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.