Amukelo rolled his shoulders as he stepped into position. Across from him, Padrin stood completely relaxed, hands at his sides, eyes calm. That quiet confidence was more intimidating than any war cry.
Amukelo took a deep breath and launched forward, initiating the first exchange. His strikes were fast, unpredictable—he switched angles often, feinted mid-motion, and sometimes even used strange steps that most instructors would have frowned upon. He wasn't trying to look impressive; he was trying to be difficult to read.
But each time he moved, the instructor's voice came from the side, sharp and deliberate. "That's too open, Amukelo. If this were real, you'd be dead."
Amukelo gritted his teeth and adjusted, but the pattern repeated. He'd try to pivot, change rhythm, go for a surprise hook—and the instructor would point out how wide his back was, how his feet lost balance, or how his recovery was too slow.
Despite it all, there were moments—just moments—where Amukelo landed something. A light tap to Padrin's shoulder. A touch on the ribs. It didn't do any damage, but it forced Padrin to dodge a little sharper. Those tiny victories gave Amukelo just enough fire to keep going.
But they were rare.
For most of the session, Padrin flowed around Amukelo's attacks like water around stone. He didn't counter, just moved. Hands behind his back sometimes. Eyes never leaving Amukelo, even as he ducked and sidestepped with almost lazy precision. It wasn't just speed—it was reading.
And when it came time to switch roles, everything changed.
Amukelo now stood in a defensive stance, already catching his breath, his muscles warm but aching. Padrin didn't wait long. His first attack was a swing to the side of Amukelo's shoulder. Light, but fast. Amukelo caught it. But then, he stepped aside, and with rapid followup he landed squarely on Amukelo's side.
Once, he managed to deflect three hits in a row—Padrin's swing from the side, a downward strike, and a thurst—but the fourth caught him across the ribs before he could step away. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he stumbled to one knee. Still, he got up.
The instructor never stopped watching. Occasionally, he called out reminders—"Tighter footwork!" "Too slow on that dodge!"—but mostly, he observed. And even though it was brutal, he didn't stop the match. He was measuring how long Amukelo could last. And more importantly, how Amukelo reacted when he wasn't winning.
By the time the session ended, Amukelo could barely stand. He was drenched in sweat, his arms trembling, and his torso covered in fresh bruises. His knuckles were scraped raw, and one of his knees had already started to swell.
It was worse than any quest he'd ever taken.
Because on quests, he never let himself get hit. He fought smart. Precise. But here, he got hot again and again.
The instructor finally stepped forward, nodding once. "Exactly," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You see it now, don't you?"
Amukelo nodded slowly, breathing hard. "Yeah…"
"You can't close the gap until your body catches up. You can have instincts. Creativity. Awareness. But none of it will matter if your arms give out before the second minute, or your legs fail to carry you through a proper counter."
Amukelo straightened slightly, though every movement hurt.
"That's why," the instructor continued, reaching into a large canvas bag by the side of the training hall, "you'll be wearing this."
He tossed a bundle toward Amukelo, who caught it with a grunt. It was heavy—heavier than he expected. Inside were several thick bands designed for arms, legs, and a weighted vest for his torso.
"These," the instructor said, "will stay on you at all times. Except when you're in direct training with Padrin."
Amukelo looked down at the bundle, eyebrows raised. "All the time?"
"Everywhere. Quests. Walks. Practice. I don't care. Unless there's immediate danger, you wear them. They will slow you down now—but when you remove them later, you'll move like lightning."
Amukelo frowned slightly, still catching his breath. "Wait… You want me to wear these even during missions?"
The instructor gave a firm nod. "Yes. But if the situation gets critical, you take them off. I'm not asking you to die for conditioning. But wear them as long as you can. This is how you build functional strength and speed."
Amukelo began strapping the weights on his arms first, grimacing with each pull. As he got the vest over his head and adjusted the torso belt, he paused mid-motion and glanced at the instructor. "But why not make Padrin do the same?"
The instructor smiled—just a little. "Oh, he is."
Amukelo blinked. "What?"
Padrin rolled up his sleeve casually and tugged the edge of his tunic up, revealing the thin but clearly weighted bands strapped tightly to his biceps and forearms. He gave the vest a quick knock. "Been wearing these since before you walked in."
Amukelo just stared. "And you're still faster than me?"
Padrin shrugged. "You'll get there."
Amukelo let out a small breath. "Huh…"
He looked down at himself—fully strapped up now. Every movement already felt clunky. It was like being submerged underwater. Even lifting his arms felt like a task.
He straightened his back and clenched his fists. "Okay," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "I'll do what it takes."
The instructor clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. "That's what I wanted to hear."
The days blurred into one another.
Amukelo woke before the sun, trained until his muscles screamed, then fought through the weight of fatigue just to show up again the next morning. The weighted gear clung to him like shackles—bands tight around his arms and legs, the vest pulling on his shoulders with every step. At first, he struggled just to maintain balance. Even walking around the facility made him feel like he was trudging through deep water. Training drills, footwork routines, and sparring with Padrin became grueling marathons.
But he didn't stop.
Even when his arms trembled just holding his sword. Even when his knees ached from constant impact. He kept pushing.
The soreness never left. His bruises didn't even have time to fade before new ones took their place. His ribs were always sore from catching strikes he was just slightly too slow to dodge. His fingers stayed swollen from blocked punches and redirected blades. Every inch of him hurt. And yet, he didn't complain.
It reminded him of the wild—those long, sleepless nights, hiding from predators, with no one to help if something went wrong. But this was different. There was no bear hunting him. No poisoned water. No hunger clawing at his stomach.
Still, it was survival in a different way.
They didn't take on high-level quests for the time. He could still fight, still contribute, but nothing too dangerous. All of them understood.
And through it all, Pao was there.
When he returned from training—bruised, sore, barely able to lift his arms—Pao was waiting. Sometimes at the inn, sometimes near the facilitu, sometimes even at the training hall itself with a worried look and a healing spell already prepared.
Her magic never failed to soothe the worst of it. Bones that ached stopped throbbing. Bruises faded faster than they would've on their own. But it wasn't instant relief. The pain dulled, but the exhaustion remained. His muscles were still pushed to their limits. He still had to recover the old-fashioned way.
And Pao never stopped teaching either.
Whenever Amukelo was too sore to move, she sat with him—scrolls in hand, diagrams already sketched. Her notes were neat and beautiful, full of color and clever drawings that made it easier to visualize even the most abstract parts of magic theory.
She would explain things slowly, with a calm voice, repeating where needed, breaking down every concept without making him feel stupid.
He'd lay back, eyes half-closed, body destroyed from training, and listen as she spoke about different topics about mana and magic. Sometimes he drifted off mid-lesson, and she didn't mind. She'd just smile and continue anyway, saying it helped her refine her own knowledge too.
One evening, after a particularly brutal sparring session with Padrin, Amukelo could barely make it back to his room. His limbs felt like lead. His back burned with soreness. And even the simple act of changing out of his training gear took him nearly ten minutes.
Pao was already waiting in his room.
She sat on a chair with her legs tucked under her, reading one of her own grimoires. When he stumbled in, she looked up immediately.
"Lie down," she said softly, setting her book aside. Her voice was gentle, but there was concern in her eyes.
Amukelo didn't argue. He collapsed onto the bed without grace, letting out a low groan as he sank into the mattress.
"You shouldn't push yourself like this every day," she said as she moved closer, her hands already glowing with magic. "Even warriors need to rest."
Amukelo chuckled dryly. "If I take it easy, I fall behind."
She frowned and placed her glowing hand gently on his ribs. The warmth spread through him immediately, targeting the worst of the bruising. The pain dulled. His breathing got easier.
"You're overtraining yourself," she said with a sigh. "I heal you every day, and every day you come back with more bruises. That's not normal."
Amukelo looked up at her, eyes tired but still burning with resolve. "I don't know…" he said quietly. "But honestly… I like it."
Pao blinked. "You like it?"
He nodded. "I feel it. The difference. My movements are sharper now—even with the weights. I'm still nowhere near Padrin's level, but our sparring sessions are becoming more and more equal. I'm actually making him work for it now. I'm definitely getting stronger."
Pao didn't respond right away. Her hands moved gently across his side as she healed another bruise forming near his shoulder. The magic pulsed softly in the dim light of the room.
She eventually exhaled and asked, "So… what do you think about starting to train to use magic?"
Amukelo stayed quiet for a few seconds. The warmth of her spell relaxed his whole body, made him feel like he could melt into the bed.
Then he spoke. "I don't know…"
She waited, sensing there was more.
He continued, "Padrin told me that even to reach golden rank, you don't need anything nuanced like that. He said you just have to master the basics. That's what I'm doing now—getting better at my core. I have this amazing opportunity to train with him, and I want to make the best of it."
He looked at her. "So… sorry. I don't think I'll take that commitment right now."
Pao was quiet, but not hurt. Not upset. She smiled gently and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Sure," she said. "I get it. I love talking to you about mana either way. Honestly, teaching you helps me understand it better too."
She stood and started gathering her notes, placing them in a neat pile on the table beside his bed.
"And you know," she added over her shoulder, "the more you understand now, the easier it'll be when you do start. You'll avoid a lot of trial and error. It'll save you time, and frustration, and probably a few headaches."
Amukelo smiled as he turned his head to face her. "Thanks. For everything."
She glanced back and gave him a warm look. "Always."