Chapter 13: the training
Kael waited patiently, arms folded, looking entirely like a man who already knew the final page of the book Malrik was currently opening.
Malrik’s eyes traced the private arena’s weapon racks—swords, axes, war hammers, halberds, bows. Even from a distance, the fine webbing of scratches on the metal showed these weren’t decorations. Inevitably, his gaze anchored on the spears, and the image of the monolithic Blackstar Spear flashed through his mind.
"Wielding that thing right now would be suicide" he thought, offering his own ambition a dry smile.
Choosing the Spirit Stone was definitely the right play. Weapons can be replaced; cosmic loopholes can’t.
"I’ll use the spear," Malrik announced.
Kael’s scarred lips curled into a faint grin. "I know."
Malrik blinked. "...You know?"
"You’ve been pretending to give every weapon in the gallery a fair, diplomatic evaluation," Kael said, gesturing lazily toward the rack. "But you’ve looked at those spears at least five separate times. You were terrible at hiding it."
Malrik scratched his cheek, thoroughly annoyed.
Son of a bi*tch, is this giant psychic?
"...Was I really that transparent?"
"You were awful."
"...Thanks for the confidence boost."
"Anytime."
A short, helpless laugh escaped Malrik. This brute wasn’t the grim, silent sentinel he had anticipated. Kael was clearly the type of veteran who took active, sadistic pleasure in systematically crushing a rookie’s ego before teaching them something useful.
Without a syllable of warning, Kael pulled a spear free and tossed it straight toward him. "CATCH!"
"Wait, what the—"
Malrik’s instincts fired. He threw his hands out, his palms colliding violently with the polished wood. His arms dropped instantly, the unexpected kinetic weight nearly pitching him off balance.
Damn Damn Damn
He clamped his fingers around the shaft, barely arresting its downward momentum. "Bloody hell... This thing weighs a ton."
Kael burst into laughter. "A ton? That little toothpick weighs less than six kilograms."
Six kilograms my ass.
This oversized caveman must have filled the core with lead.
"...Seriously?"
"Seriously. It feels heavy because you’re fighting it with your arms. Your body isn’t doing any of the lifting."
Malrik looked down, really examining the blade for the first time. The dark ashwood shaft was flawlessly smooth, and the razor-sharp geometry of the steel tip bore no safety guards or blunt edges.
"...These aren’t training weapons," Malrik muttered.
Kael looked genuinely confused. "No. They’re weapons."
"...That is precisely my point. They’re live steel. They’re sharp."
"They’re supposed to be."
"..." Malrik rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache brewing. I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that everyone carrying the Vesperion name belongs in a fucking asylum.
He casually picked up a nearby sword, then an axe, then a hammer. Every single blade glinted with the same terrifying, murderous bite.
"We don’t train with fake weapons," Kael said, his casual tone abruptly hardening. "Because the Morveth don’t attack with fake claws. If your body spends years swinging wooden toys, it’ll hesitate the first time real steel touches your hands. I’d rather your hands bleed here than watch you die outside."
The logic was too brutal to argue with. Malrik gave a slow, rigid nod. "...Can’t argue with that."
"Good." Kael stepped into the center of the arena, effortlessly hoisting his weapon. "Now, you chose the spear. So let me tell you why armies have trusted it for thousands of years. A sword is balanced—it can do almost everything, but it rarely becomes the best at anything. Axes are monsters—they break armor and bones, but they also break your rhythm if you miss."
He dropped it back and picked up a dagger. "Fast, deadly, perfect... if your opponent politely agrees to stand close enough for a hug."
Malrik chuckled. "I somehow doubt they’ll cooperate."
"They usually don’t," Kael answered with a completely straight face, swapping the knife for a bow. "This keeps your enemies far away. And if they manage to reach you..." He shrugged. "...pray."
Malrik laughed.
As Kael returned the bow and took hold of another spear, the sarcastic instructor completely vanished. His weight shifted, his shoulders lowered, and his presence turned heavy. He looked like a veteran who had climbed out of a mountain of corpses.
"The spear..." He spun it once with effortless precision before catching it behind his back, "...controls distance."
He took one simple step and delivered a textbook thrust. No flashy wind-up, no dramatic detonation of mana. Yet the air itself literally shrieked as the steel tip punctured the space in front of him.
Malrik felt an involuntary chill ripple down his spine. If that thrust had been aimed at my throat, I wouldn’t have even registered the blur before my vision went black. Holy shit.
Kael slowly lowered the weapon. "The spear decides one thing, Malrik. Who gets close, and who dies trying." He smiled, the terrifying pressure instantly vanishing. "Now... let’s see what you can do. Show me your stance."
Kael didn’t say another word. He just circled Malrik like a hungry vulture, inspecting his frame from every angle like a blacksmith trying to find a fatal flaw in a cheap blade.
Malrik tried to block out the suffocating scrutiny. "...You planning to teach me or buy me?"
Kael stopped directly behind him. "I’m trying to figure out whether you’re worth the effort."
Whack.
A firm tap landed on Malrik’s shoulder. "Too stiff." Then Kael nudged his left foot with the blunt end of his own spear. "And your stance is terrible."
Malrik looked down at his boots. "It looks fine to me."
"Exactly," Kael sighed. "That’s the tragedy of it." Before Malrik could shift, Kael gripped his shoulders and physically wren cages his torso a few degrees. "You’re facing me squared-on. If I stab you now..." He thrust his spear forward, the cold steel stopping a finger’s width from Malrik’s throat. "...you’re a dead man."
Malrik stared unblinking at the steel hovering at his throat. Great. One twitch of his finger and I get a free, unrequested tracheotomy. "...You enjoy this a little too much."
"I do," Kael answered without the slightest shame, pulling the weapon back. "Again."
Malrik adjusted his grip and drove the spear forward with everything he had. It felt explosive, until Kael casually flicked the side of the moving shaft with two fingers, sending the entire attack veering wildly off course into empty air.
Two goddamn fingers? I put my whole lower back into that stroke. Malrik clicked his tongue. "...Seriously?"
Kael looked thoroughly unimpressed. "If that’s all it takes to ruin your attack, the first Morveth you meet is going to laugh before it eats you. You’re really encouraging."
"I wasn’t trying to. Again."
This time, Malrik refused to just throw raw muscle at it. He paused, mentally reviewing the variables Kael had adjusted—his feet, his grip, his shoulders—calculating the entire mechanical chain before initiating the movement. The spear shot out. Cleaner, faster, noticeably better.
Kael nodded once. "Closer." Then he walked over and sharply flicked Malrik right between the eyes.
"...Ow! What the fuck was that for?" Malrik hissed, rubbing his forehead.
"Stop thinking. You tried to solve a math puzzle. You were thinking about your hands, your feet, the angle. A battlefield won’t wait for you to finish solving equations. Get out of your own way and trust your body."
"...That is completely unhelpful."
"It will be. Again."
Malrik took a long, measured breath, forcing his brain to shut up. Fine. No thinking. Just kill. He didn’t check his feet or calculate angles. He simply moved. His left foot slid forward naturally, his waist rotated, his shoulders followed, and the spear pierced through the air with a crisp, resonant whoosh!
Kael didn’t interrupt or parry. He simply watched the recovery, his eyes narrowing slightly.
The form still wasn’t perfect, but the stiff, robotic imitation had vanished. Malrik wasn’t copying a textbook anymore; his muscles were actively restructuring themselves on the fly. The boy’s nervous system absorbs corrections like a sponge, Kael realized. He permanently patches glitches after seeing them once.
"...Again," Kael commanded, his voice dropping its mocking edge.
After the seventh attempt, Malrik abruptly stopped and frowned. "...Something’s wrong. My right shoulder feels disproportionately heavy."
Instead of diagnosing it, Kael’s smirk returned. "Good. You noticed." He walked over and tapped Malrik’s elbow. "You’re pushing with your arm again at the tail end of the thrust, so your shoulder is throwing itself out of alignment to compensate. Now you’re learning. Not because I told you, but because your own anatomy started complaining about your bullshit."
A dry, self-deprecating chuckle escaped Malrik. Fantastic. Even my own skeleton is joining the bullying. "...I never thought I’d be happy because my shoulder hurts."
"Give it another hour. You’ll hate your entire body equally."
"...Fantastic."
The afternoon passed far quicker than Malrik expected. At some point, he stopped counting. His hands burned, his palms were covered in raw blisters, and his legs felt like lead pillars. Simply keeping the tip of the ashwood spear from sagging toward the dirt required a monumental act of will.
"...Damn..." He planted the butt of the spear against the ground and collapsed his weight over it just to stay upright. "My arms are trying to file for divorce."
Kael glanced at him. "Good. Since you still have enough energy to complain, you clearly have fuel left in the tank."
Malrik glared at the giant through a veil of sweat. You absolute sadist. He forced his trembling lips into a thoroughly insincere, plastic smile. "I said... you’re an amazing instructor, Instructor Kael."
Kael snorted. For a brief moment, the two of them shared a quiet chuckle in the empty ring. Then, Kael’s face ironed itself back out into that rigid, battlefield mask.
"That’s enough for today. Drop the gear."
Malrik let out a massive, unceremonious sigh of relief and let the spear rest against the rack before stretching his aching shoulders. "I honestly thought you were going to keep me here until tomorrow."
"I considered it."
"...You people really are insane."
"We’ve been called worse." Kael picked up his own spear and turned toward the arena’s exit. Just before leaving, he stopped without turning around, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on Malrik’s arms stand up. "Everything you learned today was nothing more than the foundation. You learned how to hold a stick, how to move, and how not to stab yourself."
Malrik scratched the back of his head. "...The last one feels oddly specific."
"It happens more often than you’d think." Kael’s tone changed completely, turning as cold and heavy as a crypt door. "Starting tomorrow... you’ll leave this arena. You’ll fight real Morveth. No padded rings, no instructors, no second chances. Remember this well, Malrik. One day of real combat will teach you more than a hundred days of training ever could."
Malrik looked down at the blisters covering his hands, then at the sharp steel tip of the spear resting beside him. Tomorrow? No buffer week? No orientation? Fucking magnificent.
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "Good. I was starting to get bored of hitting targets that don’t bleed anyway."
Kael smiled—a sharp, dangerous, and entirely Vesperion expression. "Let’s hope the Morveth don’t get bored of hitting you."
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