Rafe sat and watched a pink-haired girl on the big screen. His father was probably somewhere backstage. He hadn't seen them in months, and now he was finding out what they'd been up to. He slumped his shoulders.

First, his mother had gone, and now they too had left. She sounded good though. And maybe this would help his father get over his years-old heartbreak. He was relieved on his father's behalf, he truly was.

He should have been happy for his sister too, but they'd never been close. He was alone, always alone, forever alone. He sat on the chair and watched his father's latest star sing. She was a stranger to him, such a familiar stranger.

****

He woke with sweat pouring from his eyes like it normally did when he had those weird dreams he couldn't seem to remember. It was sweat and nothing else, he was sure. Just sweat.

When he woke, he remembered nothing of those dreams. They helped him. Helped him to wake up earlier than most people and train even before his official training was set to start.

Of course even as he performed his drills, he watched the young prince of the village perform what ought to have been his millionth drill of the day. Perhaps stronger people didn't need to sleep as much as weaker ones.

That seemed unfair to him, but it wasn't entirely impossible. He'd never be able to catch up to Noid if the boy naturally needed less sleep. It got him thinking about Noid’s advice.

‘No fight is over until one of the combatants can't go on anymore. Even if you are weaker, there are ways to win. I'm not preaching to you to learn guile, gods know that is a losing battle.’

‘You just said no fight is over until—’

‘There is such a thing as impossible fights, disciple. There are beings out there…’ Noid hesitated, shuddered. ‘I know the kind of sword you wield. A direct sword, a sword that can cut anything. Or it should be able to cut anything. What happens when it can't though? Do you just roll over and die? Stay and fight? And die? No. You run. Listen to me boy, you must run when a fight is beyond you. It is rare, but it will happen if you continue on this path.’

Funny it was, being called boy by a prepubescent boy. In truth, the recruit had chosen his philosophy to simply believe in his sword, and if his sword failed, then he'd be dead.

Since arriving at the Wilde mercenary company, Noid hadn't been training him personally, Jonathan had.

Jonathan Wilde was the chairman of the mercenary company, and he'd once trained Noid in the art of swordplay as well. Even if he was a master, Jonathan was proficient in only one sword style, like every other normal warrior.

Noid knew the four major schools of swordplay, and he had knowledge of a few techniques from lots of lesser schools. He even had techniques he'd picked up from other weapon specialists like spear users, dagger wielders, hatchet men.

Still, at his graduation from basics to sword school selection, Jonathan had taught him all he knew about the Revered Sword Saint style. He also knew the basics of the Northern Wind Spirit, but he was hopeless in the dwarven Earth Shattering school, let alone the Demon God's Promise School.

As happened every day, the two fought for a little over thirty minutes.

The Revered Sword Saint style was fast, even if the slashes were weak. If it made contact with flesh, it would penetrate pretty deep, no question about it. Its signature move was an advanced sword barrage where a practitioner could release almost ten thrusts a second, like fighting ten warriors at once. As a master, Jonathan could make a one-hundred-slash sword barrage in a second if he chose to.

Noid was only advanced tier. Sparring with a master tier swordsman hit different. Especially on the rare occasions, when Jonathan demonstrated his sword barrage. A hundred slashes, impacts, a very high-end number for a master according to him, and he had such precise control over what they'd cut.

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All the months he'd spent traveling with Noid, and now here in the town, the soldier had spent just over a year training since the war ended. He wasn't anywhere near the intermediate rank in the Revered Sword Saint style though.

And his battles with Jonathan always left him scrambling just to keep up with the man's barrage. And then he'd run out of juice while the older man had barely broken a sweat. He said older man, but Jonathan was barely into his thirties. He was a tall man, lithe, blonde and patterned with evident laugh lines on his cheeks.

“Hmm, is it me, or are you getting a lot faster?” Jonathan asked.

The soldier snorted, exposing his teeth in a self-deprecating smile, and rubbing the back of his head.

“It's just you.”

“No, no, listen, kid, you're faster than before, and your coordination is good too. Your stamina and strength are increasing at a very slow rate, but your speed and reactions are improving.”

“So, when do you think I'll graduate from the beginner rank?”

The man shrugged. “All men are not created equal, kid. We can't all be geniuses with stamina so ridiculous it's illegal,” he said, sparing a glance at the still-drilling Noid.

Jonathan walked off to take care of other responsibilities as the chairman of the company. The short spar was his morning cool-off segment, according to him.

Thirty minutes a day, even if completely exhausting, were nowhere near enough for the soldier to achieve his goals. He did have nothing to do except train, train, and train all day so he went off to join a couple of the other recruits in their drills.

In his day, Noid had squared off with the most experienced mercenaries, and he'd still been a child then. With the war having lasted an indeterminate amount of time, and the year he'd spent traveling and staying in this village, the soldier wasn't sure he was still a teenager. He was a man grown now, just waiting for his beards to grow in.

Still, he did not have the pride to challenge the trainers head-on. He took part in the mock battles between recruits the trainers organised instead.

The soldier clicked his tongue as he dueled a spear user in a magically projected field. It felt solid, but in truth, they were only on a very expensive training array. The array projected them into a random phantom field where they duked it out as the trainers and their peers watched. Every extra minute they spent, the air grew heavier. Moving their legs got harder with time.

It was an effective way to train up both stamina and strength, but also a timekeeping measure. The soldier hated fighting spear users, especially this particular girl. She had long red hair, and long arms that the trainers said made her perfect for the spear.

She was good at it. He liked watching her long athletic legs dance back after she executed a glancing strike. He tried to keep up, but he had to exert himself to try and bridge the range advantage. She grinned as she deflected his swings with the simplest of movements. She was the best.

He grinned back, enjoying the exertion. The air got heavier, and before he knew it, there was no more dancing, no more grace. Just strong swings and thrusts, simple backward movements and heavy breath. He got impatient. This was his chance. He'd thought this before, and he'd been wrong then, but he could feel it this time.

He darted in, already crouching low to use the heavier air to his advantage. The girl brought the butt of her spear close to her body and deflected his first swing as she usually did. She was proficient at the close range too, and that was why she was considered an advanced spear user.

Her deflection must have not gone to plan this time because she showed a hint of surprise after impact. The soldier felt a hint of pride, but didn't let that distract him for the time being. He swung and swung. And then he noticed she hadn't moved her spear for the last few swings, just leaving it to guard most of her left flank.

He smiled and - as fast as he could -changed the angle of his crouch, of his swing. He saw the moment her eyes widened in realisation, and he smiled bigger.

His sword ascended to end this farce once and for all, only to be stopped by her well-armoured forearm. It did cut through armour and flesh, to be honest, but he was unable to penetrate bone yet. The girl gritted her teeth to keep from crying out, but then she grinned in satisfaction.

The soldier realised his sword was stuck in bone, and fighting without it was just… The butt of a spear struck him straight on his forehead, disorienting him for an instant. Enough time for him to be gutted, eviscerated with impunity.

They were sweating and panting and leaning against each other by the time the magical dueling field had collapsed.

“I…lost again…” the soldier gasped out.

“Yeah…but you almost…had me. You are fast…I can hardly follow your swings anymore. I am supposed to win, I am an advanced-level warrior, you know.”

“Yeah, well, that's enough of that. Maybe we can talk about something more interesting,” he asked hopefully.

“Like why your eyes have been glued to my chest this whole time?”

He turned all his attention to her chest, then up into Celene’s red face. He shrugged without shame or remorse.

“I think you know why my eyes have been on your chest this whole time.”

The girl blushed harder, he hoped.

“You…” she huffed. “Maybe if there was any chance in the void you could beat me.”

The soldier lost all his other fights that day, but he performed like that on most days. He called his fellow trainees recruits, but they were experienced adventurers one and all. They were just taking lessons from their betters in-between assignments.