Artorias considered Eligius's words."If blind anger is all you can offer, the kingdom will put you right back in a cage before the week is out."
The words kept echoing in his mind.
He had thought that sheer will and determination would be enough to get stronger, but right now all he felt was dread. Desperation. And worst of all... the guilt at not being good enough.
But who could blame him? He had been imprisoned for a whole year. He had never received proper sword training, let alone done any kind of heavy lifting.
He looked at Eligius with rage and hatred. For a brief moment, he compared him to the men who had made him feel pathetic back then.
Then his eyes widened.
It felt as if his lungs had stopped.
What am I even thinking? he thought.
Eligius… he is nothing like those men. Those men tormented and mocked me. But Eligius… he doesn't make me feel weak to break me. He breaks me to rebuild me, into something stronger.
His jaw tightened.
And those men…
The guards. The laughter. The chains.
His teeth clenched harder.
I will destroy everything within this false order… and if I must be broken first, so be it I am already broken, so break me again and again until I turn into something unbreakable.
After five minutes, he got back on his feet and looked at Eligius.
Eligius's eyes were already on him, examining him without any expression. He narrowed them slightly and asked in an even tone,"Are you ready to learn how to hold a weapon? How to fight back?"
Artorias met his gaze and nodded firmly."I am ready. As I said, break me and reshape me if you want. My only goal is to get stronger."
Eligius studied him for a moment, then spoke.
"Good. Then leave your pride on the floor with that steel."
His voice lost a fraction of its icy edge, though his posture remained unyielding. He gestured toward the heavy sword Artorias had dropped earlier.
"Steel is a privilege for those who know how to wield it. Until you prove otherwise, you have not earned it. Pick up the wood."
Artorias didn't argue. He walked to the rack, his weakened muscles protesting with every step, and pulled a plain, unvarnished sparring stick. It felt far lighter than the sword, but his wrist still throbbed dully from where Eligius had struck him.
"Now, stand facing me," Eligius commanded, stepping back into the center of the illuminated marble floor. "Feet shoulder-width apart. No wider. A wide stance makes you feel powerful, but it anchors you. An anchored man cannot adapt, and a man who cannot adapt is a dead man."
Artorias adjusted his stance, watching the older man's stance carefully to match the spacing.
"Bend your knees slightly. Lower your center of earth," Eligius continued, circling him slowly, his sharp gaze missing nothing. "Your strength does not come from your chest or your arms. Your arms only deliver the blow. True power comes from the ground, travels through your legs, and is released through the pivot of your hips."
Eligius stopped behind him and nudged Artorias's right heel with his boot.
"Turn this out. You are off balance before the fight has even begun."
Artorias obeyed, immediately feeling the strain in his thighs. His legs were already trembling from exhaustion and a year of starvation, but he clenched his jaw and held the stance.
"Now, your grip," Eligius said, stepping back in front of him. "Hold the weapon firmly with your top hand. Your lower hand rests near the base to guide it. Do not strangle it. If you grip too tightly, the force of a strike will travel straight through the weapon and break your own wrists."
He tapped Artorias's knuckles lightly with the stick.
"Hold it like a captured bird. Tight enough that it cannot escape, loose enough that you do not crush it."
Artorias adjusted his grip. It felt strange. Vulnerable. Gone was the desperate, white-knuckled tension he had relied on before.
"Your anger is like a furnace that fuels you to burn brighter. Keep it burning," Eligius said, stepping back and raising his own wooden blade. "But a weapon requires cold logic. Geometry. Distance. Leverage. When you strike, you do not swing with hatred, you strike with purpose. Now… aim for my shoulder. Slowly. Show me your foundation."
Artorias inhaled.
He didn't look at Eligius's eyes, only at the target.
He pushed off his back foot. His hips turned, pulling his body into motion, and his arms followed as the wooden blade came down.
Clack.
Eligius lifted his stick just enough to intercept the strike.
But this time, the weapon didn't fly from Artorias's hands.
The impact traveled through the wood, dispersed through his loosened grip, and settled into his stance. He held his ground.
Eligius pressed slightly, testing him, then lowered his weapon.
"Clumsy," he said flatly. "Your hips moved a full second before your arms followed. In a real fight, I would have stepped inside your guard and opened your throat before your blade reached halfway."
Artorias lowered his stick, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. His legs trembled violently, threatening to give out.
But he didn't stop.
"Then we do it again."
For a brief moment, something almost imperceptible passed across Eligius's face. A faint approval.
"Yes," he said, stepping back into position. "We do."
He raised his weapon again.
"We will do it until your muscles tear. Then we will do it until they rebuild. And we will continue until your body remembers what your mind cannot."
His eyes locked onto Artorias once more.
"Again."