Third person POV
Aren winced as Ren's wooden sword smacked against his upper arm for the third time in five minutes.
"Focus," Ren said in a flat, no-nonsense tone. His stern gaze might have bored a hole through Aren's forehead. In the warm afternoon sun at the village outskirts, Ren's expression was as rigid as the blade he normally wielded. A few paces away, two curious village children giggled behind their hands at the spectacle of Aren fumbling yet another basic sword drill.
Rubbing his arm, Aren forced a sheepish grin. "I'm focusing, sensei," he quipped, deliberately using the honorific to tease Ren. He raised the wooden practice sword again in an approximation of the guard stance Ren had shown him.
Ren's eyes narrowed at the cheeky reply, but otherwise he remained the picture of stoic composure. With his short black hair and disciplined posture, the young swordsman of twenty-two already resembled an instructor from some renowned dojo. The only sign of his irritation was the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"Again," he instructed, sliding into a stance as natural as breathing. "This time, try to remember the footwork."
Aren nodded and exhaled, concentrating on his footing. Right foot back, weight balanced... Or was it left foot? He hastily mirrored Ren's stance, nearly tripping over his own ankles in the process. Ren let out a quiet sigh and demonstrated once more with deliberate slowness: step forward, slash diagonally, recover guard.
"Like this." Ren performed the sequence with effortless grace. Even using only a wooden sword, his movements were sharp and precise, honed by years of martial arts discipline. The swing cut cleanly through the humid summer air. One of the watching children clapped softly, impressed by Ren's skill.
Aren attempted to mimic him. He stepped forward and swung. His slash wobbled mid-arc; the wooden blade met the bundled straw practice target with a dull thud and bounced off without cutting deep.
Wincing, Aren drew back into guard position only to find Ren's sword already hovering near his ribs, stopping just shy of making contact. He hadn't even seen Ren move.
Aren blew a stray lock of brown hair from his eyes, feeling a bead of sweat roll down his temple. "Dead again?" he asked wryly.
Ren lowered his sword. "Dead," he confirmed in his usual blunt manner. Then, to Aren's surprise, Ren added, "Your swing was too slow. And your footing… all wrong."
Aren gave an exaggerated groan and put his hands on his hips. "You mean I don't naturally have the flawless form of a lifelong sword master? Shocking." His tone was playful, but inside he truly was a bit frustrated with himself. Combat was Ren's passion, not his. Aren's talents lay in more... unconventional tactics. Still, he had asked Ren for these lessons, believing he could integrate basic swordsmanship with his own Rune abilities. Seeing how clumsy he was now was humbling.
Ren ignored the sarcasm. "I told you when we began: swordsmanship requires patience and focus. You can't just jump ahead with tricks."
At that, Aren's lips twitched in a grin. "Tricks? Who, me?" He innocently tapped a finger to his chest. "I would never rely on such underhanded methods." That earned a single, dubious raised eyebrow from Ren.
Aren had indeed built a small reputation for himself, among their trio at least especially for unorthodox solutions and a shameless willingness to do whatever worked in a pinch. Perhaps it was only natural; his Hunt Rune ability thrived on creativity and cunning rather than brute strength. But Ren was determined to instill some fundamentals in him nonetheless.
Ren gestured at the straw target, which bore only a shallow nick from Aren's mis-angled slash. "Again," he repeated. "Proper form this time. No more jokes." "Yes sir."
Aren sighed and lifted the wooden sword overhead. He concentrated, visualizing the flow of
movement Ren had shown. This time, he shifted his feet deliberately: left foot forward, right foot back for stability, torso turning with the swing. He let the weight of the sword guide his arms in a diagonal cut.
The blade struck the straw dummy with a more satisfying thump. Still not as clean as Ren's, but an improvement. A few strands of straw sliced free, drifting to the ground.
Ren nodded once. "Better. At least you hit with the edge this time." Aren rubbed at his wrists, already feeling a bit sore. "I'd hit harder if this thing wasn't so damn heavy." He hefted the practice sword. It was made of solid oak; no flimsy toy. It approximated a real blade's weight enough to strain the muscles of someone unaccustomed like Aren. His arms ached from repetition.
"You'll build strength with practice," Ren said. "For now, work on control. A wild swing is useless if it doesn't land." The swordsman stepped closer, tapping Aren's elbow with the tip of his own wooden sword to adjust his posture. "Keep your elbow in. And don't lock your shoulders... try to stay relaxed."
Aren tried to do as instructed, but his body felt awkward, ungainly. A part of him balked at the strict form. He was used to fighting his way: quick bursts of essence-powered ability, unexpected maneuvers, and a bit of luck. This slow drilling of basics was tedious.
Ren circled him. "Horizontal cut now. Aim for the center." He pointed at the chest-height mark on the dummy.
Aren swung sideways. The blade whooshed just in front of the target as he misjudged the distance. Too shallow. He clicked his tongue in annoyance.
Ren gave him a look, and the kind reserved for hopeless cases. "Were you even aiming?"
"Sure I was," Aren said lightly. "Center mass, just like you said. The dummy dodged, didn't you see?" He shot Ren a lopsided grin. Somewhere behind them one of the kids watching snorted trying to hold in laughter.
Ren's face remained impassive, but Aren glimpsed the tiny twitch of an eye. His deadpan friend was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Dummies don't dodge," Ren said dryly. "You simply missed."
Aren considered continuing the jest, but Ren's unamused frown made him hold his tongue. Instead, he inhaled and let a subtle thread of essence flow through his limbs. If raw practice wouldn't suffice, maybe a little augmentation would.
Closing his eyes briefly, Aren summoned that now-familiar creeping sensation from the core of his soul.