Five years had passed since the fateful day when our protagonist was "gently persuaded" to remain in the Land of Shadows.
Since then, many things had changed.
Most notably, the number of times he had been slammed into the ground.
"Too slow!" the female voice echoed through the clearing with absolute authority. "Your attacks are full of openings! You move as if you're asking permission to strike! You need to be faster and more precise, or you'll end up dead on a real battlefield, Arthur!"
Not long after being taken in by Scáthach—a phrase which, in this case, meant something closer to "kidnapped with educational intent"—the boy had asked her to grant him a name worthy of a warrior. The suggestions, however, ranged from archaic titles to blood-soaked epithets and names that sounded like outright curses.
So he chose something simple.
Arthur.
Arthur had survived until today because of that choice.
The sky above the forest was heavy, blanketed by thick, dark clouds, as if the world itself were watching the training with a mix of apprehension and pity. The wind whispered through twisted trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and ever-present danger.
The clearing where they stood was wide, but scarred by countless past training sessions: split trunks, cracked boulders, and ground covered in deep marks left by weapons—and by a body repeatedly thrown against it.
Scáthach stood there, motionless.
Or at least, it seemed that way.
Arthur advanced with his spear held firmly in both hands, body leaning forward as he gathered everything he had learned over those five hellish years. His strike came fast—at least, fast by human standards.
With a minimal, almost lazy flick of her wrist, Scáthach deflected the spear with her own weapon.
Clang!
The impact rang through the forest, accompanied by a shower of sparks that cut through the air like incandescent blades. Before Arthur could even react to the deflection, he felt a sharp blow to his abdomen.
Her foot.
The world spun.
He was sent flying backward like a weightless doll, rolling several times across the ground before finally stopping, leaving behind a trail of dust and crushed leaves. Even so, his hand never let go of the spear.
Which, all things considered, was a personal victory.
He pushed himself up with a grunt, breathing heavily, and without wasting time, attacked again. He raised the weapon above his head and brought it down in a fierce strike aimed straight at Scáthach's face, pouring all his accumulated strength and frustration into it.
It was useless.
He couldn't even get close.
In fact, he didn't so much as touch the hem of her clothes before another kick—far more precise—sent him flying once again. Arthur crashed into the ground, wrapped in a fresh cloud of dust.
This could barely be called a fight.
It was a one-sided demonstration.
Arthur remained kneeling for a moment, gasping for breath, his chest heaving violently. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm and looked up at the woman before him.
Scáthach stood exactly where she had always been.
Perfect, untouched, and infuriatingly calm.
"Show me all your strength, Arthur!" she shouted, her eyes sharp as blades as they locked onto him. "With that level of skill, you wouldn't survive even five minutes on a real battlefield!"
She tilted her head slightly, appraising him.
"Or was everything I taught you over these five years in vain?" she continued, her voice cold and provocative. "You're more than this, aren't you? Good. Then I'll push you a little harder."
A dangerous smile formed on her lips.
"If you don't touch the hem of my clothes before nightfall, you'll spend the entire night training here."
Arthur froze.
His exhaustion vanished instantly, replaced by pure terror.
The Land of Shadows was surrounded by natural barriers, and that forest… well, that forest was basically a living catalog of creatures that loved fresh meat. If he spent the night there, the best possible outcome would be waking up without a few limbs.
In the worst case?
There wouldn't even be bones left.
Shadow hounds, ghouls, things without names—some of them didn't even leave remains behind.
"Oh no…" Arthur sighed deeply as he forced himself to stand. "I really don't want to spend the night in this cursed forest."
He lifted his gaze, his expression shifting from resignation to determination.
"In that case, I only have one option left."
His green eyes shone brightly, like flames lit in the darkness. Arthur raised his free hand and began tracing complex symbols in the air with his finger.
Lines of light appeared in midair.
"Runic script, huh?" Scáthach commented, raising an eyebrow slightly. "So you've finally decided to use runic magic."
A subtle, dangerous smile appeared on her face.
"What I hate most are people who insist on hiding their abilities, Arthur," she continued. "One day, that will get you killed. Underestimating your opponent is the most common mistake—and the most fatal."
As she spoke, Arthur completed the final stroke of the rune in the air.
In the next instant, a surge of energy coursed through his body.
With that rune active, his spear became a direct extension of his will.
Or at least, something close to it.
Arthur planted his feet firmly on the ground, raised the spear, and hurled it with all the strength he possessed.
The sound that followed wasn't quite metal cutting through the air—it was more like a violent gust of wind being torn apart by force.
In the blink of an eye, the spear crossed the distance between them.
Scáthach reacted instantly.
She raised her right spear at the last moment, its tip brushing against Arthur's spear with absurd precision. The attack was deflected by mere centimeters, completely altering its trajectory.
At the same time, as if she had all the time in the world, Scáthach effortlessly raised her other spear without changing her expression in the slightest.
With a casual motion, she threw it at Arthur.
The spear curved impossibly through the air and struck Arthur square in the forehead.
"OW! THAT FUCKING HURT—!"
Arthur staggered backward, dropping his weapon and clutching his forehead with both hands, groaning loudly and without a shred of dignity. He collapsed to his knees, eyes watering, breathing hard as if he had just survived a personal tragedy.
"That hurts so much!" he complained, almost offended by reality itself.
Scáthach watched the scene with complete indifference.
"I'm sorry?" she said, sounding like she felt absolutely nothing. "It seems you'll be spending the night in the forest today. But don't worry—I'll make sure you're… relatively safe."
As she said this, something unexpected happened.
Her ankle was grabbed.
Scáthach blinked.
Arthur—who seconds ago had been screaming in pain on the ground—was now stretched out, firmly gripping her foot. His green eyes sparkled with the look of someone who had just had a brilliant idea… or an extremely irresponsible one.
"If I grab your foot…" he asked, smiling with hopeful anticipation, "does that mean I win?"
A heavy, dangerous silence filled the clearing.
"…"
Scáthach slowly looked down.
Then she looked at Arthur.
Her gaze wasn't murderous.
It was worse.
"Such despicable tactics do not befit a qualified warrior, Arthur," she said, her voice carrying clear disapproval. "I don't recall teaching you anything like that, do I?"
Arthur stood up, still holding her ankle, completely pleased with himself.
"All's fair in war, Master," he replied shamelessly. "Now then, the competition is over, right?"
Scáthach sighed.
"Very well. You may let go now."
She shot him a look of such pure disdain that, if it were tangible, it could have crushed mountains. Arthur, however, didn't care in the slightest.
As long as he didn't have to spend the night in that forest…
It was a victory.
He released her foot, quickly stepped back as a precaution, and went to retrieve his spear. When he turned around, he noticed that Scáthach was still standing in exactly the same spot.
Confused, Arthur frowned.
"Master… you're not leaving?"
Scáthach smiled.
A slow, dangerous smile.
"Did I say the training was over?"
Before Arthur could respond, she tapped the spear on the ground with her right foot. With a simple movement of her fingers, the weapon leapt from the earth and landed perfectly in her hand.
"Pick up your spear," her voice suddenly rose, firm and commanding. "Now begins the real training, Arthur."
Arthur's blood ran cold.
"This is blatant revenge, Master!" he cried out in sheer despair.
"What are you talking about?" Scáthach tilted her head, smiling sweetly. "This is for your own good."
---
"Isn't this a bit too cruel…?" Arthur gasped, bent over and struggling not to pass out as he looked at Scáthach. "You're very vindictive, Master."
"I don't hold grudges," she replied calmly. "I simply felt that today's training wasn't enough. So I increased it a little."
Arthur swallowed hard, staring at her in disbelief.
"Hmm…" she continued after a brief pause. "Or do you think this amount still isn't sufficient?"
"ENOUGH!" Arthur answered immediately, raising his hands in surrender. "That's plenty! Thank you very much for the guidance, Master!"
What a joke.
He was completely exhausted. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest. Continuing would be less like training and more like a public execution.
In truth… it had already been a one-sided massacre from the start.
He had only managed to exchange a few blows thanks to the runes—and even then, only because Scáthach was clearly holding back.
"You're not leaving?" Scáthach asked, watching Arthur sit down on the ground, utterly defeated. "Do you really intend to spend the entire night training here?"
"I… can't walk right now…" Arthur replied between controlled breaths. "You can go ahead, Master. I'll follow later."
His eyes flickered slightly.
It wasn't that he didn't want to leave.
He simply couldn't.
And besides…
If nothing unexpected happened, that woman would be showing up here soon.
Scáthach frowned slightly.
"Your endurance is worse than ever."
Five years had passed since the day she took him in. Even after so much training, Arthur's physical strength was still inferior to that of the other disciples.
Arthur wasn't lazy—quite the opposite. He trained more than any of them.
He had simply… been born that way.
Among them all, he was a contradiction: the worst physique, but the best technique.
Scáthach let out a quiet sigh.
"There's not much I can do about that."
She sat down beside him, crossing her legs casually.
"Then I'll rest a bit as well."
Arthur's eyes widened at those words.
---
(End of Chapter)