The forest had grown darker by the hour. A chill settled over the ground, mist curling around the gnarled roots and thick trunks like ghostly fingers. Kael moved cautiously, the cursed sword at his side, whispering faintly, eager, hungry.
Elara trailed beside him, staff raised and senses sharp. Her emerald eyes flicked nervously between the shadows, every movement tense. Kael's heart thudded—not only because of the mercenary, but also because of the weight of responsibility. For the first time, he understood that survival wasn't just about himself; it was about keeping her safe.
The first strike came without warning. A shadow lunged from above, a silvered blade slicing through the mist toward Kael's head. He barely twisted aside, the edge grazing his shoulder, drawing a shallow line of blood. Pain flared sharp and immediate, but the cursed sword vibrated in response, thrumming through his veins.
Fight. Survive. Prove yourself.
Kael's hands shook as he raised the blade to meet the next strike. The mercenary's movements were fluid, practiced, every step and swing deliberate, each one demanding precision. Kael's own attacks felt clumsy, each parry a fraction too slow, each strike slightly off-angle.
"You're weaker than I imagined," the mercenary said, voice cold and amused. "For someone holding that blade… pathetic."
Kael gritted his teeth. "I don't care what you think!" he shouted, swinging wildly. The sword lashed through the air, shadows coiling along the steel, a low whisper in his mind: Good. Feed your anger. Let me guide you.
He refused. Not yet. Not like this.
Elara's voice rang out, cutting through the sword's whispers. "Kael! Watch the left! Behind you!"
A second strike came from an unexpected angle. Kael twisted instinctively, the blade scraping against the mercenary's sword. Sparks flew as steel clashed, sending shivers up his arms. He stumbled backward, boots slipping on wet moss, and felt the sting of another shallow cut across his cheek.
He was fifteen. Fifteen years old, facing a man who had danced with death and lived to master it. Every muscle in Kael's body screamed in protest, but still he forced himself to focus, to parry, to survive.
"You're… weak!" the mercenary mocked, stepping closer, forcing Kael back toward the forest's thickest trees. "Do you even know how to wield that thing? Or are you just playing at being a swordsman?"
Kael's breath came in ragged gasps. He realized, painfully, that he didn't. Not fully. His swings lacked technique, his stance was unrefined, and his defenses were sloppy. Every mistake was punished with the mercenary's blade, every hesitation met with merciless strikes.
And yet… the cursed sword guided him subtly, adjusting his angle, redirecting his force. Without thinking, he managed to deflect a powerful downward strike that would have split him in two. He staggered back, gasping, but alive.
Elara ducked behind a tree, chanting rapidly. Emerald light flared from her staff, striking the mercenary's armor and staggering him momentarily. "Kael! Now!" she shouted.
Instinct and the blade's whispers surged. Kael lunged, forcing himself into an aggressive stance. The cursed sword moved with an eerie fluidity, its shadows stretching along the mercenary's armor. A nick appeared on the man's shoulder—a small victory—but the mercenary laughed, the sound hollow and mocking.
"You think that's enough? You barely scratched me!" he snarled, countering with a spinning strike that Kael barely blocked. The impact sent him tumbling into a mossy log, knees scraping, blood seeping from his palms.
Pain. Exhaustion. Fear. And yet… determination. Kael's mind went blank, focusing only on one thought: protect Elara. Protect her at all costs.
The cursed sword pulsed again, almost violently. Yield to me. Embrace me. Kill, or die.
Kael gritted his teeth, ignoring the voice. "I… won't… let you control me," he whispered, teeth clenched.
The mercenary pressed on, relentless, forcing Kael into a defensive dance. Every strike Kael deflected felt like pulling against a mountain, every counterattack leaving him winded. He realized with cold clarity: raw power alone would not win. Technique, precision, control—these were the things he lacked.
A sharp pain shot through his arm as the mercenary struck again. Kael collapsed briefly to one knee, the cursed sword barely held steady. Blood ran from his forearm, trickling to the earth. He felt tears sting his eyes, but he ignored them. Failure was not an option.
Elara rushed to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Kael, don't give up! Focus!"
He nodded, forcing himself upright. Every strike, every block, every movement became deliberate, honed. Not enough to overpower, but enough to survive. His breathing was ragged, muscles trembling, body bruised and bleeding, but he endured.
The mercenary paused, tilting his head, watching Kael struggle. "You're a fool," he muttered. "That blade will consume you if you're not careful."
Kael tightened his grip. "Then I'll control it. I'll master it. I… will protect her," he growled, jaw set.
The cursed sword hummed, shadows writhing along its edge. Good… you feel it. The hunger, the power… let it guide you.
Kael swallowed hard. Not yet. He would not surrender fully—not while Elara still stood by his side.
The fight dragged into the night, echoes of clashing steel and whispered threats carrying through the forest. Kael barely slept that night, nursing cuts and bruises, reflecting on every misstep. His inexperience was painfully clear.
But one thing he realized, more than anything else: he had to grow. Proper training. Technique. Discipline. Not just raw strength. The cursed sword had chosen him, yes, but it could not make him strong. Only he could do that.
And the mercenary would be back.