Aria left us after guiding us inside the training area, giving us a small wave before disappearing back through the entrance. For some time, we just stood there, neither of us doing anything. We were unsure how to start our training, surrounded by all this space and equipment with no instructor to guide us.
"Hey, bro," Grey broke the silence, his voice thoughtful. "Let's see if we can find anything useful from the books Ay brought."
I nodded and walked over to where Aria had placed the stack. I picked up the one on top, its leather cover worn but well-maintained. The title read The Basic Art of Combat in clear lettering. It looked like a good starting point—begin with the basics and build from there.
Surprisingly, when I opened it, the text was written in our same language. Every word was perfectly readable, as natural as any book I'd read back home. Then one thought struck me suddenly: How did she talk in our language so fluently?
Grey had apparently been thinking the same thing. "Bro! This book is in the same language as us! I've been wondering—how did they get these books? And Ay too, she speaks our language perfectly. She even understood some of my trademark speeches and jokes. Is this world parallel to ours or something? Like an alternate dimension?"
"Don't know," I admitted, flipping through a few more pages. "We can confirm it with her later. For now, let's start the training."
"Ok." Grey moved closer to look over my shoulder. "What's in there?"
I scanned the table of contents, then began reading through the introduction and first chapter. My eyes widened as recognition dawned. "It looks familiar! I've already seen a book almost exactly like this in the town library near our village back home. The book cover might look different here, but the contents look almost identical! Even the title itself!"
Grey let out a long, exasperated sigh, running his hand through his hair. "Don't tell me! It's one of the previous heroes who wrote it! That cheater!" He threw his hands up.
"Ahaha… he's clever, I'll give him that! He stole someone else's work and published it in this world as his own! It's hilarious in a way," I said, though I felt a twinge of annoyance myself.
"But also—worst of the worst. How can someone do that? If I ever meet him, I'll smack his face so hard he won't be able to recognize himself in a mirror anymore!" grey said scowling.
"Don't bother thinking about it," I said, my tone darkening slightly. "He isn't here anymore. If he were still around, I wouldn't be the chosen hero now standing here.''
He paused, then looked at me. "Wait… did you read this book before? Back home?"
"Yes, but only a little bit," I admitted. "I thought it would never be helpful, you know? Just dry military stuff. So I didn't finish it. It wasn't interesting for me like novels and adventure stories."
"That's fine. You do you…" Grey's enthusiasm had clearly deflated.
"Should I read it? Or should we just—"
"Throw it away," he said impulsively, that's even surprised me. "It's a plagiarized copy. I don't want to see it."
I didn't want things to end like this. What should I do now? I should find a way to fix his mood, I thought.
But surprisingly, Grey initiated the conversation himself. "What's the name of that smug-faced author anyway?"
I picked up the book and checked the cover more carefully. "It says… 'Pink.' The author's name is Pink." His expression soured. "That punk! The nerve of him!"
Grey didn't want to let this go. He was always like that—whenever someone stole from others or took credit for work that wasn't theirs, he couldn't accept it. "Begging is better than stealing," he'd always say.
I took a breath, trying to calm the situation. "Grey, I think we should still respect the work in a way. He did bring this knowledge to this world, and looking at the margins, he even added some improvements and tried his best to adapt it for the people here. I think that at least deserves acknowledgment. Let's not make it sound all bad."
Grey looked at me for a long moment, his jaw working as he thought it over. "You think so? But…" He fell silent, thinking deeply, his eyes distant. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Ok. I'll do that. I'll give him that much."
For a moment, the tension between us eased, replaced by a quiet understanding. It wasn't about the author anymore—it was about what we could do here and now, with what we had. The world outside might be messy, but this moment was ours to control.
Then we started the actual training session. According to the book's introduction, we should begin by taking thorough safety measures—checking every weapon and piece of armor that could potentially turn dangerous if handled carelessly or if it broke during practice. Grey crouched down on the dirt, inspecting his wooden spear carefully as if trying to understand every detail of how it was constructed. He gave it a few light experimental swings, testing its balance and weight distribution. His shield followed next, the wooden rim knocking against the hard-packed ground with a dull thud as he adjusted the leather straps to fit his forearm properly.
I did the same with my equipment, going over my wooden training sword with careful attention. The edge was intentionally dull for safety, but I noticed the surface had accumulated small splinters over time that could still cause painful cuts if I wasn't careful during intense practice. I took a few minutes to smooth them out against the rough stone wall, then wrapped some extra cloth around the grip to improve my hold and prevent blisters.
It wasn't perfect—far from the quality weapons we'd seen in stories—but it would serve its purpose for now.
The book's next section was about checking armor joints and identifying weak points that could fail under stress. We didn't have real metal armor, only the light leather guards and thick cloth padding we'd taken earlier from the storage room. Still, we followed the book's instructions step by step, double-checking every strap and buckle, tightening some, loosening others, our movements slow and uncertain like children learning to tie shoes for the first time.
The training ground around us was silent—too silent. The air hung heavy and still, with no sounds of clashing weapons or shouting instructors, no grunts of effort or encouragement. Just the faint whisper of wind and the soft brush of dust shifting beneath our shoes as we moved. For a moment, standing in the middle of that empty arena, it felt strange and almost wrong to train alone in a place that looked like it had been built for great warriors and legendary heroes.
Grey let out a small sigh, breaking the oppressive quiet. "Man… this feels weird without Ay here watching or giving us pointers or saying anything at all."
"Yeah," I muttered, flipping through a few more pages of the book, squinting at the small illustrations. "It's like trying to learn cooking from a recipe without ever having seen someone actually cook. Just words and pictures."
Still, we pressed on, determined not to waste the opportunity. The book instructed us to begin with light warm-ups—stretching the shoulders in circular motions, rotating wrists to loosen the joints, bending knees in deep squats, practicing basic footwork steps forward and back. We followed the instructions awkwardly, trying to imitate the small stick-figure illustrations drawn in the margins, our movements stiff and unpracticed.
Grey's shield wobbled precariously as he lifted it during a side-step drill, the weight clearly more than he'd anticipated. My wooden sword, meanwhile, felt progressively heavier than I'd expected after just a few practice swings, my arm muscles already beginning to protest.
After only a few minutes of these basic drills, we were both sweating despite the simplicity of the exercises. Neither of us spoke much during this time—the focus required was clumsy and incomplete, but at least it was genuine. We didn't know exactly what we were doing, fumbling through the motions, but at least it felt like a proper start. Like we were actually beginning the journey toward becoming capable fighters.
Grey paused, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and gave me a faint grin. "Guess everyone has to start somewhere, right?"
"Yeah," I replied, lowering my sword for a moment and catching my breath, feeling my heart pounding in my chest. "Tomorrow will probably make more sense. We'll get better."
He nodded, and we both turned back to the book, ready to continue despite our exhaustion and uncertainty.