Eyes Open, Or Die Trying

The old man sat cross-legged under the gnarled tree, a bottle of something foul-smelling cradled in his calloused hands. His weathered face, framed by a scruffy beard, spoke of countless battles and a life far removed from this strange, polished world. Before him stood a boy, no more than sixteen summers, his frame lean but trembling with barely contained energy. The boy held a practice sword awkwardly, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.

"Put that down before you hurt yourself," the old man growled, taking a swig from his bottle. The boy flinched but obeyed, setting the wooden blade down in the dirt.

“You want to learn how to wield a sword, eh?” The old man’s voice was gravelly, disdain dripping from every word. “Well, forget everything you think you know. Whatever nonsense these so-called ‘martial artists sects’ have stuffed in your head—throw it out. Swordsmanship isn’t about flipping around like a damn acrobat or showing off with flourishes. A sword is meant to do one thing: kill.”

The boy swallowed hard, but his eyes didn’t waver. "Yeah... super comforting," he muttered under his breath, though he quickly shut up when the old man’s glare pinned him in place.

The old man grunted in approval anyway. “Alright, kid. Step one: train your body.”

The boy tilted his head, confused. “But I already practice every day. Push-ups, running, lifting weights…”

The old man snorted, his laugh a bitter bark. “That? That’s child’s play. Training your body isn’t about getting strong so you can swing a blade harder. Your body is your temple, your most precious possession. Every scar, every bruise, every broken bone—each one makes you weaker, not stronger. You have to learn to bend without breaking. To move without hesitation. To strike without wasting a single ounce of energy.” the old man said, his tone sharp and unyielding. He paused, letting the words sink in, before continuing. “But before you can do that…”

He set the bottle down and stood, his movements slow but deliberate. Though his posture was stooped with age, there was an undeniable grace in the way he carried himself, every step purposeful. He reached for the boy’s practice sword, lifting it with an expression of disdain, as if the mere sight of it offended him. After a moment, he handed it back.

“…you must never let your temple get hurt.”

Without warning, the old man swung his hand down, mimicking a clean, precise strike with the sword. The blade’s motion stopped inches from the boy’s face. Instinctively, the boy flinched, his eyes snapping shut.

“Hah! But I already practice every day” The old man barked a laugh, sharp and mocking. “See? To train your body, you must first train your eyes. Never close them. Never. No matter what.”

The boy, face red with embarrassment, opened his eyes slowly. "I wasn't scared," he lied, trying and failing to sound convincing. The old man flicked him hard on the forehead with two calloused fingers.

"Ow!" The boy rubbed the spot. "What was that for?"

The old man smirked. “To protect your temple, you must see everything. Every movement. Every shadow. Every strike. If your eyes betray you, the rest of you will follow. A blind fighter isn’t a fighter—they’re a corpse waiting for the killing blow.”

The boy frowned, his confusion plain. “I perfer to die from old age......but How can I train my eyes?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The old man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he waved a hand in a gesture to follow, turning without another word. The boy hesitated. “You’re not going to flick me again, are you?”

The old man shot him a glare, and the boy scrambled after him through a patch of dense trees, their branches arching overhead like the ribs of some long-dead beast. They walked in silence until they reached a small creek, its waters babbling softly as it wound its way through the forest.

The old man stopped at the edge of the water and pointed. “Sit there,” he said, indicating a spot in the creek where the current flowed steadily. “Face the way the water’s coming from.”

The boy hesitated, glancing between the old man and the cold, clear water. “In the creek?”

“Yes, in the creek,” the old man snapped. “You want to train your eyes, don’t you? Then sit.”

“This better be worth it,” the boy muttered, wading into the water. He yelped as the cold hit him. “You sure this isn’t some kind of punishment?”

The old man ignored him, watching as the boy sat down, shivering in the stream. “Now, chop the water,” the old man commanded. “Over and over. Splash yourself, your face, your eyes—but don’t close them. Not even when the water stings. Not even when it burns. Keep chopping, keep splashing, and keep your damn eyes open.”

The boy groaned but lifted his hands. “So… no blink training, got it.” He slapped the water, sending droplets flying into his face. The first splash hit his eyes, and instinctively, he shut them tight.

“Open them!” the old man roared. “Do you think the world will wait for you to feel comfortable? Do you think an enemy will give you time to blink? Again!”

The boy forced his eyes open and continued splashing. “Yeah, no big deal,” he muttered as water stung his eyes. “Just slowly drowning myself while a drunk guy yells at me. Totally normal.”

The old man smirked from the shore, his stern expression softening ever so slightly. “Good. Now keep going. Learn to see through the sting, through the blur, through the pain. Only then will your eyes be worth a damn.”

After five grueling minutes, the old man finally barked, "Stop! That’s enough for now. Rest."

The boy stumbled out of the creek, soaked and shivering. "Great. Now I’m blind and freezing. Anything else, Mr.Drunkard?"

The old man crouched beside him, his expression a mixture of disappointment and amusement. "Whatever training you’ve been doing before today clearly isn’t working," he muttered, shaking his head. "But worry not. I, Sir Lancelot, will make you into a fine swordsman."

The boy blinked at him, confused. "Who?"

The old man froze for a moment, then let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Right.... I am no longer in my kingdom." His voice grew low and angry, a tremor of frustration slipping into his words.

He stood suddenly, the weight of his realization pushing his shoulders back, and his voice rose like a thunderclap. "This godforsaken place!" He swung his arm wide in a sweeping gesture, his voice reverberating through the forest with raw fury.

The boy flinched, instinctively covering his ears as the old man’s rage seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. A moment of tense silence followed, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves. Then, with an unnatural groan, the trees behind the old man began to shift. The boy’s jaw dropped as the massive trunks slid apart, one after another, as if cleaved by an invisible blade.

In seconds, an unnaturally perfect opening stretched through the heart of the forest, the felled trees lying in two neat rows on either side. The old man stood at the center of the devastation, his hand still outstretched, his face dark with anger and sorrow.

The boy slowly lowered his hands from his ears and stared at the destruction. After a moment, he broke into a wide grin, bent at the waist, and gave an exaggerated, traditional bow.

"Master," he said, his voice dripping with mock reverence. "I think you missed a spot over there."

The old man turned, his red eyes narrowing. For a moment, he looked as though he might scold him—but then, ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "You’ll regret that word," he muttered, his voice gruff, though the faintest trace of amusement lingered. "Now get up. There’s no rest for fools."

The boy groaned but stood. "No rest for fools... or wet, half-blind prodigies, I guess."

The old man smirked. "Keep talking, kid. The next lesson might be worse."