The sun began to set. The forest grew darker. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"So I killed them?" I stared at the ground. At my hands. At the blood I couldn't see but still felt.
"Yes, you did." Draka walked ahead, his back straight, his voice flat. "I saw everything."
He slowed his pace and glanced at my trembling hands.
"Listen, kid." His voice was hard but not cruel. "You need to accept one thing right now. In this world, you eat or you're eaten. There's no middle ground. No mercy. No second chances."
I looked back at the ruined village. The bodies. The blood. The life I'd taken.
"Are those people normal?"
"They're cannibals." Draka didn't slow down. "They're common in these parts. They attack. They loot. They eat."
He stopped and turned to face me. His expression was stern—older than his years, harder than stone.
"That's why they're not considered human anymore."
He resumed walking. I followed.
We reached a small campsite—an old tent, a fire pit, a silver pot hanging over cold ash. Draka sat on a mossy rock and fixed me with a heavy stare.
"Boy, do you truly want to survive in this world?"
I sat on the grass and picked up a twig. Fiddled with it. Avoided his eyes.
"Do I have a choice?"
"Stand up."
I looked up. His voice had changed. Harder. Sharper. Commanding.
I stood slowly. "What do you want me to do?"
"Lift your blade."
"I can't. It's too heavy."
He stepped closer. "If you can't lift your sword, how do you expect to survive?"
I grabbed the claymore. My arms shook. The blade barely left the ground.
What's wrong with me? Why can't I—
Draka moved behind me and took my left hand. Positioned it on the hilt.
"Don't rely on brute strength alone. Hold the blade at a forty-five-degree angle. Lift gently. Let the sword do the work."
I followed his instructions. The weight shifted. It didn't feel lighter, but it felt... manageable.
"Good. Now take one step back. Angle the claymore higher. Keep your shoulders firm. And don't grip it so tightly—you're strangling it, not wielding it."
I adjusted. Something shifted inside me. The sword felt comfortable. Natural. Like my body had been waiting for this.
"I see." Draka stepped back. "Now do one hundred vertical swings."
"My name is Z—"
"I don't care what your name is, boy. Just swing."
He turned away and rummaged through his old bag.
I swung.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
My form was sloppy. Slow. I dropped the claymore twice. My muscles screamed.
Draka watched every swing. Said nothing. Then—
"YOUR FORM IS SLOPPY. REPEAT."
"My arm hurts!"
"IF YOU WANT TO SURVIVE, YOU LISTEN. REPEAT."
I kept swinging. My veins bulged. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I looked up at the sky—the stars were beginning to appear, cold and distant.
"This place is beauti—"
Draka slapped the back of my head.
"CONTINUE. YOU'RE NOT RESTING UNTIL YOU DO ONE HUNDRED PERFECT SWINGS."
His voice was thunder.
I grabbed the claymore tighter. Swung again. Again. Again.
I lost count. My body moved on its own. My arms ached. My lungs burned. But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
My eyes stayed wide. Unblinking. Just the blade. Just the swing. Just perfect.
Then—
"Stop."
Draka grabbed my shoulder. I blinked once. Twice. Looked back at him.
"Did I... did I do it?"
My voice was barely a whisper. My body was done.
He looked at me—really looked at me—and for the first time, his face softened.
"You did one thousand perfect swings." A pause. "I'm proud of you."
"Thank... thank you."
My vision blurred. The world spun. Then—nothing.