image [https://i.imgur.com/jpOYNWV.png]

Hagen and I entered the basement under the manor together.

A large square chamber, it held a big slightly elevated sparring arena in one corner. A gym with various machines and free weights took up space in another. The rest was fitted with various combat implements—training dummies, mats, and bags. Scattered around the edges of the room were various weapons, blunted and live, and some shelves with clothes.

The entire basement had been furnished for my benefit. I was the only one who was allowed to use it.

On the far side of the entrance stood Alfred, my latest in a long line of training instructors and by far the most skilled—and the nicest. Not that that was saying much.

Over the years I'd been beaten to the ground emotionally and physically more times than I could count, and I'm pretty sure two or three of my previous combat instructors had been masochists.

Having someone kick your ass and get more excited the more you fight back was a different kind of traumatising. I shuddered at the recollection.

I hadn't been one of those prodigies people read about. All my life I had to put in the work, the hard way, to have a chance at eventually beating whoever my dad sent to instruct me next. It was a hard grind, but I'd improved over the years and today I'd consider myself passable. Not an expert, by any means, but fair.

Hagen remained at the door and I walked to the sparring arena.

“Hey Alfred, I need a spar,” I instructed without preamble, as I started dressing down to put on some training fatigues.

He looked at me and raised his eyebrows questioningly at my tone but put aside the blade and moved towards the middle of the arena.

Usually, I’d be very respectful towards my instructors. Over the years I'd gotten many a cuff around the ears because my tone had been snarky. Something unfamiliar in my demeanour must have shone through, because he didn’t comment on my lack of tact.

I finished putting on the fatigues.

“Don’t ask,” I told him and sighed.

He just smiled genially, and I moved to stand opposite him. Honestly, it probably looked kind of comical.

No longer equipped with the physique I had when I was eleven, I was now six foot four, and over the years I’d developed a brawler’s physique with a focus on a mix of strength and speed.

Alfred stood at five foot nothing, slender and lean with whipcord muscle specializing in fast strikes and faster dodges. He always had a healthy tan, his sharp feature contradicting his real age. He wasn’t much to look at, but anyone who underestimated him did so to their detriment.

“Sure, little one. We’ll go through the motions one last time,” he replied in a smooth tenor. “I’ve heard you’re leaving soon.”

He always called me little one. I think it was some form of irony I was too young to know about. Or maybe he was just referring to my age.

The hell? Am I the last one to hear about this?

My anger flared.

He started to bow.

I quickly bowed back saying, “Thank you for the instruction.”

I could still be courteous.

“Hands and feet,” he commanded.

Hands and feet meant kicks, punches and superficial grabs and throws only. I took a ready stance and brought my fists up in a guard, turning forty-five degrees to the side and parted my feet to about shoulder width.

“Begin,” he commanded.

I exploded forward and covered the twenty feet between us in three or four seconds. My anger was boiling below the surface, looking for an outlet. Arriving in front of Alfred I threw a fast right-hand jab, followed by a left-handed haymaker while I took a half step forward.

He blocked both punches as expected, and I used the momentum from the haymaker to lift my right foot and twist in a clockwise roundhouse kick. The kick connected with his open palm on the right side of his face, and he closed his fist, pulling at me to try and force me off balance.

I flowed into the motion and used his perceived leverage to jump with my left leg and rotate counterclockwise with my entire body, its momentum making it possible to aim a kick at his stomach.

He let go at the last possible moment and jumped back, as I touched the ground with both hands, flipping upright to stand at the ready. Our exchange had taken only a handful of seconds, and he gave me a frowny look in the reprieve.

“Anger can be a powerful motivator, little one,” he rebuked, “but don’t let it consume your common sense and force you into a predictive attack pattern.”

I nodded. I knew that, of course. Right now, I just didn’t care.

My father's correspondence was at the forefront of my mind. I once more recalled how he'd changed when Mom died, going from bad to worse. Never cruel to me himself, his overbearing demeanour may as well have been physical abuse. With his penchant for finding new and torturous trainers for me, I held him liable by proxy.

We re-engaged and it became a flurry of blows and kicks, blocks, and dodges, borrowing techniques from multiple different styles.

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I fought aggressively and, in the end, capitalized on a counter where he thought I kicked low at his knee but feinted, instead bringing my knee up to hit him in the right side of his abdomen. His breath leaving him explosively, he came to a halt and rubbed the impact point for a second. I was feeling as out of breath as I’d just made him.

“Good,” he complimented and nodded appreciatively. “Short break then ground, but I won’t continue the spar unless you slip into the tranquil mind.”

I closed my eyes and did as he bid me.

Through thousands of hours of practice, I'd learned how hard prolonged fighting was. My adrenaline would start pumping, and my mind would try to make me overthink my exchanges, which in turn disrupted my breathing. It made my body lose oxygen, causing a buildup of lactic acid depriving my muscles of the fuel they needed to perform.

To prevent uneven breathing and erratic thoughts, I’d been taught a combat meditation technique by my father when I turned twelve: the tranquil mind. More or less the only thing he ever taught me himself. When I successfully submerged myself in it. I could still do normal things, but everything outside of combat, including pain, became muted.

I'd always found it hard to explain, but in my mind, I appeared in the ruins of a beautiful city. The sun was shining, and nature had reclaimed its rightful place, growing wildly among the buildings. In the exact centre of a large square, was a mirror. Whenever I stepped up to it, I’d see a blurry outline of myself that got sharper gradually.

When I could see myself clearly—with black hair, blue eyes, and sharp features—the technique would click into place.

Starting out pristine, the mirror had become worn and dirty over the years, but I had no idea if that signified anything. After years of practice, I’d whittled it down to take thirty seconds. When my father had taken two weeks out of his busy schedule to teach me, it had been days of failed attempts, until my first eventual success.

I opened my eyes. My breathing was steady, and my anger and negative emotions were pushed to the back of my mind.

“Good. Ground,” I heard him say when he noticed I was done, his voice distorted, sounding as if he was standing far away.

Ground meant grappling with strikes allowed.

I approached low with both of my hands up, palms out and probed his counters trying to grab hold of his clothes. After a brief exchange of rebuffed hands, we stepped close. Going back and forth with attempted grabs I managed to slip under his guard and lift him off his feet, my shoulder against his stomach. I followed him down.

He locked his legs around my waist and sent elbow blows raining down on my skull.

He managed a good hit around my temple, and I was slightly disoriented for a second. Sitting up as best as I could—his legs still wrapped around me—I pushed off his body and primed a punch at his face. As I moved to strike, he grabbed my arm and I could swear he slithered around like a snake.

In a split second, he'd let go of my torso with his legs, only to use my leverage against me and put me on my back in an armlock.

“Yield, little one,” he managed in a breathy voice.

His legs were positioned on either side of my right arm, and he put pressure on it, threatening to break it at the elbow. Resisting and contemplating a counter I did the only thing I could think of in the moment. I put in more strength.

Flexing my right elbow as much as I could I braced against his pressure and moved to stand. My plan was simple, I was going to smash him into the ground as many times as it took for him to let go.

It was tedious to stand up from such a position, but I finally managed to get my feet under me and get up awkwardly. He was still holding on as I leveraged my body to lift him from the floor. As soon as he saw what I was up to, he let go. There were a couple of more pinches and some ground fighting, but ultimately, we ended in a stalemate.

This seemed to satisfy him. “Good. Short break then long steel,” he commanded.

Still, in the tranquil mind, I just nodded. Accepting the water he handed me; I waited the mandatory sixty seconds. The break ended and I handed him back the drinking bottle, receiving a longsword in return.

Long steel today meant longswords and spears.

I lost our bout with the longsword but managed to score a win with the spear—the spear having always been my personal favourite.

Flowing from one form to the next, I struck at Alfred with sharp jabs, sweeping heavy strikes and low thrusts aimed at his legs. Our spears blurred.

My arms were burning with the strain, but then he aimed a thrust at my shoulder that I managed to rebuff. Following the block, I kept the momentum of the spear's movement and twirled it around. Alfred may have been fast—and he tried to dance away—but he wasn't faster than the butt of my spear striking him near his lowest rib.

Off balance and winded, he tried to compensate. I seized the momentum and pushed, managing to topple him to the ground where I pinned him to the ground with a light touch. My win.

I could feel my body getting sluggish, even through my trance.

“Good,” Alfred sounded a little winded but not tired like me. “Short break then short steel. Last bouts.”

We repeated the previous pattern and tied it with short swords, finishing it up with knives.

Sporting a combat knife in my right hand, I felt the sweat pouring off my body and grime getting into God knows where, as my regular sensations were slowly making themselves known. I tried to pull on the technique even more, but it resisted me.

The technique was failing, and my mental fortitude was unable to keep it going continually. That’d never happened before. The old coot was really giving it everything he had.

Fighting with knives was the closest you'd get to a bladed fistfight, at least with conventional blades. Because of the short reach of the weapons, I had to get up close with my opponent and complement combat moves with my offhand and possibly my feet.

As I moved to engage, the tranquil mind vanished, and I immediately felt all my sensations return, the soreness and pain from our encounters almost flooring me. I could still fight, but in my current state, I was extremely disadvantaged.

Recognizing that I needed to end this encounter fast I decided to try something unconventional. I stabbed at his chest. Okay, maybe that didn't seem too unconventional.

He moved to slap my knife to the side and counterattack with an arching slash, but my stab was a feint, and before my elbow had even been halfway extended, I dropped to the ground and swept his legs.

Landing on his back with an almost inaudible “oompf”, I kicked at his knife hand and disarmed him, struggling to put my left knee to his right jugular with my knife pointing at his left eye.

He smiled at me from his subjugated position.

“Very good, little one. Never let them know what you’re thinking.” His expression was honest and proud.

Exhaustion getting the better of me, I eased the pressure and collapsed to the floor. He stood and after a minute helped me up in turn.

“With how you’ve been filling out lately, the physical limitations you’ve had as a child and teenager are mostly gone,” he observed. “Despite your size, you’re still fast, which is good. People will not expect it. Your technique in unarmed combat’s been good for a long time, but now your body has caught up. With weapons, there are points to improve on, but you’ll be able to hold your own exceedingly well, in my estimation. Spear fighting is the sole exception, since you excel there.”

“Thank you, teacher,” I gasped, bent over and out of breath.

“No, thank you, little one,” he sounded, amused and not at all out of breath, “it’s nice to see that even an old hand like me can be surprised. Thank you for the spar. Now go take a shower. I won’t elaborate on your flaws today. I believe you have places to be.”

We separated, faced each other, and bowed. An unexpected feeling of melancholy came over me as I stood there. My head still bowed, eyes closed, I took a deep breath and steadied myself.

“Thank you for your guidance, sir,” I said in a loud voice as I righted myself.

He just smiled at me and went back to oiling his blade.

Turning around on wobbly legs I went up to Hagen who’d magically acquired a towel somewhere. That man was worth his weight in gold.

As I wiped down my face I smiled at him, my mood improved. Anger was still simmering below the surface, but as when I was engrossed in the tranquil mind, it was faint.

“Thanks, Hagen," I told him, "let me grab a quick shower and let's go pack.”