The abandoned yard was a wreck. A crooked wooden post stood in the center, with chunks of rope dangling like limp vines.

Scattered around the dirt lot were makeshift training tools—a fraying punching bag, rusted barrels weighted with sand, and a series of stone slabs piled unevenly.

A warped fence circled the area, half of it broken down, exposing the cracked walls of nearby shacks.

Jude kicked at a loose stone, his arms crossed as he surveyed the sorry excuse for a gym. “This is it?”

Silas shrugged, leaning his mace against one of the barrels. “Hey, it’s free. You want a fancy place to train, talk to someone with gold to burn.”

“How did you find this place?”

“I dunno,” Silas shrugged again. “It just wasn’t taken, is all.”

Jude grunted, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. Better fighters than us have trained in worse.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, coach,” Silas said, smirking as he stretched his arms.

“Don’t call me that,” Jude snapped. “We’re training together. That’s all.”

“If you say so.” Silas’ mace gleamed in the sunlight, its head spiked and clearly not made for sparring. “So, what’s first? You gonna teach me how to do that fancy little dance of yours?”

“It’s called footwork,” Jude said, stepping into the center of the yard. He raised his hands in a loose fighting stance, his movements deliberate but fluid. “And yeah, we’re starting there. Without it, everything else falls apart.”

Silas groaned. “You’re killing me already.”

“You’ll thank me when you’re not eating dirt in your next fight,” Jude shot back. “Now, let me see your stance.”

Silas hefted the mace back into his hands, planting his feet wide and lowering into a defensive crouch. Jude circled him, his eyes narrowing as he took in the younger man’s posture.

Silas had raw power, sure—but power without balance was like a cannon without a base. One wrong move, and it’d tip over on itself.

“Too wide,” Jude said, tapping the inside of Silas’s knee with his foot. “You’ll lock yourself up if you plant like that. Bring your feet closer.”

Silas adjusted, grumbling under his breath. “Feels like I’ll topple over if I move.”

“That’s the point. Balance isn’t about standing still—it’s about being ready to move,” Jude said. He demonstrated, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight effortlessly from one leg to the other. “You’ve got to be able to change direction in an instant. Stay heavy, and you’re a sitting duck.”

Silas tried to mimic the motion, his steps awkward and uneven. He stumbled after a few shuffles, cursing under his breath. Jude folded his arms, unimpressed.

“Again,” Jude said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He tried not to be too strict. We were all beginners at some point, he reminded himself.

Dozens of fighters have gone through Jude’s classes. Some terrible, some slightly better, some even became champions in this or that fighting league.

The one thing they had in common was how awkward they moved on their first day.

Silas was no different.

Talent is nothing. It’s all about determination.

The next hour passed in a blur of repetitive drills. Silas practiced stepping, pivoting, and circling while Jude barked instructions like a drill sergeant.

Sweat poured down Silas’s face, and his movements grew sloppier with every pass.

“Why is this so hard?” Silas finally snapped, throwing his mace down in frustration. “It’s just walking! I can swing this thing fine without all the dancing.”

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Jude walked over, picking up the mace and holding it out to Silas. “Swing it at me.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Jude said, standing casually a few paces away. “Swing it as hard as you can.”

Silas hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the mace. He lunged forward, bringing the weapon down in a powerful arc.

Jude ducked under the swing and stepped into Silas’s guard. Before Silas could react, Jude swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.

“You wanted lessons? Here’s lesson number one,” Jude said, looking down at him. “Don’t overcommit. Big swings look impressive, but they leave you wide open.”

Silas groaned, lying flat on his back. “I hate you.”

“You’ll get over it,” Jude said, offering a hand to help him up. “Now get back to work.”

Silas slowly rose up. “You didn’t even try!”

“Exactly,” Jude said, his voice calm but firm. “You’ve got all that strength, but you couldn’t touch me. Why? Because you’re predictable. You plant your feet and swing like a blacksmith. I don’t even need to block—I can see it coming from a mile away.”

Silas scowled, his grip tightening on the mace. “So what? I’m not you. I don’t have your reflexes.”

“No, but you’ve got potential,” Jude had to admit.

Always couple your criticisms with compliments, his wife once taught him. It was good advice—both in marriage and in coaching.

“You just need to stop relying on brute force and start thinking like a fighter. Every step you take should be part of a plan. If you can master that, you’ll be twice as dangerous.”

Silas stared at him, his frustration slowly giving way to reluctant understanding. “All right, fine. Show me again.”

As the drills continued, Silas began to improve, his movements becoming smoother and more deliberate.

The kid’s smarter than he looks.

Jude even managed a faint smile when Silas executed a clean pivot, dodging an imaginary attack and setting himself up for a counterstrike.

“You’re getting there,” Jude said. “But your weapon’s working against you.”

Silas glanced at the mace in his hands. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s too heavy for what you’re trying to do,” Jude said. “You’re forcing your body to compensate for every swing. If you want to fight like this, you need something faster. A short sword, maybe. Or a spear.”

Silas frowned, his attachment to the mace evident. “I’ve been using this thing for years. Feels wrong to change now.”

“Suit yourself,” Jude said, turning back to the makeshift punching bag. “But don’t come crying to me when someone faster than you breaks your ribs because you couldn’t keep up.”

Silas muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t argue further.

He knows I’m right. He just doesn’t want to admit it.

The next few hours were filled with the rhythmic sound of Silas’s mace striking against a wooden dummy. The makeshift training post rattled with every swing, its base digging deeper into the dirt.

Silas’s movements were more measured now, his strikes deliberate rather than wild. He still wasn’t fast, but there was a noticeable improvement in his control.

Jude watched from the edge of the yard, leaning against a broken fence post with his arms crossed. He had to admit Silas was picking things up quicker than expected.

“Better,” Jude called out. “Keep your shoulders loose, though. You’re still telegraphing those swings.”

Silas stopped, panting as he rested the mace against the ground. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “You’re not the one swinging this thing.”

“Doesn’t matter what you’re swinging,” Jude said, pushing off the fence and walking toward him. “Sword, mace, fist—it’s all about fundamentals. You’re stiff because you’re fighting the weapon. Let it flow with your movements.”

I sound like a badly-translated master from one of those old kung fu movies.

“Yeah, yeah,” Silas grumbled, lifting the mace again. He stepped back into position, this time focusing on keeping his movements smooth. The mace whistled through the air, the strikes landing with more precision than before.

Jude nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now mix it up. Don’t just stand there wailing on the dummy. Imagine it’s moving. Keep your feet moving too.”

Silas groaned but obeyed, shuffling his feet as he swung. It was clumsy at first, but as he adjusted, his strikes became more fluid, each one leading into the next.

Jude watched for a while longer before speaking again.

“You’re starting to get it,” he said. “But don’t forget your defense. A good offense doesn’t mean shit if you can’t stay on your feet.”

Silas paused, resting the mace across his shoulders. “What do you suggest? I can’t exactly block with this thing.”

“You don’t block,” Jude said, stepping closer. “You dodge. You parry. You use your opponent’s momentum against them.” He held up his hands in a mock fighting stance. “Here. Try to hit me.”

Silas raised an eyebrow. “With the mace?”

Jude smirked. “No, genius. Use your hands. I’m not looking to get my skull caved in.”

Silas shrugged, setting the mace aside. He raised his fists and lunged forward with a clumsy jab. Jude stepped to the side effortlessly, tapping Silas on the shoulder as he passed.

“Too slow,” Jude said. “Again.”

Silas tried again, this time throwing a combination of punches. Jude weaved through them, his movements smooth and efficient, never wasting energy. By the third attempt, Silas was breathing hard, his frustration mounting.

“Come on, old man!” Silas growled, throwing a wide hook. Jude moved with almost casual grace, sidestepping the strike and slipping into Silas’s blind spot.

Before Silas could react, Jude tapped him on the back with two fingers.

“Dead,” Jude said simply.

Silas whirled around, his face red.

He opened his mouth to fire back, but whatever he wanted to say was lost to the sound of footsteps crunching on dirt.

Four figures emerged from a nearby alley, each one armed and clearly looking for trouble. They were all broad-shouldered and rough-looking, their clothes well-worn but their boots clean—a detail Jude didn’t miss.

“Oi, Silas,” the tallest of them said, his grin wide and toothy. He was lean and wiry, with a scar running down the side of his face. “Didn’t think we’d find you here.”

Who’s that? Jude was about to say. But Silas answered his question before he even had the chance to ask it.

“Debt collectors.”