Chapter Seventeen — Training Begins
Morning in the forest was not announced by the crowing of a rooster.
It was heralded by the unfortunate demise of yet another horror—another beast. This one, fortunately—or unfortunately—had not fallen to Garet. No. It had been torn apart by something far worse.
Azeroth jolted awake with a sharp wince.
His vision swam as his eyes snapped open, greeted by a pale blue sky fractured by towering branches. Leaves swayed gently above him, sunlight filtering through in broken patterns.
For a brief, disoriented moment, he wondered where he was.
Why he was.
And why exactly did everything hurt!
Suddenly—
ROAR!
Another roar answered it—deeper.
Closer.
ROAR!!
"Oh shit…!"
Azeroth scrambled upright, panic surging as he spun in place.
Trees. The clearing. A massive tent pitched nearby. A fire crackling not far off.
And beside it—
A familiar silhouette.
Hearing his startled cry, the figure turned. Flames cast flickering light across a broad frame, a grin flashing briefly through the firelight.
"Oi, kid," Garet called, his voice irritatingly cheerful. "You're awake!"
He gestured casually toward the fire.
"Just in time. Breakfast's ready."
That voice—
Something inside Azeroth recoiled.
His whole body trembled as he took a shaky step back.
Then another.
Anything to put distance between himself and this man—this nightmare wearing a smile.
His breath hitched as memories surged forward, crashing over him in a violent wave.
The sounds.
The spar.
The helplessness of it all.
Everything came rushing back.
⸻
The Day Before
Azeroth stood several paces away, watching as Garet fastened the final pieces of the tent into place.
The structure loomed large and solid—far too permanent for something meant to be temporary.
His gaze kept drifting beyond the tree line.
Wondering. Calculating.
If he ran now… could he make it back?
With his enhanced body, surely it wouldn't be that difficult.
…Right?
"Phew… all done."
Garet's voice cut cleanly through his thoughts.
"Now then, let's begin your training."
"Now?" Azeroth blurted before he could stop himself.
Garet glanced over his shoulder. "Well?" he said. "What exactly are we waiting for?"
Moments later, they stood opposite each other near the center of the clearing. The tent rested off to the side—silent and watchful.
Garet crossed his arms.
"Most people believe that being a good swordsman means being good with a sword," he said calmly.
Azeroth frowned, uncertain where this was going.
"I personally think that belief is flawed," Garet continued, beginning a slow, deliberate pace.
"What exactly is a sword?" he asked—then immediately corrected himself.
"Or rather, what makes a sword… a sword?"
"Is it its shape?" He tilted his head. "Then is a knife a sword? Or a spear?"
A pause.
"Thinking about it… a spear could be described as a sword with a longer handle, couldn't it?"
He stopped pacing.
Azeroth stared at him, dumbfounded.
His only coherent thought:
What the hell…?
That… did not sound cringe—at all!
Why did it not sound cringe?
He pondered, brows furrowing.
Garet, already deep in lecture mode, paused when he noticed the expression.
"Right. I almost forgot—you're only seven," he said with a chuckle. "Don't overthink it. When you're older, you'll understand."
"Maybe," he added, mistaking the furrowed brows for confusion.
"Anyway," he continued, rolling his shoulders, "what I'm trying to say is this."
"To master the sword—or any weapon, for that matter—one must first master the body."
With that, he shifted into a fighting stance. One hand curled inward, fingers flexing in a casual gesture that invited Azeroth forward.
Azeroth hesitated.
The invitation was casual—almost lazy.
And that was exactly why the hairs on his body stood on end.
An hour ago, Azeroth would have gladly welcomed the challenge. He might've even enjoyed it, if only for the chance to punch that irritating grin off Garet's face.
But that was before he'd watched the man cleave an uncommon-ranked beast in two with a single swing.
And now he was supposed to fight him?
"Go on," Garet encouraged, curling his fingers once. "Attack. I'll only use attributes equal to yours."
Azeroth swallowed.
He caught the subtle wording—fight, not spar. He calmed himself by believing that Garet was joking.
—He wasn't.
Still, it was enough to give Azeroth a sliver of confidence.
"…Alright."
He stepped forward, instinctively sliding into the stance Bran had drilled into him a hundred and one times. Grounded. Shoulders squared. Weight balanced.
It was good form—not perfect, but solid. Lacking only in real combat experience.
He lunged.
The world tilted.
His foot struck uneven ground—a root he hadn't noticed. His balance shifted a fraction too far forward.
And in that fraction—
Garet moved.
A sharp tap struck Azeroth's wrist. His arm went numb; his balance faltered.
A second touch landed on his shoulder—not hard, but precise—
And the ground rushed up to meet him.
The air blasted from his lungs.
He hit the dirt hard enough to rattle his bones.
Pain flared everywhere at once.
Before he could even gasp, a voice cut through it—cold and calm.
"Poor awareness," Garet said.
"Get up."
Grinding his teeth, Azeroth pushed himself to his feet—only to find Garet already waiting.
"Do you know what you did wrong?" Garet asked.
He didn't wait for an answer.
"You focused too much on me and forgot to watch your footing. Your surroundings."
Azeroth had nothing to say.
It was true.
He lost his balance—and the exchange—because of his own mistake.
So he simply raised his guard again.
"Good," Garet said when he saw the light return to Azeroth's eyes.
"Again."
Azeroth charged faster this time—more aware.
That was his second mistake.
With his amateur skill level, splitting his focus was just as deadly as ignoring it altogether.
Garet sidestepped the punch.
Two fingers tapped the back of Azeroth's neck.
Already off-balance—
Crash.
He hit the ground face-first.
Two fingers.
That was all it took.
"If this were a blade," Garet said quietly, "you'd be dead."
Azeroth rolled onto his back, staring up at him.
"That's not to say that just the fingers can't kill you." Garet added.
"I—" His face twisted. "I was following your advice."
"Yes," Garet agreed. "You were."
A pause.
"…Poorly."
Then, without a hint of sympathy—
"On your feet."
And thus began a very long couple of hours for Azeroth.