As he tried to board, two figures suddenly stepped into his path, blocking his way. Travis stopped in his tracks, his brows furrowing as confusion swept over him.
"May I help you?" he asked, his voice carrying a mix of politeness and uncertainty.
The pair exchanged knowing glances before one of them—a broad-shouldered man with a sly grin—spoke. "Of course, you may. But let's talk outside," he said, his tone deceptively casual.
Before Travis could respond, they grabbed him by the arms, their grip firm as they dragged him outside. His protests died in his throat as he realized he lacked the strength to resist. The tavern’s patrons barely reacted, sparing only brief glances before shaking their heads.
"Those two are at it again, aren’t they?" an older adventurer muttered, sipping his drink.
"Yep. Got themselves a rookie this time. Poor kid. Even better for them, though," another replied, shrugging.
A younger man, new to the area, frowned and asked, "Who are they?"
"The Gear Snatchers," someone replied, their voice low. "They prey on rookies. Best advice? Don’t flash anything valuable around here unless you want trouble."
---
In a narrow alley, Travis found himself shoved against a cold, damp wall. The rough stone bit into his back as one of his captors stepped closer, eyeing him like a predator cornering its prey.
"Nice sword you got there," said the first man, his grin revealing crooked teeth. His name was Bob. "Wanna sell it to me?"
"Yeah, sell it to us. We've got the money," the second man, Hobbs, added, jingling a pouch of coins in one hand as he loomed closer.
Travis shook his head, his jaw tightening. "It's not for sale," he said firmly, trying to edge away. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to—"
Hobbs slammed him back against the wall, his voice turning cold. "Well, if you’re not gonna sell it willingly, you’ll sell it forcefully." He drew a short, jagged blade and pressed the tip against Travis’s throat. The steel was icy against his skin, sending a chill down his spine.
Travis clenched his fists, every instinct screaming at him to fight back, but his body refused to move. Gritting his teeth, he let out a resigned sigh as they pried the sword from his grasp. They tossed a small bag of coins at his feet, mocking him with their smug expressions before disappearing into the shadows.
He stared down at the bag, his shoulders slumping. A frown darkened his face as bitterness welled up in his chest.
'Why can’t I ever win?' he thought, his heart heavy as he trudged back to his cramped living quarters.
The journey felt endless, each step weighed down by frustration and shame. His mind replayed the scene over and over, tormenting him with thoughts of what could have been. If he had been stronger—if he had even a fraction of the power others wielded—things would’ve been different.
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If only he wasn’t weak. If only he wasn’t... him.
'The weak have no words,' he thought bitterly, his hands curling into fists.
When he finally reached home, the sight of his worn mattress only deepened his despair. He sank onto it, the fabric creaking beneath his weight, and stared blankly at the cracked ceiling. His mind churned with regret and anger, not just at the Gear Snatchers, but at himself.
He couldn’t live like this anymore. Something had to change.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet. His hands trembled, but his eyes burned with a newfound resolve.
"I'm fed up with being weak," he said aloud, his voice breaking the silence of the room.
He glanced at his empty scabbard, a stark reminder of his humiliation. Though the desire to reclaim his sword burned within him, he knew rushing after those men would only lead to another failure. He wasn’t ready—not yet.
If he wanted to change his fate, there was only one path forward. He had to grow stronger. No shortcuts. No excuses.
Travis squared his shoulders, determination hardening his expression. He’d train. He’d fight. And one day, he’d make sure no one could ever take anything from him again.
....
Travis stood in the middle of the dense woods, the sunlight barely filtering through the thick canopy above. The air was cool, crisp, and filled with the scent of earth and bark. His breaths were steady but determined as he gazed at the towering trees surrounding him. This was his makeshift training ground, a sanctuary where he’d forge himself into something greater.
He clenched his fists, his knuckles already raw from days of practice. In front of him stood a thick oak, its rough bark daring him to strike.
'Start simple. Break the tree,' he told himself, planting his feet firmly into the soil.
He pulled his fist back, then drove it forward with all his strength. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain up his arm, but he ignored it. He hit the tree again. And again. His strikes lacked finesse at first, his movements fueled by raw frustration more than precision. Splinters began to lodge into his skin, but he refused to stop.
Minutes turned into hours, and soon the bark began to crack, small chunks falling away. His knuckles bled freely now, staining the wood with streaks of red. The pain was overwhelming, but Travis saw it as a reminder of how far he had to go.
' Not done yet,' he thought, gritting his teeth.
He stepped back and assessed the tree. The cracks he’d created were growing, but the trunk still stood strong. With a deep breath, he adjusted his stance and began experimenting with his punches. Some were straight and focused; others came from different angles. He noticed that hitting the same spot repeatedly weakened the wood faster, and he began to incorporate this tactic into his strikes.
When he finally broke through the tree, it wasn’t from brute strength alone—it was from strategy. He’d chipped away at its foundation until it had no choice but to fall. As it toppled with a thunderous crash, Travis stepped aside, sweat dripping from his brow. His arms burned, his hands were a mess of blood and dirt, but a small smile tugged at his lips.
---
After tending to his wounds with bandages and wrapping them tightly, Travis moved on to the next part of his training. He gathered fallen branches and sharpened their ends with a small knife. Then, he set up crude targets—large rocks, hanging vines, and distant tree trunks.
‘If I can’t overpower them, I’ll outthink them,’ he decided, tying the targets at varying heights.
He practiced hurling the sharpened sticks with precision, focusing on hitting the smallest possible areas. At first, his aim was wild, the branches either bouncing off or missing entirely. But as the days passed, he began to understand the mechanics of his throws. He adjusted his grip, his stance, and the angle of his arm. Soon, he could land a stick squarely in the center of a target with ease.
To simulate fighting more than one opponent, he set up moving targets by tying branches to swinging ropes. He ran, dodged, and spun through the forest, throwing his makeshift weapons while evading the swinging branches. His movements grew sharper, more fluid, as he trained his reflexes to react quickly and effectively.
---
For strength and endurance, he devised challenges using the natural terrain. He climbed trees, using only his hands and feet to reach the highest branches. He carried heavy rocks across the forest floor, balancing them on his shoulders. He even submerged himself in the frigid river, holding his breath and forcing his muscles to adapt to the cold.
When night fell, he lit a small fire and reviewed his progress. He’d etched a rough map of his surroundings into the dirt, marking areas he could use for different kinds of training.
---
One morning, as he stared at another towering tree, an idea struck him. He collected thick vines and used them to create an obstacle course. He climbed, swung, and leapt through the air, imagining himself dodging blows and outmaneuvering enemies. When he stumbled or fell, he got back up and tried again until his body memorized every movement.
After a week of relentless training, Travis stood in the clearing, looking at his hands. The skin had toughened, the scars a testament to his efforts. His punches now carried weight and precision, his aim was deadly, and his body had become leaner, stronger, and faster.
He turned back to the fallen trees and the sharpened sticks scattered around him. It wasn’t enough to be strong—he had to be smart. He had to be ready for the cunning of his enemies. And when the time came, he’d face them not as the weak boy they had mocked, but as someone who had earned his strength.
Travis took a deep breath and closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, hope stirred in his chest.
This was just the beginning.
TO BE CONTINUED