Vaendalle's shadow fell across him like a judgment. Arms crossed, the old man looked down with an expression caught between amusement and exasperation. "What are you doing on the ground? Get up. This training isn't over just because you've decided to take a nap."

  Artham pushed himself upright, every muscle in his body protesting the movement. Dirt clung to his clothes, and he could taste blood where he'd bitten his tongue during the last fall. But something burned in his chest—a stubborn refusal to quit that felt both foreign and familiar.

  "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, climbing to his feet on legs that shook like newborn foal's. The wooden sword felt heavier in his grip now, but he tightened his hold anyway. He wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.

  This time he approached differently, circling wide to Vaendalle's left side. His heart hammered against his ribs as he tried to find an angle the old man couldn't predict. Maybe if I come from his blind spot...

  He launched himself forward, aiming a calculated strike at Vaendalle's neck. For a moment, hope flared in his chest—surely this time—

  But Vaendalle simply wasn't there.

  The world spun as something struck the side of his head with surgical precision. Stars exploded across his vision, and he found himself staring up at the night sky once again, wondering how the ground had gotten there so fast.

  "What... again?" he groaned, blinking away the dancing lights. Vaendalle stood over him, that same infuriating grin plastered across his weathered face.

  "Is this the best the forest could teach you?" Vaendalle asked, tilting his head in mock disappointment. "I thought you'd learned something out there."

  Frustration clawed at Artham's throat. He wasn't used to feeling this helpless in a fight. In his previous life, he'd been competent—skilled, even. But Vaendalle wasn't just fast. He was operating on a completely different level, like a master chess player toying with a child.

  "Let's go again," Artham said through gritted teeth, hauling himself upright. "I'll see your movements this time."

  Vaendalle's grin widened, taking on a predatory quality. "Welcome back to hell training, lad," he said with a chuckle that sent shivers down Artham's spine.

  [Master, perhaps we should consider retreat. This individual's capabilities far exceed—]

  No. Artham's mental voice was sharp with determination. I need to understand what I'm up against in this world.

  As they squared off again, he became acutely aware of the watching villagers. Their whispers carried on the evening air—some expressing amazement at how easily Vaendalle was handling him, others murmuring about the old man's incredible skill. But Artham forced himself to block out the noise. None of that mattered now.

  What mattered was learning. Understanding why Vaendalle was so fast, why even Mire couldn't track his movements, why the gap between them felt like an ocean.

  Was this the difference in power between awakened and unawakened? Artham wondered. No wonder the real Arthanis ran away. Facing this kind of overwhelming strength every day, knowing you could never measure up...

  But running wasn't an option for Artham. He wasn't the same broken boy who'd fled into the forest three days ago. He had to endure this. Learn from it.

  "I can do this," he whispered, more to convince himself than anyone else.

  Vaendalle's expression softened slightly, though his eyes still held that dangerous gleam. "Come on, boy. Show me that fire."

  This time, Artham approached more carefully. His movements were more controlled, more precise. He struck at Vaendalle's side, trying to anticipate where the counter would come from.

  But Vaendalle's sheathed blade was already there, deflecting the attack with casual ease. Before Artham could react, something struck his leg, sending him tumbling to the dirt once more.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Lying there, chest heaving, Artham felt a strange clarity wash over him. He's not just faster, he realized. He's reading my intentions before I even act.

  [Power gap detected. Recommend adaptation of strategy.]

  Adapt. The word echoed in his mind like a mantra. Survival in this world wouldn't come from matching raw power—it would come from learning to think differently.

  With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself up again. His body screamed in protest, every muscle aching, but his mind felt sharper somehow. More focused.

  He couldn't overpower Vaendalle. But maybe—just maybe—he could outlast him. Force the old man to reveal something he could use.

  Artham steadied his breathing, forcing his grip on the wooden sword to relax. When he faced Vaendalle again, something had changed in his posture. Less desperation, more calculation.

  The murmurs from the watching crowd shifted, sensing the difference. This wasn't just flailing anymore—this was strategy.

  Vaendalle noticed too. His casual stance tightened almost imperceptibly, and for the first time, there was a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes. "So," he murmured, "you're learning."

  Artham didn't charge this time. Instead, he advanced slowly, watching every micro-expression on Vaendalle's face, every shift in his stance. He wasn't trying to overwhelm—he was trying to understand.

  He feinted left, then pivoted sharply, aiming for Vaendalle's side. The old man parried easily, but Artham caught something—the slightest hesitation, a fraction of a second where Vaendalle had to actually think about his response.

  There. It wasn't much, but it was something.

  Artham pressed forward despite the numbing impact that reverberated through his arms. He swung low, targeting Vaendalle's legs, hoping to disrupt his perfect balance.

  Vaendalle's blade came down to deflect, the force sending Artham sliding backward across the packed earth. But this time, he didn't fall. He held his ground, boots digging furrows in the dirt.

  For just a moment—almost too quick to catch—surprise flickered across Vaendalle's weathered features.

  Artham saw it. And that tiny crack in the old man's composure gave him exactly what he needed.

  He lunged again, but not at Vaendalle's body. This time he aimed for the sword itself, trying to knock the sheathed blade from his grip. It was desperate, born of exhaustion and frustration, but there was method to it. If he could disarm Vaendalle, even for an instant, it might level the field.

  Vaendalle saw through the gambit immediately. With a twist of his wrist, he turned the attack aside, and in the blink of an eye, Artham found himself flat on his back with the point of the sheathed sword resting against his chest.

  "Not bad," Vaendalle said, pulling the weapon back and extending his hand. His grin had returned, but now it carried genuine respect rather than mockery. "You're getting smarter. But you're still not fast enough."

  Artham lay there for a moment, staring up at the stars that wheeled slowly overhead. His body was completely spent, muscles trembling with exhaustion. But something had clicked in his mind during that last exchange. This wasn't just about testing his endurance—Vaendalle was teaching him something fundamental about the nature of power itself.

  Strength alone wouldn't be enough. Speed alone wouldn't be enough. The real battle was learning to read your opponent, to anticipate their moves, to think three steps ahead.

  As Vaendalle helped him to his feet, Artham wiped sweat and dirt from his face. "One more round," he said, his voice hoarse but determined.

  Vaendalle raised an eyebrow. "You sure you can handle it?"

  Artham hefted his wooden sword again, noting how his grip had changed over the course of the session. More relaxed now, more controlled. "I'm not beaten yet."

  The crowd had grown larger, drawn by the spectacle of the young man refusing to stay down against the legendary Vaendalle. But Artham barely noticed them anymore. His entire focus had narrowed to the man in front of him—the patient teacher who was showing him exactly how much he still had to learn.

  I'm not fighting to win, he realized. I'm fighting to understand. To adapt. To survive in a world where power like this exists.

  And maybe, just maybe, that was the most important lesson of all.

  Vaendalle settled into his stance once more, but there was something different in his posture now. Less casual dominance, more genuine attention. The student was finally learning, and the teacher was taking notice.

  "Come on then," Vaendalle said quietly. "Show me what you've figured out."

  Artham took a deep breath, feeling the borrowed memories of Arthanis stirring in his mind—years of similar sessions, similar defeats, but also flashes of small improvements earned through stubborn persistence.

  This body knows this dance, he thought. And now, finally, so do I.

  His left leg buckled suddenly, nearly sending him to one knee. The muscles in his sword arm twitched uncontrollably, and for a terrifying moment he thought the wooden blade would slip from his nerveless fingers. His vision narrowed to a tunnel of dancing stars, but still—somehow—he stepped forward.

  [Emotional stabilization detected. User adapting under stress. Remarkable.] Mire's voice carried what almost sounded like surprise.

  From the edge of the training ground, he heard a villager's whispered words: "Is he... actually getting better? Look at his stance."

  Another voice, equally quiet: "I've never seen anyone take this much punishment and keep coming back for more."

  Artham hefted his wooden sword again, his arms trembling so violently it was a miracle the weapon didn't fall from his grip. But his eyes were clearer now, more focused. He understood something fundamental that he hadn't grasped at the beginning of this brutal lesson.

  "Come on then," Vaendalle said quietly, and there was something like pride in his voice. "Show me what you've figured out."