This happens on the first day of Sigurd joins the school. He went to the class and finds twenty people in total, oldest guy looking the age of thirty. He goes to the back row and sits down just for that moment for an old looking gentleman in silver armour comes in.
***
[He stares around the class for a moment.]
"Hmm, looks like this month's students don't seem like they could there own."
[He walks to the door and gestures them to follow him. They head out to the training field and he takes a wooden sword.]
"Do any of you know how the sword king or how the stories call him, the sword hero."
[One raises his hand.]
"Go on."
"He was the greatest swordsman of the continent, always sword obsessed, holding the title of the crazed...."
"No,no not that. Even when you read through history, he wasn't the first swordsman. You can say he wasn't even known for the sword."
"Then what was he known for?"
[A girl in spoke up.]
"The answer is simple, he was monstrous"
[He starts swinging around the sword.]
"Even before he picked up the sword, he would kill any monster that got near his home. A beast in true sense and less human."
"Then how did he become the sword king?"
"Reason being, that was his wife's gift to him when he went on the journey to kill the king of the end. A sword he treasured from his beloved, even when it broke, rusted or wore down, he always fixed it."
[He looks directly at Sigurd. ]
"That's why the first sword style was named after his wife, dahlia sun sword style. And this is the basic sword style we all know and use today. So his love was what made him into a sword king, and what made him seem like a sword crazed man."
"Now, if you got something that makes you wield a sword, make it precious like how he did with his wife's sword."
***
The sun hung high in the sky, noon was the time as the lesson went on. The students stood in uneven lines across the packed earth, their wooden swords resting against their shoulders, and sweat clinging to the napes of their necks. Dust danced with every breath of wind, swirling around their boots. The clink of armor from other nearby classes echoed faintly, but outside the sun burnt, the creak of the students bones were felt, the instructor barking commands, and the scuff of movement filled the air.
"Again!" the instructor's voice rang out—gravel over iron. His boots crunched across the field as he paced behind the line of students. "Watch your feet. Balance before power. Your sword is worthless if your stance crumbles with a sneeze."
He was watching and analysing, hardened by time and mercenary work. A faded scar ran from temple to jaw, and his presence alone forced discipline. He walked with the gait of someone who had trained hundreds, and buried the worthless. From this day on to the class, he was only ever "Instructor."
The students moved again. Right foot forward, left at an angle. Knees slightly bent. Swords raised in a middle guard, elbows relaxed, chins tucked in. It was clumsy—hesitant. Blades wagged like tree branches in the wind. Their shoulders were stiff, their stances too wide or too narrow.
"Too tight,"
the instructor snapped, tapping one boy's shoulder with the flat of his sword.
"You're tense as a bowstring. Relax or you'll exhaust yourself before you strike."
Another student stumbled during a pivot and fell into the dirt. The instructor didn't pause.
"If that had been real, you'd be skewered. Get up."
They were all wishing for success in being a mercenary—barely more than humans with a dream—with calluses too fresh and eyes still clinging to hope of glory. Some bit their tongues in concentration. Others blinked back frustration. A few cast glances at the one student who moved differently.
Sigurd.
Unlike the others, he didn't hesitate between steps. His transitions were fluid, guided by instinct rather than memory. His sword moved with controlled economy—neither too fast nor too flashy. When he pivoted, his weight shifted evenly. When he struck, the wooden blade whistled through the air with intent, not guesswork.
The instructor stopped behind him, watching without a word.
Sigurd didn't falter. He adjusted his grip ever so slightly, correcting the angle of his leading wrist, shoulders aligned with his blade. He wasn't showy. He didn't smile. But it was clear—he was learning faster than anyone else.
The others noticed. They tried to imitate his motions, stealing glances when they thought no one saw. But mimicry without understanding turned elegance into awkwardness.
"Do not copy blindly," the instructor barked.
"You'll tear a muscle pretending to be someone you're not."
Sigurd paused, lowering his sword slightly. His eyes didn't turn to the instructor. They remained forward—still, focused.
The instructor grunted with a hint of approval.
"From the top," he said. "Footwork first. Left, right, lunge. Defensive step. Turn, recover. Again."
The line moved in unison, some better than others. Sigurd's boots barely disturbed the dust. His footfalls were light, precise, practiced. One girl tripped over her own feet. Another student raised his sword too early and had to reset.
"Don't swing until your feet stop," the instructor snapped. "Power comes from your base, not your arms."
Sweat gleamed on foreheads. Breaths came heavier. The wooden swords grew heavier with each repetition. Arms ached. Calves burned.
But no one stopped.
Hours passed like this—footwork, balance, form. No duels. No flair. Just repetition, sweat, and correction.
When the instructor finally raised his hand, the class froze.
He walked slowly down the line again. "You will not learn the sword in a day. You will not learn it in a week. But every step, every cut, every bead of sweat brings you closer to surviving your first real fight."
He stopped in front of Sigurd.
"This one learns quickly," he said, his voice calm. "Not because of talent—but because he listens."
Sigurd didn't react.
The instructor moved on.
"No one is born a swordsman. Everyone can earn it. Even the sword king did the same. All you can do is train, bleed now so you don't later, and commit every lesson to your bones."
He turned to face them all, the setting sun casting his shadow long across the field.
"You are not mercenaries yet," he said, "but one day, if you survive long enough, you might earn the right to call yourselves such."
A silence settled over the students. Heavy. Sincere.
Then the instructor gave a final nod. "Tomorrow, we test your reflexes. Dismissed."
One by one, the students filed off the field—some limping, others helping each other walk. Sigurd remained a moment longer, eyes still on the dirt where his feet had moved, sword held loosely at his side.
Then he turned and left, the last to leave.
***
I hope that Adam has some good for, or I'll eat all of his.