Hope's arms burned.
His muscles screamed in protest, his fingers barely able to maintain their grip on the hilt of the sword. Each swing felt heavier than the last, as if the weapon itself had gained weight with every motion.
1,501…
His breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes. His armor, already cumbersome in this oppressive heat, felt like a lead weight pressing against his shoulders. Every movement was a battle against exhaustion, every stroke of the blade another war waged against his own limits.
1,752…
Massa watched him with quiet pity, her expression softening as she gripped her staff. He could see the sympathy in her eyes, but it did little to ease the burning in his muscles. He wanted to ask for the Endless Spring—just a sip, just enough to push through.
But Nefer had already denied him.
Hope gritted his teeth.
He kept swinging.
1,999…
His palms stung. Blisters had formed and burst long ago, leaving raw, sensitive flesh in their wake. His grip faltered, the sword slipping slightly between his fingers before he forced himself to readjust.
He kept swinging.
2,300…
His body was drenched in sweat now, the moisture soaking through his clothes beneath the armor. His breath was uneven, coming in sharp, shallow gasps. The weight of his exhaustion pressed down on him, but Nefer's cold, unyielding gaze kept him moving.
He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going.
But stopping wasn't an option.
2,891…
The sword felt alien in his grasp. His arms trembled with every motion, his shoulders screaming in protest. He had lost count somewhere past 2,700, his mind too fogged with pain to keep track. But he swung regardless, trusting muscle memory to carry him forward.
And then—
"Stop."
Nefer's voice cut through the haze like a blade.
Hope staggered, his knees nearly buckling beneath him. His fingers twitched violently as he forced himself to stillness, the sword nearly slipping from his grasp.
She approached him, arms crossed over her chest.
"How's your hand?"
Hope tried to respond, but his throat was too dry, his breathing too unsteady. Instead, he simply lifted his shaking hands, letting them speak for themselves.
Nefer examined them without sympathy. His fingers were raw, his palms marred with broken blisters and torn skin. His knuckles were swollen from the repeated impact of gripping the hilt too tightly.
She nodded, satisfied.
"Good."
Hope let out a slow, shaky breath.
"Now that I've explained the essence of combat," she continued, "it's time for you to practicalize it."
She took a step back, motioning for him to follow.
Hope forced himself to stand upright, his muscles protesting with every movement. His legs felt like lead, his arms numb from the sheer repetition of the swings.
But Nefer wasn't done with him yet.
She raised her own weapon—not to attack, but to demonstrate.
"Your stance is wrong," she said simply. "It's wasting too much of your strength."
Hope frowned. He had thought his stance was fine.
Nefer sighed, stepping closer.
"Watch closely," she ordered.
She planted her feet firmly, one slightly ahead of the other. Her knees bent slightly, her weight balanced perfectly between both legs. She held her sword in a relaxed yet controlled grip, its tip angled slightly downward.
"You don't just swing with your arms," she explained. "That's how you tire yourself out."
Hope winced. He had learned that the hard way.
"The power of a swing comes from your whole body—your stance, your hips, your shoulders. Not just your arms."
She demonstrated with a slow, deliberate motion.
Her back foot pushed off the ground, transferring force through her legs. Her torso twisted slightly, guiding the motion of her shoulders. Her arms remained relaxed, letting the weight of the sword do most of the work.
The result? A smooth, controlled strike with far less strain than what Hope had been doing.
Nefer turned to him.
"Now you try."
Hope swallowed, adjusting his footing to mirror hers.
"Wider stance," she corrected immediately.
He widened his stance.
"Lower your center of gravity."
He bent his knees slightly.
Nefer circled him like a hawk, her sharp gaze scanning for flaws.
"Now, swing."
Hope took a breath and followed her instructions.
The difference was immediate.
Instead of relying solely on his arms, he felt the movement begin from his feet. His legs provided the momentum, his torso guiding the rotation, and his arms merely delivering the strike.
It was smoother. Stronger.
And most importantly—it didn't feel like it was draining him with every motion.
Nefer gave a satisfied nod.
"Better. Again."
Hope swung again, this time more aware of his body's movement.
She corrected him as he went.
"Don't lock your shoulders. Keep them loose."
"Relax your grip. If you hold the sword too tightly, you'll waste energy."
"Let the weight of the blade do some of the work."
Each correction refined his technique.
And as he continued, the exhaustion in his arms seemed slightly less unbearable.
Of course, that didn't mean training was easy.
His muscles still screamed in protest. His body was still drenched in sweat. And Nefer's relentless scrutiny ensured that he didn't slack off.
But there was progress.
And that was what mattered.
Hope wasn't sure how long they continued. Time felt meaningless in The Ashlands.
But eventually, he became aware of something else.
Nefer was close.
Too close.
During one of her corrections, her hand briefly brushed against his forearm as she adjusted his grip. The touch was fleeting—barely noticeable.
But Hope noticed.
And for a brief moment, his thoughts nearly went astray.
He quickly shook it off.
Now wasn't the time for distractions.