Mikael's Room

The room was dimly lit, moonlight filtering through a small, cracked window. Soft shadows stretched across the stone walls, giving the space a calm yet unfamiliar air.

Artreus stirred, groaning as the aches in his body reminded him of the earlier fight. His mind replayed the events in fragmented flashes—Aidan's brutal strikes, his own desperation, and finally, the moment he'd managed to land a hit.

His eyes opened, and he blinked, disoriented. This wasn't where he'd fallen. The bed beneath him was firm but comfortable, and a faint scent of herbs lingered in the air.

"Huh… Where am I?" he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Before he could gather his thoughts, a cheerful voice cut through the silence.

"So, you're awake—great!"

Artreus flinched, his gaze darting toward the corner of the room. There, lounging casually in a chair, was a young man with tousled hair and a mischievous grin.

The figure stood, stepping out of the shadows with an easy, confident gait. "You took your time. Thought you'd never wake up! Oh, by the way, welcome to my humble room."

Artreus blinked again, trying to process the whirlwind of words.

The stranger pulled up a chair next to the bed and plopped down unceremoniously. His demeanor was friendly, though there was a spark of mischief in his eyes.

"Man, I gotta say—I never thought you'd go toe-to-toe with Aidan like that," he continued. "He's Samson's first disciple, you know. And you actually managed to hold your own! Well… sorta." He chuckled. "And Aidan? He's always so… grumpy. Even when I'm not trying to mess with him."

Artreus rubbed his sore neck, his mind catching up to the rapid pace of the stranger's speech.

"Uh…"

The man waved off the unspoken question. "Oh, don't worry about it. Aidan's always been that way. I tried befriending him once, and you know what he said?" The man adopted a gruff, exaggerated tone. "'Get out of my sight, you annoying piece of shit! Wanna die?!'"

He burst into laughter at his own impression, clearly amused.

"Good times. Anyway," he said, grinning, "the name's Mikael Kier. Just call me Mikael."

Artreus, still piecing things together, nodded slowly. "Artreus Reigns."

Mikael's grin widened. "Yeah, I know. Don't sweat it about Aidan. He's got a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder, but he'll cool off eventually. Here, catch."

He tossed a neatly folded bundle of clothes toward Artreus. Despite his soreness, Artreus caught it—albeit clumsily.

"Your clothes were pretty much shredded," Mikael explained, leaning back in his chair. "You looked like a kid fresh out of a street fight. I'll lend you mine. Hope they fit—we're about the same age."

Artreus studied the clothes for a moment, then nodded. "Thanks… I appreciate it."

Mikael waved a hand dismissively. "No problem. Not everyone gets to be one of Samson's disciples. You must have something special, kid. Plus, Samson's true to his word—if he said you're one of us, you're one of us."

As Artreus changed into the borrowed clothes, his thoughts drifted back to the fight. The snug fit of the clean fabric brought a sense of normalcy, but the weight of the day lingered.

He glanced at Mikael, his voice low. "Yeah… Aidan is fast and strong. I just got lucky. I couldn't even land a hit until I… played dirty. Threw dust in his eyes. At this rate, I'll never become strong enough."

He clenched his fists, his voice gaining a hard edge. "But I can't back down. Not until I kill that monster. Winning isn't just an option—it's everything."

Mikael, who had been lounging lazily, straightened slightly. He regarded Artreus with a mix of curiosity and newfound respect.

"You've got a lot on your mind, huh?" Mikael said thoughtfully. "But hey, you made it through your first day, and that's more than most can say. Right now, though…" He stood, stretching his arms over his head. "You should probably eat something. We've got fish for dinner—wanna come down and join us?"

Artreus hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah… sure."

Mikael grinned, leading the way toward the door. "Come on, then. Food's on me tonight, new guy."

Each step was a reminder of the fight—his muscles ached, and his body protested—but Artreus followed Mikael. Despite the soreness, there was a flicker of hope.

His path to becoming Samson's disciple wasn't just a title. It was a challenge. One he couldn't afford to fail.

Morning

Artreus woke with a start, the sharp sting of a punch jerking him upright. His hand shot to his head, groaning as he blinked away the pain and confusion.

"Wake up, you shitty brat!" Samson's booming voice cut through the fog of his exhaustion.

Artreus squinted up at his towering master, clutching the sore spot on his temple. "Ow! That hurt, you pricking old man!"

Samson's expression darkened instantly, his eyes narrowing with annoyance. "What did you just say?"

Realizing his mistake, Artreus's eyes widened. He quickly raised his hands defensively. "Nothing! Nothing at all!"

Samson's glare softened slightly, though his voice remained stern. "You don't want to get hit again while you're asleep. You need to be prepared. Even in your sleep, sense everything around you. Your enemies won't wait for you to wake up to strike."

Artreus groaned, still trying to shake off the lingering ache. "Training or torture…?"

Samson ignored the quip, turning toward the door. "Get up. Training starts now. Today, you're going to learn how to keep your senses alert at all times. If you can dodge my attacks in your sleep, maybe you'll stand a chance against Aidan when you're awake."

Despite his grogginess, Artreus threw off the blankets and forced himself to his feet. "Alright, I get it. Let's do this."

The Training Grounds – Before Dawn

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Stepping into the crisp, cool air, Artreus squinted at the dark sky. The faint hum of crickets and the distant rustle of leaves painted the early morning in muted tones.

"Why is it still dark?" he asked, his breath visible in the chill.

Samson glanced at him, unimpressed. "It's 4 AM."

"4 AM?" Artreus repeated incredulously. "So… this is what training should be? Earlier than the morning?"

Samson's gaze sharpened, his tone firm. "You must be new to this. Every great warrior trains early in the morning. Dedication, discipline, and commitment—these are the cornerstones of greatness. Success comes to those who rise early, seize the day, and push beyond their limits. If you want to be a warrior, you need to discipline yourself."

Artreus swallowed his grumble and nodded.

As they approached the training grounds, he noticed Mikael and a handful of other disciples already hard at work. Mikael spotted him and waved, his usual grin plastered across his face.

"Morning, Artreus! Ready for another fun day?"

Artreus gave him a deadpan look, still rubbing his sore head. "Yeah, if getting woken up with a punch counts as fun, I'm all for it."

Mikael clapped him on the shoulder, laughing. "That's the spirit! You'll get used to it. Samson has a way of bringing out the best in us—whether by wit or by hit."

As the disciples gathered, Aidan joined the group, his expression cold and filled with irritation. He locked eyes with Artreus, his annoyance palpable.

"Tsk…" Aidan muttered, clearly unimpressed.

Samson stepped into the center of the group, his voice booming across the field. "Alright, you good-for-nothing pricks! Today, you're going to carry these rocks on your back and race to the mountain. Last place gets 100 push-ups. That's your morning warm-up."

Artreus stared at the massive rocks, his jaw dropping. "This is insane…" he muttered.

Samson, noticing his hesitation, barked, "Hurry up, brat! What are you… a girl?"

"No, Master!" Artreus shouted back, scrambling to hoist the heavy sack of rocks onto his back.

"Then move it!" Samson roared.

The disciples took off toward the mountain. Each carried the weight of the rocks on their backs, muscles straining under the load.

Artreus lagged slightly behind, his legs trembling with the effort. "This is insane… What kind of warm-up is this?!"

Ahead of him, Mikael turned and called back cheerfully, "You got this, Artreus! Don't fall behind, or you'll be doing push-ups till your arms fall off!"

Clenching his jaw, Artreus growled under his breath. "No way I'm doing push-ups. Not in front of these guys."

Aidan, at the front of the group, glanced over his shoulder, his expression still set in irritation. He smirked faintly, his pace increasing.

"Tsk… This brat doesn't belong here," Aidan muttered to himself.

Artreus, though struggling, pushed harder. The rocks dug into his shoulders, his lungs burned, and his legs felt like they were about to give out. But he pressed on, step by grueling step.

As the disciples climbed higher, the incline became steeper, and the weight of the rocks felt heavier. Sweat poured down Artreus's face, but he refused to stop.

Ahead of him, Aidan moved with practiced ease, his steps deliberate and efficient. Mikael, maintaining a steady pace, glanced back occasionally to check on Artreus.

"Hey, Artreus!" Mikael called out. "You're still in this, right?"

"Still… here…" Artreus gritted out, his breath ragged.

"Good!" Mikael grinned. "Keep moving! The fun part's just getting started!"

Despite the exhaustion, Artreus forced a smirk. He wasn't just racing to avoid push-ups—he was racing to prove that he belonged, that he could endure whatever challenges lay ahead.

This wasn't just a warm-up. It was a declaration: I am not a pushover. I will become stronger.

The mountain loomed ahead, and the race continued, each step pushing them closer to their limits. For Artreus, every grueling moment was another step toward the warrior he aspired to be.

Mountain Peak

The rocky ascent was grueling, and by the time Artreus stumbled over the final stretch, his body was on the verge of collapse. Mikael and Aidan stood at the summit, catching their breath with controlled composure, their sweat-soaked faces glistening in the faint morning light.

Mikael greeted Artreus with his trademark grin. "Well, well, look who finally made it. Welcome to the mountain, Art."

Artreus dropped to the ground, utterly spent. He managed to rasp out, "You… think?"

Mikael chuckled as Artreus shot him a half-hearted glare before collapsing completely. Nearby, Aidan sat with his arms crossed, his face devoid of sympathy.

"Amateurs," Aidan muttered, his tone dripping with disdain.

Samson, standing at the edge of the group with his arms crossed, observed in silence. His face remained stern, unreadable. As Artreus lay gasping for air, Samson's voice cut through the stillness like a blade.

"Art, took you long enough." His tone was sharp. "Now, give me 100 push-ups."

Artreus lifted his head weakly, his eyes wide in disbelief. "Can I at least get a few seconds…?"

"Do you think your enemies will give you a few seconds to rest?" Samson shot back.

Swallowing his protest, Artreus pushed himself onto his hands and knees. His muscles screamed in protest, but he began the push-ups. Each one felt like fire coursing through his arms, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Tears welled in his eyes, but they weren't from pain or sadness—they were born of sheer effort and determination.

When he finally finished the 100th push-up, his body gave out, and he collapsed onto the ground.

But Samson wasn't done. Without a word, he tossed a wooden sword toward Artreus.

"Now, spar with me.

Sparring with Samson – Swordsmanship Training

Artreus scrambled to his feet, catching the wooden sword awkwardly. His legs wobbled, and his breath was still uneven, but he refused to falter. He gripped the weapon tightly, trying to steady his shaking hands.

Samson circled him like a predator assessing its prey, his critical eyes scanning Artreus's stance. "You've got raw energy, but no discipline. Swinging wildly won't win you battles. You need to control that sword, not let it control you."

Artreus adjusted his stance, mimicking what he'd seen from Mikael and Aidan during their sparring.

"Feet apart, knees bent," Samson instructed. "A solid foundation is the key to every move."

Artreus shifted his feet, widening his stance. It felt awkward, but he noticed a subtle improvement in his balance.

"Now, grip the sword properly," Samson continued. "Don't choke it. Hold it firm, but keep your wrists loose enough to move freely. If you're too stiff, you'll tire yourself out before you land a single hit."

Loosening his grip slightly, Artreus adjusted his hold. The sword felt more natural now, though still unfamiliar.

Samson moved swiftly, striking Artreus's sword with a precise tap. The wooden blade flew from Artreus's hands, landing in the dirt.

"See?" Samson said. "No control. No focus. Every move you make leaves an opening for the enemy. Again."

Artreus retrieved the sword, humiliation burning his cheeks. He repositioned his feet and gripped the sword more carefully this time.

"Better," Samson said. "Now, attack me."

Artreus charged forward, swinging the wooden blade in a wide arc. Samson easily sidestepped, using the flat of his own sword to deflect the blow.

"Too wide," Samson critiqued. "Keep your swings tight. If you overcommit, you'll leave your side wide open. Tighten your movements."

Artreus tried again, his movements smaller and more controlled. But Samson still tapped his ribs with the flat of his blade, proving his point.

"You're focusing on power, not precision," Samson said. "It's not about brute force—it's about where and how you strike."

Gritting his teeth, Artreus adjusted once more, this time aiming smaller, quicker strikes. Each attempt was met with a parry or dodge, and Samson's gruff corrections followed every misstep.

"Don't hesitate. If you wait, you're already dead."

"Lower your guard, and you'll lose a hand."

"Too much force—you'll exhaust yourself before the real fight even starts."

Finally, in a desperate attempt, Artreus swung with all his remaining strength. But Samson sidestepped effortlessly and tripped him, sending him crashing to the ground.

"You still lack discipline," Samson said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Your swordsmanship is raw. Go train with that tree until your arms feel like they're going to fall off. Strike it a thousand times. Then, maybe, you'll understand what control means."

Training Continues

Artreus pushed himself up from the dirt, his pride wounded but his spirit unbroken. He grabbed the wooden sword and trudged toward the tree Samson had pointed out. The trunk was scarred from years of relentless strikes by past trainees.

Nearby, Mikael and Aidan were locked in an intense sparring match. Aidan's movements were sharp and deliberate, each strike calculated and precise. Mikael countered with agility, dodging and weaving, but he was clearly struggling to keep up.

With a final, decisive blow, Aidan knocked Mikael off balance. Mikael, breathing heavily, raised his hands in surrender.

"Alright, alright. I yield," Mikael said, laughing breathlessly.

Aidan lowered his sword, his expression cold and distant.

"Dang… you're fast," Mikael muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Shut up," Aidan replied curtly.

From the distance, Artreus watched them, his grip tightening on his wooden sword. He saw the fluidity of their movements, the precision of their strikes, and the sheer gap between their skill and his own.

But he wasn't discouraged. If anything, the fire within him burned brighter. He turned back to the tree, raised his sword, and began striking.

Every swing was a step closer. Every impact was a reminder of why he was here. He wasn't just training to survive—he was training to stand among them, to become the warrior he was destined to be.