A new week began. By afternoon, in the forest, Tyron was ready to start his trial under Jayden's watchful eye. The swordsman observed him silently from the shade of a tree.
Tyron struck the trunk to loosen its bark, peeling away most of it. After an hour, he had stripped the smaller branches. Drenched in sweat, he strained against a branch as thick as his arm. One thought pounded in his head: "What kind of tree is this?"
After endless struggling, all he managed was to bend the branch slightly. Defeated, he ended his Monday—battered, sweaty, and exhausted. As he showered that night, his mind spun, searching for a way to finish the task faster—or at least cut off the branches.
Tuesday arrived. Tyron rushed to school, barely greeting his friends Kiev, Soner, and Monguer. Classes went by in a blur—he cared only about his challenge.
When the final bell rang, his friends caught up to him.
Kiev: "Hey, Tyron—where are you going?"Tyron: (smirking) "Going to get some exercise, man. Gotta stay sharp for the ladies."
They laughed as they reached the exit. Outside, Kiev bumped into a classmate—a short, skinny boy with glasses and braces. The kid froze, fear flashing across his face. Tyron knew why: he and his friends had bullied Antonio more than once.
Kiev grinned cruelly. "Well, well, look who showed up for a beating. Come here, Antonio."
Grabbing his shoulder, he dragged the boy toward their motorcycles. There, the freckled boy laid into him savagely—smashing his glasses, blackening an eye, and probably breaking his nose. Antonio lay crumpled on the ground as Kiev stomped his stomach.
Tyron felt something twist inside him. He had joined in on beatings before. But this time… it felt wrong.
Tyron: "Kiev, you'd better quit it. Teachers are about to come out—if they see you, they'll call the cops."
He showed his watch. Kiev wiped blood and dust from his hands, muttered something under his breath, and spit on Antonio before strolling off.
Tyron thought about helping the boy… but instead, he pulled up his hood and walked away.
Back in the forest, he returned to the stubborn branch from the day before. After another hour of fruitless effort, drained, he finally asked:
Tyron: "Master… how am I supposed to cut this whole tree if I can't even break a single branch?"
Jayden lifted his hat slightly, then let it fall back. "You wait for the right moment. When it comes, you hit with everything you've got. That's it."
Tyron stared at the branch for a long while. Then—crack. A faint sound. He seized the moment and threw a furious punch. His knuckles split, blood dripping, pain shooting through his hand. All he managed was to chip off a splinter.
Jayden walked over, glanced at the damage, and burst out laughing. "Ha! You're pathetic. Broke a knuckle—oh wait, you already did."
He leaned back against a tree. Tyron, seething, yelled: "I don't see the fucking joke! You know what? Shove this up your—"
A rock smacked him in the forehead, cutting him off. Furious, Tyron shouted: "Hey! Do I look like a clown to you or what?!"
Another stone struck, this one drawing blood. Jayden's calm reply cut through his rage:
"Of course you look like a clown. You've been swinging away and haven't moved an inch from yesterday. Bottling things up is fine—until it clouds the present. I don't know what the hell you're going through, but if you want to advance, you give everything. Put yourself completely into the action."
Tyron took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He prepared to strike again—until something soft brushed against him. Not another stone. A bandana. Jayden had tossed it so the blood wouldn't bother him.
Tying it firmly around his head, Tyron squared up once more. He inhaled deeply, focusing on the words he had just heard. His mind replayed the day—the violence he'd witnessed, the helplessness, the fear, the anger. All of it surged inside him like a storm ready to burst.
He screamed, driving his fist forward with everything he had. The branch snapped clean.