For the next ten days, the quiet fields behind the Stormound house became a battlefield.
Day One was agony.
Kael's arms shook with every swing, his lungs burning as his grandfather forced him to spar until he collapsed. The gloves whispered constantly, offering him shortcuts—uncontrollable bursts of power, more brutal transformations. Kael resisted, gritting his teeth.
"No shortcuts," Grandpa barked. "You rely on chaos, you'll die with chaos."
Day Two was worse.
Instead of weapons, his grandfather made him lift stones. Piles of them. Kael complained so loudly the neighbors probably heard.
"I thought this was training, not gardening!" Kael shouted.
"Strength builds discipline," Grandpa replied calmly, dropping another boulder in front of him.
By Day Three, Kael discovered muscles he didn't know existed. He also discovered the sharp end of his grandfather's staff—again and again.
"Keep your guard up, boy!" Thwack!
"Augh—okay, okay! My ribs aren't armor-plated!"
On Day Four, something clicked.
Kael transformed a stick into a whip covered in iron thorns, snapping it around a tree with surprising control. His grandfather raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.
"You're starting to think creatively. Good."
Day Five pushed him past exhaustion.
Grandpa blindfolded him and unleashed three wooden dummies that swung and struck with hidden mechanisms. Kael stumbled, relying on instinct. At first, he was pummeled. But then, he stopped looking—and started feeling. The gloves pulsed in rhythm with the world around him, guiding his movements. He struck all three dummies down in a single fluid motion.
Grandpa only nodded. "Better."
By Day Six, Kael began experimenting. A rake became a spiked trident. A broken pot turned into a shield bristling with blades. His creativity exploded, every object a potential weapon. The gloves responded eagerly, but Kael's focus kept them from spiraling into chaos.
Day Seven tested his endurance.
He fought his grandfather without rest until his vision blurred. Each strike was faster, sharper, more confident. He managed to graze Grandpa's arm—just once.
Grandpa smiled faintly. "You're improving."
Day Eight was… water training.
Grandpa dunked Kael into the river and forced him to fight the current while transforming objects underwater. Kael came out coughing, drenched, and furious.
"This is torture!"
"This is survival," Grandpa said simply.
On Day Nine, Kael felt something strange. The gloves no longer fought him. They hummed in tune with his will. His transformations were cleaner, more refined. He even created a weapon twice in a row without losing balance. For the first time, he felt… in control.
Day Ten was the final test.
Grandpa faced him in the clearing, staff in hand. Kael transformed a broken axe handle into a gleaming twin-bladed glaive.
Their clash shook the ground. Staff and glaive collided, sparks flying. Kael blocked, dodged, countered—no longer sloppy, no longer relying on wild swings. Every move was deliberate.
At last, with a roar, Kael swept his glaive in a wide arc, knocking the staff clean from Grandpa's hands. The weapon spun through the air and landed in the grass.
Kael froze, panting. He'd disarmed him. For the first time.
Grandpa studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Good. Very good."
Kael grinned, collapsing onto the grass. "So… does this mean I pass? Do I get a medal? Or at least a day off?"
His grandfather chuckled softly, the sound rare and warm. "No medal. No rest. But you've proven something more important. You're ready to face the world beyond these fields."
Kael lay back, staring at the sky. His arms ached, his body screamed, but his heart burned with determination.
Ten days ago, he was just a boy with cursed gloves.
Now, he was becoming a fighter.
A Stormound.