The training yard was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the nearby fire and the rhythmic hum of crickets in the cool night air. Felix stood in the center of the clearing, his breath steady but his heart racing. The wooden practice sword in his hand felt heavy, but not as heavy as the storm of emotions swirling inside him. Across from him, Sir Drennor, the grizzled veteran knight, rolled his shoulders, his scarred face calm and unreadable.
The other knights had gathered at the edges of the yard, their casual conversations falling silent as they realized something more serious was unfolding. Elira and Kael had returned from their walk and now stood nearby, watching with quiet curiosity.
Drennor tested the weight of his practice sword, his movements smooth and confident. He tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze locking on Felix. “You’ve got fire, boy. Show me if there’s steel in that flame.”
Felix tightened his grip on his sword, his jaw clenching. Without hesitation, he charged forward.
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Felix swung with all his might, the force behind his strike impressive but wild. Drennor sidestepped effortlessly, his movements economical and precise. The older knight didn’t counterattack immediately; instead, he observed, testing Felix’s patterns and reactions.
“You’re swinging with passion,” Drennor remarked as he parried another strike. “But passion alone won’t save you.”
Felix gritted his teeth and adjusted his stance, aiming lower this time. Drennor blocked with ease, pushing Felix back with a single, powerful stroke. The young warrior stumbled but quickly regained his footing, his shield raised.
Drennor’s eyes flicked to the shield, intrigued by Felix’s ability to recover so quickly. “Your swordsmanship is what I’d expect from a village boy. Sloppy, unrefined, uncalculated,” he said, circling Felix like a predator assessing its prey. “But that shield... let’s see if it’s worth more than dead weight.”
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Drennor launched into a flurry of attacks, his strikes precise and relentless. Felix barely managed to block each one, his shield taking the brunt of the assault. The wooden surface cracked slightly under the repeated impacts, but Felix held firm, his footing surprisingly solid.
As the duel progressed, Drennor’s strikes became more unpredictable, testing Felix’s reflexes. Despite the sweat pouring down his face and the burn in his arms, Felix managed to stay standing. Each time he blocked a blow, his shield seemed to move instinctively, adjusting to the angle of attack with surprising precision.
Drennor’s brow furrowed, his attacks slowing as he studied Felix more closely. “You’ve got balance,” he admitted, his tone begrudgingly impressed. “And endurance. That’s rare.”
Felix didn’t respond, too focused on the fight to process the compliment. His breaths came in heavy pants, but his stance remained firm. Then, in a desperate move, he channeled his energy into the shield. A faint shimmer of mana flickered across its surface, forming a translucent barrier that extended just beyond the wood.
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The glow caught Drennor’s attention immediately. He stepped back, his eyes narrowing. “Mana? And with a shield, no less.” A low chuckle escaped him. “Interesting.”
Felix seized the moment, pushing forward with renewed vigor. He bashed his shield against Drennor’s sword, forcing the knight to take a step back. For a brief moment, Felix felt a surge of hope—he could do this.
But Drennor’s stance shifted. His expression grew sharper, his movements more deliberate. His body coiled like a spring, his footwork suddenly fluid and precise. Without a word, he channeled mana into his legs, the faint shimmer barely visible under the dim light.
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Then he moved—fast, impossibly fast.
In the blink of an eye, Drennor closed the distance, sidestepping Felix’s next swing with practiced ease. His blade swept low in a single, controlled arc, catching Felix’s shield at just the right angle to send it spinning from his grip. The force left Felix unbalanced, and before he could recover, Drennor’s sword tapped firmly against his chest.
The world seemed to freeze for a moment. Felix stumbled backward, his legs giving out as he collapsed onto the ground. He lay on his back, chest heaving, his gaze fixed on the stars above.
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“I’ve lost,” Felix whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. “In every aspect... even in the matters of the heart.”
A single tear slipped down his cheek, glinting in the firelight.
Drennor approached, his practice sword lowered. He crouched beside Felix, his scarred face softening as he extended a hand. “The only man you need to measure yourself against is yourself, young warrior,” he said, his tone firm yet encouraging. “You’ve earned my respect tonight.”
Felix hesitated, his hand trembling as he reached for Drennor’s. The knight pulled him to his feet, steadying him with a firm grip.
“Your swordsmanship is unpolished,” Drennor continued, his voice steady. “But that shield work? That’s something special. You’ve got the instincts, the balance, the drive. You’re a diamond in the rough, Felix. But if you want to reach for greatness, you must learn control.”
Felix met his gaze, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and determination. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Drennor gave a small nod. “Sir Drennor,” he said, placing a hand on his chest in a formal gesture. “That’s my name. And if you ever wish to train under me, you’d best remember it.”
Felix’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes, Sir Drennor.”
The older knight clapped him on the shoulder, his rare smile faint but genuine. “You’ve got potential, boy. Don’t waste it.”
As Drennor turned and walked back toward the fire, the other knights nodded approvingly, some even offering small cheers. Felix stood alone in the yard for a moment, his body battered but his spirit alight. He looked toward the fire where Drennor now sat, his own determination burning brighter than ever.
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The forest was cloaked in darkness, its once-familiar stillness now heavy with an unnatural dread. In the heart of this silence, the creature moved—a grotesque mockery of its former self. Once a Bramblehound, it had been a gentle, moss-covered dweller of the woods, blending seamlessly with the underbrush. But now, its sinewy frame pulsed with Void Mana, veins of glowing violet cutting jagged paths beneath its warped hide.
The air grew colder as the corrupted Bramblehound paused beneath the canopy of ancient trees. Its glowing eyes swept the clearing, calculating and patient. Slowly, it lowered itself onto the earth, its claws sinking deep into the soil. A low, resonant growl vibrated through the ground, carrying with it the pulse of something malevolent.
Dark energy radiated outward, spreading through the roots and veins of the forest floor. The ground quivered faintly, as if recoiling, but the power was relentless. Leaves shriveled and blackened, curling inward like burnt paper. Mosses withered, only to be replaced by sickly, phosphorescent growths that oozed a faint, viscous sheen.
The trees began to groan, their branches twisting and contorting into unnatural shapes. Thorns erupted from their bark, glistening with venomous drops that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Vines uncoiled and writhed as though imbued with life, their tendrils snaking out to grip and constrict anything within reach. The transformation spread quickly, infecting the forest with a malignant will.
The corrupted Bramblehound stepped back, observing the grotesque landscape it had created. Its head tilted slightly, its glowing eyes scanning the glade as though testing its control. The vines quivered in response to its movements, tightening their coils and bristling with sharp thorns. The air hung thick with decay, the stench of rot mingling with the metallic tang of Void Mana.
Above, the moon’s pale light broke through the canopy, casting jagged shadows across the ground. The Bramblehound’s twisted form disappeared into the darkness, merging seamlessly with the corrupted terrain it now commanded. From the shadows, its eyes burned with a cold intelligence.
The forest no longer belonged to the humans. It belonged to the beast.
The corrupted Bramblehound crouched low, its body taut with anticipation. It didn’t need to chase its prey. They would come. And when they did, the forest would rise to consume them.
As the night deepened, silence reclaimed the woods, broken only by the faint creak of shifting branches and the whisper of writhing vines. The darkness grew heavier, the forest itself now an extension of the predator lurking within.
Waiting. Watching.