Caerth remained silent for a moment, observing Damon with that analytical, impassive gaze that seemed to pierce skin and read bone. The wind sliced ​​through the courtyard like an invisible blade, and the distant sound of the trees rustling added to the sense of emptiness that pervaded the place. The veteran took a step forward, stopping a few feet from Damon.

"Get up," he ordered.

Damon, still panting, obeyed. His body ached as if beaten, and every muscle seemed to protest.

"Tomorrow," Caerth continued, "you will leave this useless armor and this ego at home. Come dressed in something light. Nothing that makes you believe you are invincible."

"And why?" Damon asked, wiping the sweat from his face.

"Because the wood will show you that you are just a man," the veteran replied, turning his back. "And until you accept that, you will never be a warrior."

Damon stood there for a moment, unsure if this was a lesson or a provocation. Perhaps it was both.

The next morning, the sun hadn't even risen yet when Damon arrived in the courtyard. The air was cold, damp, and a fine mist covered the ground. He wore only a simple shirt and training pants, as Caerth had ordered. He felt almost naked without his armor.

Caerth was already there, of course. Sitting on a stone bench, sharpening a short dagger, as if time were something he patiently shaped.

"You're late," he said without looking up.

Damon looked up at the pale sky. "The sun isn't even up yet."

"Yes. And you're already late," Caerth replied, standing and picking up two wooden swords leaning against the wall. He tossed one to Damon. "Take it."

Damon held the weapon, measuring its weight. It was strangely light, almost ridiculous compared to steel. The polished wood bore ancient marks—cracks, scratches, signs that it had already dealt a great deal of pain.

"It looks like a child's training stick," he murmured.

"It will look less so when she's hitting you." Caerth gave a slight smirk, the kind of humor that sounded more like a threat. "Let's begin."

They positioned themselves in the center of the courtyard. The silence was broken only by the birds beginning to sing in the distant canopies.

Caerth raised his wooden sword and took up his guard. Damon did the same.

"First rule," the veteran said. "Wood is alive. It gives back what it receives. So if you hit too hard, you'll feel the blow echo all the way to your shoulder. If you hold on too tightly, your wrist will lock."

Damon arched an eyebrow. "Then it's like fighting myself."

"Exactly." Caerth stepped forward. "Let's see how much you can handle."

The first blow came quickly. Damon barely had time to react before the dull sound of wood hitting his arm echoed. The impact vibrated like a lightning bolt. He gritted his teeth.

"You're squeezing your fist too tightly," Caerth said. "Let go."

"If I let go, you'll rip my head off."

"And if you don't, you'll lose your hand. Choose."

Damon snorted, readjusting his fist. The second blow came, and this time he managed to block it. The sound was hollow, but the impact reverberated.

"Better," Caerth said. "Now feel the movement."

Damon tried to counterattack, rotating his hips as the veteran had taught him. But the blow was too strong—the wood hit Caerth with a crack and ricocheted, lightly hitting his own shoulder.

"There it is," Caerth said, impassive. "Wood doesn't lie."

"It seems it hates me."

"No. She just doesn't respect you yet," Caerth replied.

The training continued. Strikes, parries, corrections. The dry sound of wooden swords became the rhythm of dawn.

"Breathe with the movement," Caerth instructed, spinning around him. "The sword is air. If you push too hard, you suffocate."

"That's easy for you to say."

"It's easy for me because I already died to learn," the veteran replied, his gaze cold. "You're still too alive to understand."

Damon gritted his teeth, lunging forward with another blow. Caerth dodged, twisted his fist, and slammed the side of the wood into his abdomen. The sound was sharp. The air was knocked out of Damon's lungs.

"The sword isn't made for fighting," Caerth said. "It's made for finishing a fight."

Damon fell to his knees, coughing, but got up. His gaze held something different now—a stubborn, almost feral determination.

"Again," he said.

Caerth arched an eyebrow, satisfied. "Finally, something worthwhile."

They resumed. Caerth attacked him from varying angles, testing his reflexes. Damon began to sense the rhythm. His feet moved almost instinctively; his body twisted without thought.

The wood hummed in the air, and the pain became a cruel but effective teacher. Each mistake left a mark. Each success brought a strange sense of harmony.

"Are you starting to feel the weight?" Caerth asked between blows.

"I feel the weight... and the pain."

"Then you're learning," he replied. "The body remembers pain better than technique."

Hours passed. The sun rose, gilding the stones of the courtyard. The sound of the blows became more measured, more steady. Damon wasn't missing as much anymore. His body was beginning to obey, even as his mind screamed.

Caerth took a step back, assessing. "Better. Now stop."

Damon lowered his sword, panting.

"What now?" he asked.

"You're still locking your shoulder," Caerth said, stepping closer. "Look."

He stood behind Damon and guided his arm, adjusting the angle. The touch was firm, technical. "The power doesn't come from here," he said, touching his shoulder. "It comes from here." He moved his hand to his hip. "The blow starts on the ground, goes up through his legs, through his torso, and out the tip of the sword."

Damon tried to repeat the movement. The wooden blade cut through the air with a different sound—lighter, cleaner.

Caerth nodded. "That's it. You're starting to understand the flow."

"So, I finally did something right?"

"Don't exaggerate," the veteran said with a slight smile. "You just accidentally stopped missing."

Damon laughed wearily. "I think it will take me years to learn that."

"Maybe," Caerth replied. "But every wrong blow brings you closer to a right one. That's how a sword is built... and a man."

Silence fell again, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing.

Caerth stepped back and pointed to the weapon rack. "Put away the sword."

Damon obeyed.

"Tomorrow," the veteran continued, "you will train alone. I want you to practice the same cut until you feel your body move without thinking. When that happens, come find me."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then you will keep cutting until your body understands." Caerth turned, ready to leave. "Wood is patient. I, not so much."

Damon stood still, watching him walk away. The man walked as if the whole world were at his pace, as if nothing could hurry him.

As Caerth disappeared through the halls of the mansion, Damon looked at the wooden sword in his hands. The marks of the blows were already beginning to darken on the surface, and he noticed something curious: despite the pain, there was a strange pleasure there.

Not the pleasure of victory, but of seeing a piece of himself beginning to fall into place.

The next morning, the courtyard was empty. Damon was alone.

He raised his wooden sword and took a deep breath. The morning wind carried the scent of damp earth.

Guard position.

Breath.

Flow.

He began.

Cut. Parry. Spin.

At first, everything was awkward. The sound was wrong, the movements stiff. But as time passed, his body began to respond. His weight distributed better, the sword moved like a natural extension.

As sweat began to pour, Damon realized he was no longer thinking. Just… moving.

For a brief moment, he felt what Caerth had said. His body had stopped fighting him.

And in that small moment of silence between one blow and the next, Damon realized something that made him smile:

for the first time in a long time, he wasn't trying to be strong.

He just was.

And the sword—even though it was made of wood—seemed to recognize this.

The sun had already risen high when Damon finally let the wooden sword fall to the ground.

The hollow sound echoed in the silent courtyard, and he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm, almost in time with the wind. His hands trembled, his fingers ached, and his wrist was marred with purple bruises. Yet he felt no defeat—only exhaustion and a strange contentment.

The courtyard was empty. No sound, no judgmental gaze, just him and the echo of his own persistence.

For a moment, Damon considered stopping, but then he bent down, picked up his sword again, and began again.

A cut.

Another.

One more.

Each movement was a silent conversation between body and wood.

The sword vibrated back, corrected, complained, demanded attention. And Damon responded—not forcefully, but with adjustment. The wood forced him to listen.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind him. Damon didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"You're back early," he said, without pausing.

Caerth crossed his arms, watching him. "No. You're late."

Damon smirked. "I thought today was for training alone."

"It was," Caerth replied, stepping closer. "And you're still doing everything wrong."

Damon snorted, without stopping his training. "Have you ever tried a compliment?"

"I tried once. The boy died three days later." Caerth watched him carefully, his eyes analyzing every twist, every movement. "But… I admit. You're less clumsy."

Damon stopped, raising his sword. "Was that a compliment?"

"Don't get used to it," the veteran said. "Keep going."

He circled, like a predator gauging its prey's pace.

"You're starting to breathe properly. The blow is flowing better, but you're still pushing too much with your shoulders. The force comes from below, not above."

Damon adjusted.

Cut. Spin. Short step.

The sword whistled through the air.

Caerth nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Better. Now, strike."

Damon hesitated. "You're not armed."

Caerth grabbed another wooden sword leaning against the wall. "I am now."

The blow came suddenly. Damon blocked instinctively, but the impact sent his arm vibrating all the way to his shoulder. Caerth didn't stop—another blow, and another. Quick, clean, relentless. Damon backed away, parried the third, tried to counterattack, but was disarmed with a twist.

The sword flew from his hand and fell far away.

"And that…" Caerth said, lowering his weapon, "is what happens when you think you've learned something."

Damon was breathing heavily, sweat trickling down his neck. "You didn't warn me you were going to attack me."

"The enemy won't either," the veteran replied.

"Sometimes I think you just want to hit me."

Caerth gave a half smile. "Maybe. But for now, I'm trying to make you someone worth the effort."

Damon retrieved his sword and put himself on guard again. "So, again."

Caerth stared at him with that usual cold, impassive expression. But there was something different in his gaze—a barely perceptible glint, a silent recognition.

"Again, then," he replied.

The training resumed.

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