Chapter 5: Training in the Field
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The steady rhythm of farm life had begun to feel like second nature to Alexander. With each passing day, he regained more of his strength, pushing his body through various tasks that tested his endurance, balance, and precision. Hauling sacks of grain, mending fences, and chasing livestock—what had once left him sore and winded now barely seemed to phase him. His muscles had grown lean and strong, and his movements had become fluid. Every evening, he’d fall into bed exhausted, but it was a satisfying kind of fatigue—the kind that came from knowing he was getting stronger with every chore completed.
However, there was still a lingering question in his mind. Where had his skills come from? He could feel the echoes of something deeper inside him, but the answers remained elusive, buried beneath the haze of lost memories. Lyra must have noticed something, because one morning, after breakfast, she approached him with a question that caught him off guard.
“Alexander,” she began, her tone unusually serious, “can we talk for a moment?”
He wiped his hands on a cloth after having just finished cleaning up the breakfast dishes and nodded, curious. “Sure, what’s on your mind?”
Lyra hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. “I’ve been thinking about what you said—about your dreams. About the fight you lost.”
Alexander tensed at the mention of his dream, the flashes of battle and pain immediately coming to mind. “Yeah… what about it?”
“You mentioned a weapon,” she continued. “A sword, wasn’t it? I’m curious—what kind of weapon was it exactly?”
He furrowed his brow, thinking back to the dream. It was a blur of chaos, but the sword stood out clearly in his mind. “It was a large greatsword,” he explained, his voice growing softer as the memory sharpened. “The blade was nearly five feet long, tapering down to a sharp point. It had a cross-shaped guard, and the width of the blade was about eight inches at its broadest. Heavy, but balanced. I could feel the weight of it in my hands, even in the dream.”
For a split second, he caught a flicker of something in Lyra’s eyes—surprise? Recognition? Whatever it was, it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
“Why do you ask?” he added, now more intrigued by her motives.
Lyra paused before responding. “I want you to make a wooden version of it. A training sword.”
Alexander blinked. “A training sword?”
She nodded, her expression unreadable. “I think it’s time we spar.”
“Spar?” He couldn’t hide his surprise. “With you?”
“Is that a problem?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No… just didn’t expect it.”
“You’ve been getting stronger, but strength without direction is useless. I want to see how you fight. And maybe I can teach you something.”
Alexander wasn’t sure what to think. Lyra, a widow and a farmer, was asking him to spar as if she had been born with a weapon in hand. There was something more to her—something she hadn’t shared. But her tone left no room for argument. Nodding, he agreed.
“I’ll make the sword,” he said, determined to rise to the challenge.
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It took him a few days to fashion the wooden sword. He spent the better part of his evenings in the small workshop attached to the barn, using the woodworking skills he had been steadily honing. The sword was far from perfect—it lacked the fine details of the weapon in his dream—but it had the right heft and shape. When he finally held the completed wooden greatsword in his hands, it felt… familiar. The weight, the balance—it was as if his muscles remembered how to use it even if his mind did not.
Satisfied with his work, he brought the sword to Lyra.
She inspected it carefully, nodding in approval. “It’ll do,” she said, turning toward the open field behind the barn. “Let’s see how you use it.”
Amara, ever the curious observer, had already perched herself on a fence post, her legs swinging back and forth as she watched with eager anticipation.
“Go easy on him, Mom!” she called out with a grin.
Lyra smirked. “No promises.”
The open field was quiet, the only sounds were the soft rustle of the wind through the grass and the occasional chirping of birds. Alexander stood at one end, gripping the wooden sword with both hands, while Lyra took her place opposite him, holding a simple wooden staff. Her stance was relaxed, almost casual, but there was a sharpness in her gaze that made Alexander uneasy.
"Ready?" she asked, her voice calm but edged with a challenge.
Alexander nodded, tightening his grip on the hilt of the sword. "Ready."
The moment he spoke, Lyra moved.
She closed the distance between them faster than he expected, her staff swinging in a wide arc toward his side. Alexander barely had time to raise his sword in defense, the wooden weapons clashing with a dull thud. The impact sent a shockwave up his arms, and before he could recover, Lyra had already pivoted, delivering a sharp jab to his ribs.
He stumbled back, gasping as pain spread through his side. She wasn’t holding back.
"Too slow," Lyra said calmly, resetting her stance. "Your weapon is large, heavy. You need to anticipate my movements and react faster."
Alexander grimaced but nodded. He adjusted his grip, trying to regain his composure. The greatsword was powerful, but cumbersome—he needed to find a way to compensate for its weight.
Lyra didn’t give him time to think. She attacked again, this time with a flurry of strikes that forced Alexander onto the defensive. Her movements were fluid, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next, while Alexander struggled to keep up. He managed to block a few of her blows, but each successful parry left him more off-balance than the last.
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**Sword Mastery: 5%**
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"You’re relying too much on brute force," Lyra observed, her tone more instructional than critical. "You need precision, not just power. Watch my movements."
Alexander was trying, but she was too fast. Each swing of her staff came at a different angle, and her footwork was smooth, allowing her to glide around him while he lumbered to keep up. He couldn’t focus on her movements and defend himself at the same time.
Again, her staff caught him in the ribs, forcing him to drop his guard. A swift sweep of her leg knocked his feet from under him, and before he knew it, he was on the ground with her staff pointed at his throat.
"Dead," she declared, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Amara, who had been cheering for Alexander the entire time, let out a groan of disappointment. "Aw, come on, he almost had you that time!"
Lyra lowered her staff, offering Alexander a hand. He took it, pulling himself to his feet with a wince.
“Almost doesn’t count,” she said, smirking. “But you’re getting there. Slowly.”
Alexander retrieved his wooden sword, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He had been defeated so easily—again. But there was something different about this time. As he watched Lyra reset her stance, he realized something: she wasn’t just faster than him—she was smarter. Her movements were precise, each step calculated to throw him off balance, to leave him open.
It clicked in his mind.
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**Observation Skill Acquired: 10%**
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“You’re not just swinging wildly,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Every move has a purpose.”
Lyra raised an eyebrow. “You’re finally starting to see it.”
The next exchange went differently. Alexander was still slow—there was no denying the greatsword’s weight—but this time, he watched her closely, his eyes tracking every shift in her stance, every step of her foot. He wasn’t just reacting to her attacks; he was learning from them.
She swung her staff low, aiming for his legs. Instead of jumping back or raising his sword in a clumsy block, he stepped to the side, letting the staff pass by harmlessly. Lyra’s eyes flicked up in surprise, but she didn’t pause, immediately following with a high strike.
He blocked it, but the force of her blow reverberated through the sword, nearly knocking him off balance. He gritted his teeth and held firm.
“Good,” she said, pulling back. “You’re starting to understand. Keep watching.”
They continued sparring, and while Alexander still took hit after hit, each blow taught him something new. He watched how she shifted her weight, how her footwork dictated the flow of her attacks. Her movements were graceful but efficient, designed to minimize wasted energy and maximize impact. The more he focused, the clearer the picture became.
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**Sword Mastery: 15%**
**Observation Skill: 25%**
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“Your weapon is holding you back,” Lyra said after another round, this time knocking the sword from his hands and stepping back. “The greatsword is powerful, but slow. Every swing leaves you open. You need to learn to control the space around you—make the weapon an extension of yourself, not a burden.”
Alexander retrieved his sword, panting heavily but nodding. “I’ll work on it.”
“Good,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “You’ve got potential, but you’ve got to sharpen your instincts. This isn’t just about brute strength.”
He studied her for a moment, the ease with which she wielded her staff, the way she moved as if every part of her body was connected. It wasn’t just skill—it was awareness. She seemed to be aware of everything in the space around her, and it was this awareness that allowed her to dominate the fight so easily.
“That’s enough for today,” Lyra said, lowering her staff. “We’ll spar again tomorrow. But for now, I want you to think about what you’ve learned.”
Alexander nodded, still processing the fight. He felt battered and sore, but there was a part of him that felt alive in a way it hadn’t in years. Lyra had given him more than just a beating—she had given him a glimpse of what he could become.
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That evening, after finishing his chores for the day, Alexander found a quiet spot near the barn to begin his personal training.
Certainly! Let’s give his sword training a more masterful perspective at the end of the chapter:
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As the night deepened and the world around him grew still Alexander's mind settled. All thoughts of anything other than his training left his mind. He slipped almost into a trance-like state. His mind clear and his breathing slow, Alexander's training began.
He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, the blade resting across his palms as he surveyed the space around him. The only sounds in the cool night air were the rustling of leaves and his steady breathing. His mind was quiet, focused. Every muscle in his body was ready, attuned to the movements he was about to perform. As he moved, he began to whisper words that he somehow came to his mind.
"Balance, Alexander," he whispered to himself, echoing Lyra's words. "The sword is not just a weapon—it's a dance partner. Lead it, don’t fight against it."
With slow, measured steps, he moved through the first kata, raising the sword above his head in a high guard. The weight of the wooden blade felt familiar now, its heft grounding him. He stepped forward, driving the sword downward in a powerful arc, but he didn’t stop there. In the instant the blade cut through the air, he shifted his footing, transitioning smoothly into the next motion.
"Fluidity," he reminded himself. "The blade should never stop moving. Every strike should flow into the next."
He swung the sword in a wide arc, pivoting his body in a tight circle to bring the blade around with the force of his hips. The movement was faster this time, the sword whistling through the air. But it wasn’t speed that he was after—it was control. His feet glided across the grass, each step deliberate, each shift in his stance carefully measured.
He moved through the forms with the precision of a master swordsman, his mind fully absorbed in the process. The sword seemed lighter in his hands now, as if it had begun to understand his intentions. He could feel the connection forming, the unity between man and weapon growing with each swing.
"Each motion has a purpose," he thought. "Every swing creates an opportunity. Every step adjusts the battlefield. The sword is not just a tool of destruction—it is a tool of control."
He began to experiment, subtly altering the angles of his strikes. A horizontal cut flowed into a vertical slash, which then transitioned into a diagonal sweep. His body followed the path of the blade, moving in harmony with it. It wasn’t about force—it was about finesse. He visualized an opponent in front of him, not as a static target but as a moving force. His blade danced with the image, slicing through the air with lethal intent.
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**Sword Mastery: 25%**
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As he continued, his footwork became sharper. He focused on the positioning of his feet, making each step count. His movements were economical—nothing wasted, nothing unnecessary. He was no longer simply reacting to the sword’s weight, but dictating its motion, controlling the space around him.
"Footwork is everything," he reminded himself. "It’s not just about swinging the blade. If you cannot move with your weapon, you are already defeated."
With that thought, he began practicing his steps without the sword, moving in the darkness as if navigating an invisible web of threads. He sidestepped, pivoted, lunged forward, then darted back—all the while keeping his balance, his posture firm. His body learned to move without hesitation, his weight distributed evenly with every shift.
And then he reintroduced the sword into the mix, blending his footwork with his strikes. Now, each step carried intent. He could feel the improvement with every pass, the sword no longer dragging him into the strike, but moving with him. He began to sense the rhythm of combat, the push and pull between him and his imagined adversary.
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**Observation Skill: 35%**
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"Timing," he thought, "is the heart of combat. A sword strike is nothing without timing. Too early, and you are left vulnerable. Too late, and the opportunity is lost."
He slowed down, focusing on that one concept. He envisioned the perfect moment to strike—when the opponent’s guard was down, when their weight was misplaced. He practiced waiting, holding the sword mid-motion until he sensed the exact moment he should release it, the precise instant to commit to the attack.
Strike. Pause. Step.
Strike again.
Each swing became more deliberate, each movement honed to perfection. His muscles burned from the effort, but his mind remained sharp, focused on the smallest of details. His breathing came in steady, controlled bursts, in time with his footfalls. His body moved like a machine, the blade an extension of his will.
And slowly, Alexander began to understand.
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"Swordsmanship," a master might say, "is not about strength. It is about clarity of purpose. The sword must not waver. The mind must not doubt. In each movement, there is intention. In each strike, there is precision. The blade and the wielder must become one."
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By the time the moon hung high overhead, casting long shadows across the field, Alexander had completed dozens of katas. He was drenched in sweat, his muscles aching, but there was a newfound confidence in his movements—a connection with the sword he had not felt before.
Exhaling deeply, he brought the sword to rest by his side and looked out over the darkened farm. He was far from mastering the weapon, but he could feel the progress. Each session, each strike, brought him closer to something greater. It wasn’t just physical strength he was gaining—it was precision, control, and understanding. His training had transformed from a simple routine into something far more deliberate, like the precise movements of an artisan shaping his craft. The wooden sword in his hands was no longer just a crude tool—it was becoming an extension of his body, an instrument through which his strength and control could flow.
As he stood there, breathing heavily, a small smile tugged at his lips. The next time, he faced Lyra again he would be better. He wasn’t ready to beat her yet—he knew that—but he was better than he had been today. And that was enough. For now.
2 days later
As Alexander unsheathed his wooden sword from across his back in a homemade leather harness and leaned against the fence, his mind was filled with questions. He gazed at the blade he’d carved just days ago, still slick with sweat from hours of practice. Though crude compared to the weapon in his dream, the familiar weight felt right in his hands. He couldn’t shake the sense that these movements, these katas, were somehow part of him. But how? His muscles seemed to remember things his mind couldn’t quite grasp.
The fluidity in his swings, the balance in his stance, the deliberate shifts in his footing—it had all come to him instinctively. Each kata was imprinted deep within his muscle memory as if he had performed them a thousand times before. But there was a disconnect. The images of battle from his nightmares haunted him—flashes of blood, steel, and desperate combat. Was that where he had learned? Were those brutal fights the source of his skill?
“I must have been a warrior,” Alexander muttered under his breath. “But what kind of warrior? And where did it all go wrong?”
As he mulled over the thought, Lyra approached him once more. She held her staff casually at her side, but Alexander knew better now than to underestimate her. Despite her unassuming appearance, she moved with a lethal grace he had not yet matched.
“Ready for another round?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. There was a spark of challenge in her eyes.
He hesitated only for a moment. “I think so,” he replied, gripping his sword a little tighter. His body was sore, and his muscles screamed in protest from his daily farm duties and his training over the last couple of days but there was something in him that wouldn’t back down from the challenge. Not yet.
They took their positions again, facing each other on the training field. Amara sat nearby, her legs swinging as she perched on the fence, eyes wide with excitement. She always cheered him on during these spars, and Alexander couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.
Lyra struck first, a quick and precise jab with her staff aimed at his ribs. Alexander barely managed to block it, the force of the blow vibrating through his arms. She was faster than she had any right to be, and her agility made every exchange feel like a test of endurance. He was forced on the defensive almost immediately, backpedaling as he tried to anticipate her movements.
Each time she struck, it was with deadly accuracy. Alexander struggled to keep up, parrying and blocking where he could, but he knew he was still outmatched. Even though he had trained for days, the gap between them felt insurmountable.
“Focus on your footwork!” she barked, her staff sweeping low toward his legs.
Alexander jumped back, narrowly avoiding the strike, but his stance wobbled, and he felt the imbalance. Before he could regain his footing, Lyra capitalized on the moment and lunged, delivering a quick jab to his shoulder that sent him stumbling.
“You’re too rigid!” she called out, her voice sharp. “You’re treating the sword like a club. Move with it!”
Gritting his teeth, Alexander tried to loosen his grip, letting the sword flow through the air with more ease. He focused on staying light on his feet, adjusting his balance with each step. But every time he thought he had an opening, Lyra was already one step ahead, effortlessly deflecting his strikes and countering with brutal efficiency.
The spar felt like an eternity, and by the time Lyra swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground, Alexander was drenched in sweat. He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, trying to catch his breath. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction. He had lasted longer this time. He had improved.
Lyra extended a hand to help him up, her expression softer than before. “You’re getting better,” she admitted a hint of approval in her voice. “Still sloppy, but better.”
Alexander accepted her hand and rose to his feet, wincing as the soreness in his muscles flared. “You’re not making this easy, you know.”
“Training is never easy,” she replied, wiping her brow. “But you’re learning. Faster than most.”
He glanced at her, curiosity gnawing at him. There was something about the way she fought, the way she moved with such precision and control. It wasn’t just skill—it was mastery. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine admiration. “You fight like… I don’t know, someone who’s been on a battlefield.”
For the briefest moment, a flicker of emotion crossed Lyra’s face—pain, perhaps, or sorrow. She looked away, her grip tightening on her staff. “That’s a story for another time,” she said, her voice softer now, almost distant. “It’s not one I’m ready to share.”
Alexander didn’t press further. He could see that whatever memory she carried was a heavy burden, one that weighed on her deeply.
That night, after dinner, Amara approached Alexander. She tugged at his sleeve, her big, curious eyes filled with questions. “Do you want to know why Mom is so good at fighting?” she asked, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
He knelt so they were at eye level. “You know?”
Amara nodded, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. “It’s because of my dad,” she whispered. “He was a master swordsman. He had this special fighting style that made him extremly powerful. He taught Mom how to fight so she could protect herself when he wasn’t around.”
Alexander’s mind whirled as the pieces started to come together. That explained why Lyra moved the way she did—she wasn’t just a farm woman with some skill in combat. She had been trained by a master. “What happened to your father?” he asked gently.
Amara’s face grew somber, her bright eyes clouding with a hint of sadness. “He died when I was really little. I don’t remember him much. But Mom says he was brave, and he loved us a lot.”
Alexander felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. He could see now why Lyra was so guarded, why she had such a fierce edge to her. She had lost someone precious, someone who had likely taught her everything she knew about survival. And now she carried that strength forward, protecting her daughter—and maybe even him—in her own way.
“I see,” he murmured, placing a comforting hand on Amara’s shoulder. “Your father must’ve been an incredible man.”
She nodded, offering him a small, sad smile. “Yeah, I think he was.”
As Amara scampered off to help her mother, Alexander stood in the quiet of the evening, gazing out at the darkening horizon. His mind was a swirl of thoughts—about Lyra, about Amara’s father, and about his own mysterious past. He didn’t know how, but something told him that his journey here wasn’t just about healing his body. There were deeper connections forming, threads of fate that seemed to intertwine with his own lost history.
And perhaps, as he trained and grew stronger, those threads would eventually lead him to the answers he sought.
For now, though, there was work to be done. And tomorrow, more training and duties on the farm. He would continue to work hard and become a warrior who could defend himself even against the overwhelming odds in his nightmare. He would build his strength so that no one could do that to him again.