"Of course," Tavon replied.
El paused mid-strike, lowering her sword. "Scorching Sword…?" she murmured. "I think I've heard of it before…"
Tavon's lips curled into a knowing smile. "With your talent and persistence, you could master it in no time. It's a style that suits you. And if you do… well—" he turned his gaze toward the far horizon, where the forest gave way to shadowed mountains, "—then you'll finally be ready for your original plan."
Matthew's breath caught. "You mean…?"
Tavon nodded. "Livero."
Leo stirred from the porch, pushing himself to a seated position despite the pull of his healing leg. "So… this is it. The real adventure begins."
"It is," Tavon said, his eyes still fixed on the distant peaks. "And if you master this sword style, it will carry you far. And more importantly—keep you alive."
El stepped closer, her brow furrowed. "Old man… are you sure about this?" Her voice carried a rare seriousness. "Sword styles… they're more than technique. They're legacies. You don't just pass them down unless someone's part of your family… your clan."
Matthew, who'd been beaming moments ago, suddenly looked uncertain. "Wait… it's that valuable?"
El gave a solemn nod.
But Tavon only laughed. "Of course I'm sure." He placed a hand on Matthew's shoulder. "It's been a long time since I've taken a disciple. Too many of the brats I trained before lacked heart. But you? You've got something special. I'd hate to see it wasted."
Matthew blinked, his chest rising with emotion. A slow, watery smile crept across his face. "Aw, old man…"
Tavon grinned. "Well, unless you're going to make this official…"
Matthew snapped into a stiff, awkward posture, then bent forward with an almost comedic attempt at a respectful bow. "Please… take me as your disciple!"
Tavon let out a soft chuckle. "Looks like the first lesson will be teaching you how to do a proper bow."
Behind them, El stifled a laugh with the back of her hand. Leo grinned, shaking his head from the porch.
And just like that, something changed between them—not with a thunderous declaration or a dramatic oath, but with laughter, hope, and the quiet promise of a future none of them could yet see.
Three days later, Leo's wounds had fully healed. The scar remained, but the pain had faded. He was finally back to his daily routine and shared chores with El. With Matthew now focused entirely on his training with Old Man Tavon, the weight of his usual tasks fell to the other two. The workload doubled—but neither El nor Leo complained. They knew what this meant to Matthew.
Each morning, while El and Leo tended to the field, the farm, and household duties, Tavon and Matthew disappeared into the mountains, to a clearing near a tall waterfall—the perfect place for their training.
Tavon, though aged and slightly hunched, became a different man during training. He was strict, relentless, and tireless. Matthew endured it all. The first part of his regimen was built around physical endurance, flexibility, and core sword dynamics.
"Sit still. Feel the water," Tavon instructed on the first day.
Matthew sat cross-legged beneath the pounding waterfall, his teeth chattering from the cold at first, his muscles tight and trembling. But day by day, he adjusted. The cold no longer bothered him. His breathing slowed, his body strengthened.
Then came the sword.
"There are three fundamental styles to the Scorching Sword," Tavon explained one morning, eyes sharp and voice stern. "And two major moves. Watch closely."
"First," Tavon continued, drawing his blade, "is Spark Pierce."
Despite his curled back and white beard, the moment Tavon held the sword, he looked nothing like an old man. He moved with the grace of a seasoned warrior. With a precise lunge, he struck a nearby tree. At first, the blade only pierced an inch or two—then a sudden force blasted through, tearing a hole the size of a melon clean through not only that tree but the one behind it.
Matthew's jaw dropped. "That's insane…"
Tavon smirked. "Second: Flame Tear."
He slashed across the already-damaged trunk. A wave of heat followed the arc of his blade, and a fiery gust swept outward. The tree didn't fall immediately—it creaked, splintered, and finally gave in, toppling with a heavy crash.
"Third: Towerblaze."
Matthew tilted his head. "Catchy name," he mumbled.
Tavon held his sword in both hands, inhaled deeply, and with a forceful downward slash, the air exploded. A shockwave burst outward, kicking up dust and hurling Matthew off his feet. When the dust cleared, a crater-like mark marred the earth where Tavon had stood, like the ground itself had erupted.
Matthew scrambled up, eyes wide, covered in dust. "Are you sure you're going to teach me that?"
The old man only grinned. "Of course not."
Matthew's face fell. "What?! Then why'd you show it to me?"
"You'll get there." Tavon shrugged. "If you master the first three, I'll teach you Inigo—the fourth. But that last one… the fifth? You're not ready."
Matthew looked both disappointed and amazed. "What's it called?"
"I haven't named it," Tavon said, then smirked. "I'll let you name it… if you learn it on your own."
Matthew blinked. "How am I supposed to do that if you won't teach me?"
Tavon tapped his temple. "Observe. That's your first real lesson. The way of the sword isn't just about slashing and strength. Observation is key. If you truly master the Scorching Sword style… you won't need me to teach you the fifth. You'll understand it, because you've seen it."
Matthew stared into the distance, thoughtful. Then a slow smile crept across his face.
From that point, their days were spent repeating the forms. Tavon drilled him relentlessly, guiding him through footwork, posture, strikes, and balance. Sparring sessions followed, where it became painfully clear just how far Matthew had to go. Tavon danced around him, striking and dodging with little effort. But gradually, Matthew began to improve. He learned to read his master's movements, respond to feints, and avoid the blows.
After a week, he had mastered the first style. By the end of the next, he could perform the second. The third—Towerblaze—proved the most difficult, but with persistence, he managed a rough but functional execution. He hadn't perfected any of them, but he was finally ready to begin learning the fourth: Inigo.
While Matthew trained with Tavon in the mountains, El took on a new role—Leo's mentor.
In the field behind Tavon's hut, Leo sat cross-legged. Eyes closed. His breathing calm. A flicker of flame hovered over his palm.
He whispered a name—a True Name. The flame surged in response, growing to the size of a baseball. Then, eyes still closed, he extended his hand and whispered a command in Domari, the ancient magical language.
The flame shot forward in a controlled burst, hitting the target dummy dead-on.
Leo opened his eyes, lips curling into a satisfied smile. "I did it," he said proudly.
Beside him, El stood with arms crossed, watching. She nodded approvingly. "Indeed."
"I must say… wind is easier to conjure and command than fire," Leo remarked, raising a hand. A current of wind coiled around his fingers, then whipped forward in a slicing arc, splitting another target in two.
El's eyes followed the slash. "The four elements are the basics of True Naming," she explained. "Wind is the easiest—its language is light, its tone simple to grasp. Fire is more volatile… but more dangerous if mastered."
Leo grinned. "Good thing I like a challenge."
Twice each day, the trio ventured into the heart of Jurra Forest—not just to hunt, but to grow. Each battle was a lesson, each beast a test. They moved like parts of a whole, sharpening their skills and strengthening the coordination that bound them in combat.
The forest, quiet in its towering majesty, suddenly quivered.
Leaves rustled violently as the trees groaned and swayed—not by wind, but by something massive moving through them. A monstrous presence stepped into view, shaking the earth with each lumbering stride. Standing eight feet tall, the creature's body was coated in dense brown fur, resembling a mammoth twisted by some ancient curse. It stood upright on two legs, with four muscular arms swinging at its sides. Its eyes—crimson and blazing with rage—shone through the shroud of fur that covered its beastly face.
A menace-class creature. Rare. Powerful. Deadly.
Without hesitation, Leo whispered the True Name of wind—his voice calm, deliberate. The air around him stirred, then obeyed. A blade of wind cleaved forward, grazing the beast's flank with a hiss and a flash.
The monster roared.
They split apart instinctively, encircling the creature. El darted to the left, her golden hair catching glints of sunlight as she weaved through the shadows. Matthew stepped boldly forward. The beast lunged at him, its massive arm swinging like a wrecking ball.
The blow landed.
Dust kicked up—but Matthew didn't budge. He stood firm, grounded like stone, absorbing the strike with grit in his eyes and fire in his stance.
"El, now!" Leo shouted.
She was already moving, blade flashing. She struck with a clean arc, but one of the beast's other arms rose in time to parry her strike.
Leo took a breath, then another. He closed his eyes.
The True Name of fire burned on his tongue. A flame flared to life in his palm, first the size of a baseball, then—after a whisper of command—it surged, growing into a blazing sphere the size of a melon. Another command followed, reshaping the fire into a sharp, arrow-like spear. With a final shout, he launched it forward.
The fiery projectile struck the creature's upper arm, searing through muscle and fur. It howled in pain, staggering.
"Now!" Leo called.
Matthew's eyes blazed. He leapt high, channeling all his focus into the third style of Scorching Swordsmanship—Towerblaze. He gripped his sword with both hands and came down with a mighty overhead slash.
The monster, still reeling, brought up two arms in defense—but too slow.
Before the blades met, El spun into action. With two swift, blinding cuts, she severed the beast's remaining upper arms.
Then—impact.
Matthew's blade crashed down like a hammer of judgment. The earth shook. A burst of force erupted from the strike, blowing leaves and debris in every direction. When the dust settled, the monster lay still—its chest torn open, a massive crater beneath it. Its body twitched once... then fell silent.
Breathing heavy but victorious, the three stood over the slain creature. Silent acknowledgement passed between them.
They were no longer just survivors.
They were warriors.