The wooden sword slipped from Lino's trembling fingers and clattered onto the dirt. His arms were numb, his shoulders raw with pain.
"Pathetic," Master Rohn muttered, folding his arms. "Your grip is weak, your stance is crooked. If that statue were real, you'd already be dead ten times over."
Lino bent to retrieve the sword, sweat dripping from his brow. The rough wood bit into his blistered palms. He winced but raised the blade again.
The mechanical statue groaned as its gears clicked, turning its torso with a stiff grinding noise. One wooden arm swung out in a wide arc. Lino lifted his sword too late—the blow caught him across the ribs, sending him sprawling into the dust.
The watching boys burst out laughing.
"Still weaker than a scarecrow!" one jeered.
"Maybe he should stick to sweeping floors instead of swords," another added.
Lino's jaw clenched. His vision blurred with heat, but he forced himself back to his feet. His chest ached where the wooden arm had struck, but the sting only fueled the anger twisting in his gut.
I won't quit. I can't quit.
He stepped forward, adjusted his grip, and swung. The impact rattled his bones, but this time the statue rocked a little more. Not enough to silence the laughter—but enough for Lino to notice.
"Again!" Rohn barked.
The cycle continued: strike, stumble, dodge, fall. Over and over until his legs gave out. At last, Rohn raised a hand.
"That's enough. Go home before you break yourself." His voice softened, just a little. "You've got no talent, boy. But sometimes, stubbornness can carry a man further than he expects. Remember that."
Lino wiped his brow and staggered toward the edge of the yard. The boys were still smirking, but he ignored them. His chest burned, his hands throbbed with splinters, and yet… in the corner of his mind, the tiniest spark flickered.
He had lasted longer than yesterday.
---
The small cottage he shared with his mother sat at the edge of the village, surrounded by wild grass and a crooked fence. The smell of stew greeted him as he stepped inside.
"You're late," his mother said gently, stirring the pot. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, her face tired but kind.
"Training," Lino muttered, sinking onto a stool. He tried to hide his bruises, but her sharp eyes caught them at once.
"You'll ruin yourself at this rate," she sighed, kneeling to inspect his ribs. "Why push so hard? You don't have to be like the other boys."
Lino looked away, ashamed. "If I can't get stronger, I'll never leave this village. I'll always be nothing."
His mother's hand stilled. For a moment, silence hung between them. Then she smiled, though her eyes were sad.
"Your father used to say something like that," she whispered. "But strength isn't just in the arm that swings a sword. It's in the heart that refuses to give up."
Lino swallowed hard, her words echoing in his mind.
Later, lying in bed, his body aching, he stared at the wooden sword propped against the wall. His grip still burned with splinters, but he didn't care.
He thought of the statue, of the laughter, of Master Rohn's words.
He thought of his father—a man he'd never met.
And he thought of tomorrow.
I'll strike harder. I'll last longer. One day… they'll see.
With that stubborn promise, Lino closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, the statue would wait for him again.