruise you. You can’t break another blade and boost your ego even more."
Swing after swing passed over Gant’s head. He had long since let go of his driving sword, as it only slowed him down. But after one of his rolls, he grew tired of dodging. He felt frustrated, as if he wasn’t being taught yet was still expected to learn. An extremely disheartening feeling. So, he decided to reach for the blade and take a swing—not at Kash, as he lacked the confidence for that, but at least to parry the sword.
Gant was huffing and puffing, the cold morning air creating white clouds with each breath. His one swing hadn’t gone as expected. He had hoped to at least meet Kash in the middle of a stalemate sword clash of strength, but instead, his sword was thrown far away, and before he could even register what had happened, Kash’s blade was hovering just a hair away from his neck, simulating a real death.
"And... you’re dead." Kash almost seemed pleased, as if he had just taught him a lesson. But in Gant’s opinion, he hadn’t. He had just tormented him after giving some basic lessons the day before. "It seems your talents do not lie in weapons, at least not with a blade. I’ll need to talk to my superiors, but I’ll try to arrange something more fitting and give you some leeway with learning the blade."
Still catching his breath from their exchange, Gant could only manage a "Thank you." That seemed to satisfy the sword master, as he turned and began walking toward the superiors' tent. But after about ten steps, a small beam of light illuminated the sky, then another, and another, until a light tower within the city lit up. Gant knew what these were—they were the humans' communication method with the dwarves. The dwarves would first light the tower to initiate communication, then input colors that would be passed down the line. Gant had seen this before from the slums. Usually, it was just blue, green, blue. But this time, three colors flashed: black, red, and green.
Muttering under his breath, Gant could hear Kash whispering to himself the translation of the code: "Attack, Urgent, West." Another color flashed after a few seconds: yellow. "Help."