The days slipped by in silence. The overgrown village, once unsettling, had begun to feel less like a graveyard and more like a reluctant shelter. Ethan moved carefully between the crumbling houses, taking note of every sound, every shadow. He didn't trust the silence, but he learned to live with it.
On the third day of scavenging, he found them. Hidden under a collapsed roof beam, half-buried in dirt and moss, lay the remnants of old weapons: a sword and a small round shield. Both were rusted, their surfaces eaten by time. The sword's edge was jagged, not sharp enough to cut paper, and the shield's leather straps were brittle with age. Still, when he lifted them, he felt something stir inside him — not excitement, but necessity.
He wasn't foolish enough to think he could fight with them yet. But carrying nothing but a grocery bag and a lighter felt even worse.
That night, he sat in one of the sturdier houses, staring at the relics by the faint light of his lighter's flame. If I were in a novel, this is the part where I suddenly discover hidden talent and swing these things like a hero, he thought bitterly. But reality wasn't fiction. He had no mentor, no training, and no strength beyond what he'd built from walking and surviving these past days.
The next morning, he decided to try anyway.
---
He began awkwardly, standing in the abandoned square with the shield strapped tightly to his forearm, the sword gripped clumsily in his right hand. He swung it once, twice. The weight pulled at his wrist, clumsy and uneven. His muscles protested. By the third swing, his arm ached.
"This… is pathetic," he muttered, leaning the blade against his thigh. His grocery bag sagged on his shoulder, the bottles of water inside sloshing gently, mocking him with their usefulness compared to the rusted junk he was holding.
But survival wasn't about pride. It was about preparation. If something comes… even if this breaks in my hand, it's better than nothing.
So, he set himself a simple goal: one hour of practice each day. Not heroic drills, not shouting stances like in the movies, just moving, swinging, adjusting his grip, and testing the shield.
The first day left his arms trembling. He nearly dropped the shield three times. By nightfall, his shoulders burned so much he could barely lift them.
The second day wasn't much better, but he noticed something — his grip steadied. He no longer felt like the sword was about to slip away with every swing. He even managed to hold the shield in front of him without it wobbling so much.
By the fifth day, Ethan had developed a rhythm. Step forward, raise the shield, thrust the sword. Step back, brace the shield, slash to the side. He imagined scenarios in his head — a wild animal charging, a creature lunging. He knew imagination was no substitute for real combat, but it was all he had.
At night, he'd collapse onto the creaking floorboards of his chosen shelter, sweat soaking his shirt, arms sore beyond belief. But there was a strange satisfaction in it. Unlike magic, which had failed him, this was something he could work at. Something he could control.
---
On the seventh day, he stood in the square again, breathing heavily, sword raised. He wasn't graceful, not even close. His movements were clumsy, predictable. But his arms no longer shook. He could swing the sword a dozen times before fatigue set in. He could brace the shield against his body without feeling crushed by its weight.
Looking at the dull blade, he sighed. "Still useless against something big… but at least I won't be empty-handed."
He strapped the shield to his back using torn cloth strips and slid the sword into a makeshift sheath he had fashioned from old leather. It wasn't perfect, but it worked.
He took one last look at the abandoned houses. I can't stay here forever. This place is dead. And sooner or later, something alive will wander through.
For the first time since arriving, Ethan felt a flicker of readiness. Not confidence — he was far from that — but readiness. He wouldn't go down without trying.
And in this strange, merciless world, that mattered more than anything.