The ancient room where Alfred first opened his eyes felt like a dream now—forgotten, replaced by a life that demanded everything he had. He was no longer Professor Alfred, the history teacher with his leather-bound books and warm office. Now he was just Alfred, a boy in a secluded mountain village where survival was the only lesson that mattered.
Oakhaven sat nestled in a deep green valley, surrounded by massive peaks that seemed to touch the sky. The name sounded strange in the villagers' mouths, soft and foreign. Alfred had learned to speak it like they did, though part of him still wondered if he'd ever truly belong in this place.
The transition from central heating and soft carpets to rough-spun clothes and constant work had been jarring at first. But he'd adapted. When survival becomes necessary, adaptation follows quickly.
Every morning, long before the sun crested the eastern mountains, Alfred made his way to the training ground. It was a small, packed-earth space behind the largest hut, the dirt worn smooth by years of footsteps and sweat. This was where Master David waited for him.
Master David was the village leader and Alfred's instructor—a sturdy, weathered man with hands that looked like old river stones. He rarely smiled, and he never wasted words.
Today, like every other day, the focus was on the sword.
Alfred held the wooden training blade loosely at first, getting the feel of it. The wood was thick and heavy, shaped to balance like a real weapon. Years of use had worn it smooth, and the grain patterns were deep and dark. He studied them as he waited for instruction, watching the sunrise paint the sky gold and pink over the ridge.
Master David stood across from him, holding an identical blade. He didn't look like much—just an old man with a stick—but Alfred had learned long ago that appearances meant nothing here. Master David could move faster than anyone Alfred had ever seen.
"Your stance," Master David said, his voice steady and clear. "This is where everything begins. Your feet must root you to the earth. They are your foundation. Your power comes from the ground itself."
Alfred positioned himself. Right foot forward, slightly inward. Left foot back, angled for balance. He bent his knees, lowering his center until his thighs began to burn. This was the Mountain Root posture.
"Lower," Master David instructed, walking around him. "Think of an oak tree. Does it sway in the wind? No. It stands firm. That's what you must become."
Alfred dropped lower, his legs trembling. He held the sword straight out, pointing at a marked stone ahead.
Master David walked slowly around him, examining every detail. He reached out with one finger and adjusted the angle of Alfred's knee, pushing it slightly outward. "Never lock your joints. Keep them loose, ready to move. But stable. The sword is just an extension of your arm, and your arm is an extension of your rooted body."
They worked for two hours straight. The four basic movements: cut downward, block upward, slice horizontal, thrust forward. Each one had to be perfect—speed and stability combined. When he cut down, his hips had to pivot, the energy flowing from his feet, through his core, into the blade. When he finished, he had to stop immediately, locked back into the Mountain Root.
His clothes were soaked through with sweat. His arms ached. His legs burned. But there was something else too—a sense of purpose growing inside him. Each time he executed a movement exactly right, there was a moment of clear, simple success. It was different from his old life. There were no ambiguities here, no academic debates where everything had ten different answers. Do it right or do it wrong. That was all.
Finally, Master David nodded. "Enough for today. You're improving, Alfred. Your will is strong. Your body is still slow to follow, but it's getting there. Rest. Clean the blade. We hunt at noon."
The words sent a small surge of excitement through him, mixed with something heavier. Hunting wasn't sport in Oakhaven. It was survival. The forest was beautiful—thick with trees, cool and shadowed—but it was dangerous too.
Alfred cleaned his blade and changed into sturdy leather clothes. At noon, he met Master David at the forest edge. Ethan was already there, a boy about his own age, taller and more confident. Ethan carried a bow and a quiver of arrows, everything well-maintained and ready. Master David had his short spear, the iron tip polished, the shaft carved with marks Alfred didn't understand.
"Upper trail," Master David said quietly. "We're looking for a large deer or maybe a boar. Keep your senses working. Move quietly. No mistakes."
They entered the forest in a single line. The temperature dropped immediately. The heat and dry air of the clearing gave way to something cool and damp, smelling of moss and wet leaves. Sunlight fell through the canopy in patches, creating shifting patterns on the ground. Master David led, his movements smooth and economical, his eyes constantly scanning. Ethan followed with his bow ready. Alfred came last, carrying a hunting knife and a light pack.
They walked for nearly an hour, moving deeper where the trees grew larger and the air grew quieter. There were no sounds from the village now, just the soft thud of their feet on leaves and pine needles.
Ethan suddenly raised his fist—the signal for danger.
Master David froze instantly, raising his spear. Alfred stopped, his heart rate spiking, and listened hard, trying to understand what they'd found.
A heavy rustling came from the thicket ahead, too large and too loud for a deer. Then a deep, guttural growl vibrated through the air.
Two massive shapes emerged from the undergrowth. Bears. They were huge, their dark fur thick like woven shadow, easily twice the size of a standing man. They moved with slow, heavy steps, their heads swinging back and forth, clearly aware that something was there.
Master David's face went hard and focused. Alfred knew immediately what this meant. One bear was manageable. Two was suicide.
"Retreat," Master David ordered, his voice sharp and fierce. "Go back the way we came. Run fast. Don't look back. I'll buy you time."
Ethan didn't hesitate. He turned and ran, his body low, moving fast and silent.
Alfred forced himself to follow, even though his limbs felt cold and heavy with fear. He ran, pushing his legs as hard as they would go. Behind him, he heard Master David plant his spear in the ground and shout a loud, fierce challenge at the bears, drawing their attention away from the boys.
Alfred understood what the old man was doing. He was buying them time, trading his own safety for theirs. The thought drove Alfred forward, his feet pounding against the forest floor, the world blurring around him.
They ran for what felt like forever, the sound of Master David's shouts fading behind them. They didn't stop until their lungs were burning and the forest started to thin out ahead. They burst into a more open space near a massive stone cliff that overlooked the valley and the river far below. This was the edge of the known hunting grounds.
That's when they saw it.
A panther emerged from the side trail, moving fast toward them. It was sleek and powerful, its tawny coat nearly invisible against the rocks and dry grass. The animal was panicked, running hard, clearly fleeing from something itself. Maybe the bears. Or maybe it just saw easy prey.
The panther veered slightly when it saw them and accelerated, its eyes wide and green.
"Cliff!" Ethan screamed, pointing at the sharp drop-off less than fifty feet ahead.
They were trapped. Behind them was danger. Ahead was a sheer, fatal fall. The only way out was to dodge the panther and scramble along the narrow, rocky path at the cliff's edge.
Ethan dodged as the panther streaked past, moving with desperate speed. The panther disappeared over the edge, either landing on a ledge far below or plummeting into nothing.
The moment they were clear, Ethan pushed himself to run again. But the ground here was uneven and treacherous—loose gravel and sharp, exposed roots. He misjudged a turn near a thick, gnarled tree that grew horizontally from the cliff face.
Ethan tried to correct his path, but he was running too fast. His right shoulder hit the rough bark hard.
The impact was violent and immediate. It spun him around completely. His eyes went wide and unfocused, already losing consciousness from the shock. He didn't scream. His unbalanced body tipped forward and over the edge, disappearing into the shadow of the canyon below.
Alfred was running just behind him. He saw Ethan hit the tree and tried to slow down, tried to reach out, but the momentum was too great.
His own body twisted as he tried to avoid the full impact. His left shoulder and chest hit the same rough bark—a glancing blow, not a direct hit, but still tremendous. It stole his breath and sent raw, searing pain through his torso.
The glancing blow kept him from hitting head-on, kept his body from shattering, but it didn't stop him from falling. His feet slipped on the loose gravel at the edge. He tipped forward into the open air.
The fall was fast and terrifying. Air rushed past his ears. The ground fell away beneath him with dizzying speed. He saw the sharp dark rocks of the canyon wall streaming past, then the dark line of the river far below.
Just before he hit the water, something in Alfred's mind ignited. The history professor's mind, trapped in this young, trained body, surged with fierce, primal determination. This couldn't be the end. He hadn't come this far just to die falling like a discarded object.
He twisted his body in the air, using muscle memory from the training, channeling everything into the single, desperate act of survival.
He hit the cold, rough surface of the river hard. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He forced his mind to stay focused, to fight against the overwhelming shock of the freezing water, to keep his will anchored to life and breath and the simple, stubborn refusal to let go.