That afternoon, after Jin's first spar with Frank left him sore and bruised, their training resumed at a slower pace. The midday sun hung high, casting dappled light through the trees as Frank stood before Jin, his stance firm, his usual smirk in place. Today, the lesson was not just about fighting, it was about understanding the spear.
"Listen, kid" Frank said, planting his spear into the ground, "a spear isn't just for stabbing. A fool who only thrusts forward is as good as dead. A good spearman knows how to feint, spin, and redirect. The flow of battle doesn't wait for you to decide, you have to move with it."
Jin, still sore from their last spar, adjusted his grip, nodding intently. Frank continued, demonstrating basic spear techniques—thrusts, sweeps, parries, and sudden feints, all of which Jin mimicked with growing confidence.
"You've got natural instincts, I'll give you that," Frank admitted, watching the boy with sharp eyes. "But instincts alone don't win fights. You need control."
Jin wiped the sweat from his brow and took a step back, eyeing the flexible sword tucked among Frank's weapons. It was coiled like a whip, its metal gleaming faintly under the sunlight. Something about it intrigued him.
"Hey, old man, what's that?" Jin asked, pointing at the weapon.
Frank followed his gaze, his smirk turning into something more... amused. "That? That nasty piece of work belongs to a nasty friend with an even nastier personality. A weapon like that is for someone who enjoys playing with their food before finishing it off. Not for you."
Jin frowned but didn't push further. He'd never seen a sword like that before, and the idea of a flexible blade intrigued him. Maybe one day, he'd figure out how to use it.
_____________________
Evening had settled over Zilt by the time Frank made his way back to his modest stone-built home, a heavy wooden crate resting on his shoulder. The clinking of metal resounded with each step as the weapons inside shifted—the flexible sword coiling, the sharp ends of chain weapons tapping against the wooden walls of the crate. He balanced the weight effortlessly, retrieving his key from his pocket. With a practiced flick of his wrist, the lock clicked open, and he entered, setting the crate down in the corner beside his wooden wardrobe.
The house, though simple, was sturdy—crafted with magically reinforced stone, unlike the wooden dwellings near the outskirts. The reasoning behind this architectural divide was clear: every twenty-two years, the world of Genezis experienced the Vorpal Eclipse, an event where the white moon veiled the sun while the blue moon loomed closer, its massive presence causing a surge of mana. This imbalance led to rampaging beasts, unstable mages, and territorial battles among titanic creatures such as Titan Gajas, Wild Tectodons, Flame-Maned Lions, and Axe-Headed Wyverns. Those in the outskirts either retreated inward, hired protection, or risked staying to fend for themselves. With only a month left until the next eclipse, whispers of unrest had already begun to spread through Zilt's populace.
Frank, however, paid no heed to such concerns tonight. His mind was elsewhere. He stripped off his sweat-drenched shirt, revealing a body forged by countless battles, his skin a map of scars—each one a testament to survival. He grabbed a wet cloth, wiping away the grime of the day's training, but his mind was heavy.
The spar.
He had lost control. A mere child had shaken his composure. That realization alone was more unsettling than the nightmare claws of a Sabretooth Tiger that haunted his memories. But what shook him more was Jin's resolve. The kid had taken the blow and still stood tall, grinning despite the pain. Grit like that can't be taught... Frank thought as he grabbed his fresh clothes and stepped outside, inhaling the cool night air. Tonight, he would drink.
The Rusty Axe Tavern was in full swing by the time Frank arrived. The scent of roasted meat, sizzling fat, and spiced ale filled the air, mingling with the rowdy voices of adventurers sharing exaggerated tales of glory. As he stepped inside, many turned to look at him—not out of fear, but shock.
Scary Frank was smirking.
He found a seat at a table where two adventurers were finishing their meal. Their plates held remnants of bread dipped in thick rabbit-meat curry, rich and aromatic, paired with tender chunks of Ventys Rabbit meat. Frank barely acknowledged them as he sat down, ordering without hesitation.
"Give me the Special and two mugs of ale."
Remy, who was waiting on tables, clicked her tongue playfully. "Going all out today, huh, Uncle Frank? The Special Wildrush Boar steak, right?"
He grunted in confirmation, and Remy walked off, relaying the order to Dereck. Moments later, Rhonda, the barkeep, slid two wooden mugs across the counter, which Remy expertly caught before placing them in front of Frank.
He took the first mug, tilting it back in one long, steady gulp until the last drop vanished down his throat. The second, he sipped more slowly, waiting for his food. The two adventurers, having finished, left a silver coin on the table and nodded in courtesy before departing. The seat across from him didn't stay empty for long.
A quiet presence slipped into the vacant chair, and Frank's sharp instincts tingled. He looked up to see golden pupils staring back at him.
The Bard.
"You're quite the drinker," the Bard mused, leaning lazily onto the table. "One mug in one go… That throat of yours must be tougher than Tectodon hide."
Frank simply stared before responding in his usual gruff tone. "I prefer drinking alone."
"Oh, come on now," the Bard chuckled, brushing back his hair. "It's not like you don't know me."
Before Frank could reply, Remy arrived, carrying a sizzling hot plate of the Special Wildrush Boar Steak, its rich aroma cutting through the tavern air like a spell. She grinned mischievously, knowing full well what she was doing.
"Here's your Special Wildrush Boar Honey-Fried Steak, seasoned with Tahar desert spices and rare Vichitravana herbs, served with Chef Dereck's signature dipping sauce!"
A hush fell over the nearby tables. The scent was intoxicating, making adventurers glance at their coin pouches, already debating if they could afford the same luxury.
Frank, unfazed by the spectacle, picked up his fork and knife, cutting into the steak's crispy golden-brown exterior. As he pulled the bite-sized piece to his mouth, the juices from the honey glaze dripped onto the plate. The first bite sent a wave of smoky-sweet richness through his tongue—the crisp outer layer giving way to an incredibly tender, flavorful core, enhanced further by the carefully aged spices. He chewed slowly, savoring it, letting the taste settle before washing it down with ale.
The Bard watched him with amusement before speaking. "Enjoying yourself?"
Frank didn't answer. He was too busy slicing another bite.
"You know," the Bard continued, plucking his lyre from its strap, "I've heard a lot of things about you, Frank. Some say you're the most fearsome warrior in Zilt. Others say you're just a stubborn fool who doesn't know when to quit."
Frank wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, giving the Bard a deadpan look. "What do you think?"
The Bard's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "Me? I think…" he strummed a few notes, his voice weaving seamlessly into the rhythm
In the shadows of Zilt he stood so tall
A warrior feared yet known by all
Scarred by beasts of fangs so dire
Yet in his heart still burned a fire
With every drink, a tale untold
Of battles past and nights so cold
A man of steel, of silent might
Yet burdened deep by ghosts of the night
Frank listened in silence, his grip tightening around the mug. The Bard was good. Too good.
"…Tch." He clicked his tongue, taking another bite of steak. "You talk too much."
The Bard grinned. "And you drink too much. That makes us even."
A comfortable silence settled between them. Frank, still lost in the lingering taste of his meal, found himself smirking again. Not because of the ale, nor the food, but because…
For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace.
As the night stretched on, laughter, music, and the scent of grilled meats filled the Rusty Axe Tavern, where a battle-hardened warrior and a silver-tongued bard shared stories, drinks, and perhaps an understanding.