Raindrops slid from the forest canopy, dripping softly to the ground after a brief storm. Soaked to the bone, Tyron walked with a polished plank slung over his shoulder toward the cabin where his "master" sat, savoring the quiet of nature. Despite the bruises and cuts, the boy was smiling—too proud to feel the pain. Sunset lit the clearing around the cabin. Tyron stopped before the door, lifted the plank with both hands, and presented it to Jayden, who cracked one eye open and listened.
Tyron: "I did it. I finally did it. Now teach me how to become a warrior."
Jayden rose, strode over, snatched the plank, and inspected it. Perfectly smooth. Straight. He walked back to the doorway while Tyron basked in the triumph of having passed the trial. The swordsman set the plank on a table, sliced a few apples, and ate.
Tyron blinked, watching in disbelief as his hard-won plank became a cutting board.
Tyron: "Are you kidding me? I went through all that just so you could slice a damn apple on it?!"
Anger flared hot. He stepped forward, ranting. Jayden, unbothered, kept chewing. When he finished, he glanced at the boy—face burning with fury—then tossed the plank lazily into the forest. Tyron lunged to punch him. Jayden tapped him with his pinky and sent him skidding across the dirt to his knees.
Tyron: "You said if I did this, you'd take me as your student! And now you just throw my work away like it's trash?" Tears hit the ground.
Jayden: "Tell me, brat—when did I say I wouldn't train you? This was for two things. First, your last warning. Once you step on this path, there's no turning back. Trouble becomes daily life. The world isn't rainbows and cute little lies; the world's cruel and doesn't care who suffers. As a warrior, you don't get 'normal' anymore. Death follows close. You'd better have a goal big enough to carry you, 'cause I'll push you until you're strong. Second reason: I wanted to see if you really got tougher."
Tyron: "I don't get it! Since when does that give you the right to toss my work like it's nothing?!"
Jayden crouched to eye level.
Jayden: "Of course it does. First lesson: the achievement isn't the treasure—the growth you earn while chasing it is. Life's brief. Death dogs all of us. As a warrior, you'll look it in the eye and tell it to fuck off."
Tyron wiped his tears and met his gaze.
Tyron: "Alright… So what happens now?"
Jayden: "Simple. I'll teach you the path of nonviolence."
Tyron: "That makes no sense. You use violence to stop bad people."
Jayden: "Are you dense? Stop with the dumb questions. 'Violence' is trying to force your ideas on others—ignoring their will—and abusing your strength. A warrior avoids that. He uses force to halt those who impose themselves through aggression and cruelty."
Jayden stood and headed for the cabin. Tyron repeated the words in his head, shame creeping over him.
Tyron: "Then… I shouldn't be your student. I hurt someone I didn't even know, just because he didn't fit how I thought he should be. If you'll allow it, I'll tell him—and you can train him instead."
He took off his yellow headband, squeezing it in his hand, and stepped forward to return it. Jayden simply tied it back around the boy's forehead.
Jayden: "If you mean the kid with glasses—don't worry. He'll grow strong."
Tyron: "Wait… You knew I'd been a bad person?"
Jayden: (firm) "Obviously. One skill of a warrior is reading people's aura. And if you're wondering why I didn't take him as a disciple, it's simple: his blind rage would drag him toward revenge. You, on the other hand, would crack your head open, see your mistakes, and change. That's how you break the cycle."
Tyron, absorbing the lesson, followed Jayden inside. He reached for a sword hanging on the wall.
Tyron: "Alright then—let's begin."
In a blur, Jayden snatched it away.
Jayden: "Ha! You think I'm handing you a sword? First you master your body—then the tool."
He tossed Tyron a folded set of clothes.
Jayden: "From now on, you show up in this. Training starts tomorrow."
Morning. In a ring of towering trees, Tyron ducked swinging logs. Jayden watched from the side.
Jayden: "Come on, kid—you've been hit by the same log like twenty-seven times."
The gap between them was obvious: Jayden flowed; Tyron barely dodged or blocked without stumbling back. An hour in, Tyron snapped:
Tyron: "What's the point of this? Shouldn't you be teaching me how to fight—"
A log thumped his back and flattened him.
Jayden: (weaving between the trunks) "You're a rookie. Attacking is easy. Modern 'defense' forgets what matters: evade and block. Know where you are. Never lose sight of your attacker."
Tyron gritted his teeth and got back up.
Three days passed. He developed real evasions, crisp blocks, solid clinches and grabs. On the fourth day, Jayden waited outside the cabin beside a wooden dummy.
Jayden: "Change of pace. If you get too comfy on defense, that's no good either. Now you learn when and where to strike."
He tied threads from the dummy to his fingers and made its targets twitch and feint. All day, Tyron fought Jayden's "hand"—and landed only three clean hits.
Three more days. By week's end, Tyron's skill had sharpened.
Tyron: (lifting a wooden sword) "What's this?"
Jayden: "A bokken—your first contact with the blade. Since the trial started, you've been hardening your body to endure training. After a week here, we see if you and the sword are compatible."
They sparred. Tyron fought bravely but never touched the master. A few movements, and Jayden put him down every time.
Monday morning in Garlen. Since the ambush, Tyron had rotated his routes and even his schedules to avoid his ex-friends. Bad luck: at noon dismissal, two boys about the blond's age tailed him. Every turn he made, another pair waited up ahead. He had no choice but to cut the other way—right into the same alley as last time, where Monguer and Soner waved him in. Inside, Kiev and the blond were already waiting. In seconds, eight surrounded him.
Kiev: "So, Ty—you thought changing your routine would keep you from us? You forgot one thing… we get out at the same time, dumbass."
He swung a left hook. Tyron's head snapped to the side, but he stayed on his feet. Kiev grinned.
Kiev: "We enjoyed beating you so much last time we brought friends. Ha—hahaha!"
Two of the blond's buddies moved in from behind. The one on Tyron's right grabbed his shoulder—Tyron reacted on instinct from dummy drills, hammer-fisting the guy's gut with the back of his fist. The big kid let go. Tyron popped an elbow under his chin, dropping him cold.
Shock rippled through the group. Then they all rushed him.
Tyron pictured the swinging logs. He remembered Jayden's advice about positioning: Keep them in a line; never lose sight. He snatched the second older kid by the arm and hurled him into the others, forcing them into a narrow angle.
He shrugged off his backpack so he could move. Soner—fastest—lashed out with a flurry. Tyron slipped most of it—until a kick blasted him into the wall. The instant the leg recoiled, he swept the standing foot, dumping Soner, then used the momentum to snap a kick into the blond's face, bouncing him into Monguer.
A classmate clipped Tyron's jaw; another booted his stomach. Before the kicker could retract his leg, Tyron hooked it, stomped him in the groin, then kneed his head as he folded. He whipped a right hand into the other boy's cheek, forced him back, wrenched his arm, and slammed his face into the brick. Before the kid could go out, Tyron side-kicked him straight into Kiev.
Kiev came on like a bull. His punches were brutal, muscles driving every shot—but Tyron weaved by inches, caught the forearm, dumped a short shot into Kiev's solar plexus, then clamped the back of his head and hammered his skull into Tyron's knee again and again. Dazed, Kiev gagged as Tyron elbowed his throat, then finished with a twin-palm blast to the chest, pitching him into a heap of trash bags.
Breathing hard, Tyron rasped, "I hope… that taught you… to stop messing with people…"
He turned—clang. Monguer blindsided him with a trash can, dropping him to his knees. Soner's knee smashed into his face—Tyron rolled, letting the next swing of the bin sail by, then crushed Monguer's groin with a kick. As the big man folded, Tyron vaulted up, snapped a kick across Soner's face, and chopped him out with a heel strike.
Straightening, Tyron tasted victory—until a familiar voice rumbled behind him.
Voice: "You little punk. You hit my baby brother?"
Kiev's older, freckled sibling. One punch lifted Tyron off his feet. The fight flipped: Tyron staggered, dodging wrecking-ball blows, then a kick launched him into the wall. Dazed, he spotted a plank on the ground. He slipped the next punch, squared up like with his bokken, and met the man's knuckles with a lateral strike of the board. The adult howled, clutching his hand. Tyron cracked the knee, then smashed the shoulder, opening him up—and finished with a board-slap across the face.
Gasping, Tyron spun toward Kiev, raising the plank.
Tyron: "Enough! It's over. I win this time. Surrender—don't make me put you down."
He exhaled, dropped the plank, shouldered his backpack, and turned away. Kiev snatched the board and swung for Tyron's skull. Tyron whipped around, forearm shielding the blow, drove a kick into Kiev's ribs, then ended it with a spinning side kick that laid him out cold.