A will of steel was the only factor that let Lock keep up a cocky facade as he kicked Harald awake in his shitty little tent the next morning. The bruises from yesterday's unarmed combat session, which had gone well into the night, stung.

“I know what you're doing.” Harald said as he made his way out of the tent, brown hair dishevelled and dark bags under his eyes.

Lock simply raised an eyebrow at him.

“Killing intent is the easiest to learn when you have someone you're trying to kill. You're trying to make me hate you to teach me the skill faster.” Harald said, seeming exceedingly proud of himself for coming to that conclusion.

To be fair it was the correct one.

During the night, while he'd been having his meat tenderized, Lock had completely set up the idea behind the training that he'd make Harald undertake. One important factor that he'd decided on was that he would be taking some inspiration from the drill sergeants from his previous world. A class of instructor that thrived on making the recruits hate them with a burning passion so as to eke out even the last drop of potential camaraderie with their fellow sufferers.

Not that he was going to admit to any of that. It would ruin the game.

Instead he simply raised an eyebrow at Harald, and brought his hands together for a slow and ironic clap. “For wasting my time with that completely useless observation you shan't be eating breakfast until you disarm me at least once.” Lock said.

After a few seconds of silence he added a, “maggot”, to stay true to the source material.

Harald looked like he wanted to protest, red rising to his face, but probably realised that if he didn't disarm Lock and tried to go for the food, his trainer would simply beat on him as he did so.

A confrontation was inevitable. The boy walked over to where he'd dropped his wooden stick the last time, and picked it up.

Lock already held his own in his hand.

The dance began anew.

Lock couldn't rightfully imagine how gruelling the process was for Harald. Getting beaten up -gently- by someone with more than three times his endurance, forced to meditate, which was no relaxing task, to regain his breath, only to be beaten down once again and for the cycle to repeat.

Lock couldn't imagine, because he had no comparison. Most of his life, even at times when he was indeed powerless, he had managed to avoid being at the mercy of another. But no, that was a misnomer. Harald was not at his mercy. He only needed to ask, and the training would stop, or at least go down in intensity. If anything, Harald was at the mercy of himself. Which brought up the interesting question of why the boy was treating himself like this.

Another beat down, another session of forced meditation, another beat down.

Lock wondered again what drove the boy. Revenge? To one day be powerful enough to avenge his father?

Possible.

He would ask later.

As the cycle repeated again Lock noticed a problem. Harald was slowly improving, an odd thing, considering improvement was not meant to be noticeable within the span of a few bouts, no matter how small it was. The only problem was that by the rate he was improving, he'd only be able to disarm Lock in about a month. Either he had underestimated himself, or overestimated Harald. The former was most likely. He should have known from the assessment that he had more stat points in almost every category. He was also more experienced. But what surprised him the most, was that he was the better swordsman.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

It made sense, in hindsight. Lock had been trained by his Grandfather, who himself was no slouch, almost since the day he could walk, and had been absorbing the lessons like an adult sized sponge. Harald, had by his own admission, been an adventurer, with the focus of a child, for about five years.

An adventurer, not a swordsman.

Another beat-down.

The dilemma he was now faced with was that he'd promised he would only let the boy eat breakfast after he'd disarmed him, something that wouldn't be happening anytime soon.

So he had to either lose on purpose, which Harald would undoubtedly notice, Lock not being very good at losing, and lessening the boy's hatred towards him.

Or.

He blocked a sword slash with his left forearm before clocking the boy to the ground once again. Fighting him with his Endurance, and Earth's embrace, while the boy only had a blunt piece of wood, wasn't very fair.

Or, he could reinterpret the word disarmed in an insulting manner.

It was a good idea, and thus, the next time that Harald was forced into meditation. Lock left to get some of the black bread and dried fish hat fishing uncle had left him. Returning to the surprised at his absence Harald, he threw the food into his lap. Throwing a pitying look at him for good measure, as he unceremoniously dropped the wooden sword onto the ground.

He could have done the same with a mocking smirk, but from how he'd judged Harald, he would hate being pitied more than he would hate being mocked. By the growl of frustration he heard from behind him as he went to sit by the shade of a tree, he had hit the nail on the head.

When they returned to sparring Harald came at him with something that resembled the intent to harm. Nothing in comparison to Lock's own intent to kill, but it was progress.

“Did the litwwle bayby gwow some fwangs.” Lock mocked.

The situation escalated.

It was a good day.

-/-

There was something uniquely cathartic, Lock mused as he watched Harald fall over his dinner like a starving dog, about making someone else's life a living hell.

In a constructive manner naturally, although one could argue that all torturous experiences were constructive, a human being more capable of learning and reflecting upon pain rather than pleasure. As long as the pain wasn't too much of course.

How did that poem go again?

“I walked a mile with Pleasure,

she chatted all the way,

but left me none the wiser,

for all she had to say.

I walked a mile with sorrow,

and ne'er a word said she,

but all the things I learned from her,

when Sorrow walked with me.”

Lock recited, turning his musings from the question if he enjoyed inflicting pain, to, if he was simply a natural at teaching due to his like of doing so.

He only noticed a bit later that Harald had stopped eating, and was staring at him.

“Not going to eat that?” Lock asked, pointing at the boy's dinner.

“I will, but, that poem.” Harald hesitated. “Where is it from?”

Lock wondered if copyright extended into other dimensions, deciding that no, it probably didn't.

“Heard it somewhere, can't remember where to be quite honest.” He eventually said. Just because copyright didn't exist didn't mean he was fine with stealing the achievements of another.

“You got any more?” Harald asked. “It was... beautiful, and true.”

“Yes, quite true. Succeeding in everything and deriding pleasure from that fact isn't a very instructive experience. Only failures, and pain, show us what we must work on. Regarding the poems? Yes, I have more, I quite liked them in my youth.” Lock said, feeling chatty with the advent of the night and the crackling of the fire.

It was quite the idyllic scene, two adventurers sitting at a grassy lake clearing over a fire, a shitty tent propped up in the background. The trees reaching for them with spindly branches, the fire throwing suggestive shadows everywhere.

“Can you recite another?”

“One, because you asked. Afterwards however you will be meditating on the sword until you feel like going to sleep.” Lock said, Harald nodded in agreement.

“Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not here; I do not sleep

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken

the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starshine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not here, I did not die.”

A melancholic mood struck Lock as he finished reciting, a thought niggling at the back of his head. Glancing at Harald he saw that the boy was in his own little world, and thus Lock stood up and left.

Only halfway through his walk to Lemmings' cave did he realise what was bothering him. Not even once, while reciting a poem about the grief over losing a loved one, had he thought of his Grandfather.

The blood in his veins rushed upwards to his head, vessels throbbing. Barely being able to restrain a scream of rage he jumped forwards, raising his fist, bringing it down upon a white birch tree. The tree cracked in half, upper half slowly tumbling to the ground.

The damage he'd done brought him back to his senses.

Still slightly discomforted at the realisation that he was not in the grieving phase anymore, Lock somehow stiffly continued, looking forward to losing himself in his training for the night.