A few days had passed since Adlof's unexpected birthday celebration, but its warmth still lingered in his heart. After months of torment, experiments, and near-death brushes, to sit and laugh with his friends was a treasure beyond measure.
On a bright morning, feeling a surprising lightness in his limbs, Adlof decided to test his recovery. He moved slowly at first, cautious but determined. To his delight, he was more stable than expected.
As he entered the training hall, the familiar scent of sweat, wood, and steel hit him—unchanged since the last time he was here, broken and barely human.
In the center stood Nour al-Din, beaming as he saw Adlof approach.
"You're walking?" he asked, grinning.
"And I might run too, if you don't stop me," Adlof shot back with a smirk, arms spread wide as if to reclaim his place in the world.
Nour al-Din motioned toward the sparring platform. "Let's see if you're truly ready. A light duel. No injuries. No heroics."
Adlof agreed and picked up a wooden training sword from the wall rack. He tested its weight, twirled it between his hands, and smiled.
"Either this is too light, or I've gotten stronger."
They took their places.
Combat stance:
- Adlof placed his right foot forward, left foot angled back slightly.
- He leaned in, distributing 60% of his weight on the back leg, 40% on the front—ready to lunge or retreat.
- His center of gravity rested precisely between his feet, offering perfect balance.
- His grip on the sword was firm but flexible—controlled, not tense.
"Three... two... one... begin!" Nour al-Din called.
They launched at each other.
The first exchange was a test. Adlof dashed forward with two quick steps, swinging at Nour al-Din's right shoulder. Nour al-Din twisted his torso slightly, raising his blade just in time to block with a sharp crack of wood on wood that echoed across the hall.
Adlof stepped back half a pace, reset his footing, then lunged again—this time a diagonal slash toward the ribs. Nour al-Din spun his blade in a circular motion, redirecting the force outward without flinching.
"Nice," Nour al-Din said mid-block, "but not enough."
Then it was Nour al-Din's turn. Two fast steps forward, and a downward chop from above. Adlof barely raised his sword in time. The blow sent a shock through his arm, but he held firm.
Adlof realized quickly: If I keep this rhythm, I'll lose.
So he switched tactics. Two steps back, then a sudden leap forward—not to strike, but to throw the sword like a spear. The move was reckless and wild—but utterly unpredictable.
Nour al-Din froze for a split-second. The wooden sword hit him in the head with a dull thud, not enough to injure, but enough to break his concentration.
In that window, Adlof surged forward. Like a wolf in the wild, he closed the gap and delivered a swift kick to Nour al-Din's midsection. As Nour al-Din stumbled, Adlof spun and struck with the side of his hand at his back—light, but decisive.
Nour al-Din dropped to the floor, sitting, eyes wide, then burst into laughter.
"I didn't expect that... so stupid, it was genius."
Adlof laughed too, the tension draining from his shoulders. He sat down beside his friend, both breathing hard, both smiling.
To onlookers, it may have looked like a simple sparring match.
But to them, it was more than that. It was proof that despite all they'd endured, despite the injuries and trauma, they were still here. Still warriors. Still brothers.
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