The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the training ground as Sam stood before Old Man Lareth. The veteran warrior—his body marked with scars from a lifetime of battles—watched Sam with a gaze that seemed to pierce through every layer of bravado and uncertainty.

  “Alright, kid,” Lareth said, cracking his knuckles. His voice carried a weight of experience but was laced with a mischievous undertone. “You’ve been swinging that sword like it’s your best friend. Time to see if you can fight with something else. Variety’s the spice of life, after all.”

  Sam frowned, gripping his shadow blade tighter. “I’m comfortable with this. Why fix what isn’t broken?”

  Lareth chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “Because out there”—he gestured toward the horizon—“the world doesn’t play fair. Your enemies won’t always let you fight on your terms. You’ve got to adapt, or you’ll end up six feet under.”

  Sam swallowed hard. The weight of Lareth’s words pressed down on him, a stark reminder of the stakes.

  Lareth tossed a wooden polearm toward Sam, who barely caught it in time. “First lesson: speed and adaptability. You’ve got power, kid, but you’re predictable. Show me what you’ve got with that.”

  Before Sam could respond, Lareth lunged, a wooden staff in his hands. His movements were fluid, almost casual, but Sam could feel the force behind each strike. He barely parried the first blow, the polearm’s unfamiliar weight throwing him off balance.

  “Too slow!” Lareth barked, sweeping Sam’s legs out from under him. “You’re thinking too much. Stop overanalyzing and move!”

  Sam scrambled to his feet, gritting his teeth. He swung the polearm in a wide arc, aiming for Lareth’s torso. The older man sidestepped effortlessly, tapping Sam’s shoulder with his staff.

  “See? Wide swings leave you open. Tighten up your form. Make every move count.”

  The sparring continued, each exchange driving home the gaps in Sam’s technique. Lareth’s strikes were precise, his movements unpredictable. One moment, he was attacking head-on; the next, he was circling behind Sam, forcing him to turn on a dime.

  “You’re fast, but you’re not thinking like a warrior yet,” Lareth said, landing a clean hit on Sam’s ribs. “In a real fight, your enemy isn’t just trying to beat you—they’re trying to kill you. Fight like your life depends on it.”

  Sam’s frustration bubbled to the surface. “Easy for you to say! You’ve had years to perfect this!”

  Lareth smirked. “True. But I didn’t get here by whining about how hard it was. Now, are you going to keep complaining, or are you going to show me what you’re made of?”

  Over the next few days, Lareth introduced Sam to a dizzying array of weapons. Daggers, axes, spears, and even a pair of curved blades that felt impossibly awkward in Sam’s hands.

  “You need to understand how each weapon works,” Lareth explained, demonstrating a series of quick, precise strikes with a pair of short swords. “Not just so you can use them, but so you can counter them. Every weapon has strengths and weaknesses. Learn them, and you’ll always have the upper hand.”

  Sam struggled with the transitions. The dagger felt too light, the spear too unwieldy. He missed the familiar weight of his shadow blade. But as the training continued, he began to see the value in Lareth’s lessons. Each weapon forced him to think differently, to adapt his movements and strategies.

  “Better,” Lareth said one evening after Sam managed to disarm him during a dagger duel. “You’re starting to think like a fighter, not just a swordsman.”

  The culmination of their training came in the form of a major sparring session. Lareth stood at the center of the training ground, armed with a wooden longsword. Sam approached cautiously, his shadow blade in hand.

  “This time,” Lareth said, “I won’t go easy on you.”

  Sam nodded, determination burning in his eyes. He charged, feinting left before aiming a strike at Lareth’s right side. Lareth blocked effortlessly, countering with a swift thrust that forced Sam to retreat.

  “Good feint, but your follow-up was too slow,” Lareth said, his voice calm despite the flurry of blows they exchanged.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Sam tried to outmaneuver him, using the environment to his advantage. He darted behind a tree, attempting to flank Lareth, but the older man anticipated the move, meeting him with a powerful strike that knocked the blade from Sam’s hands.

  “You’re too predictable,” Lareth said, stepping back to let Sam recover his weapon. “You’ve got the right instincts, but you’re not committing to your decisions. If you hesitate, you lose.”

  The duel ended with Lareth standing victorious, his blade pointed at Sam’s chest.

  “Again,” Sam panted, wiping sweat from his brow. “I can do better.”

  Lareth grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

  After the sparring session, Lareth sat with Sam by the fire. The veteran’s tone was softer now, less commanding.

  “Sam, you’ve got potential. More than I’ve seen in a long time. But potential means nothing if your head isn’t in the game.”

  Sam frowned, staring into the flames. “I just… I don’t want to fail. Not again.”

  “Fear is natural,” Lareth said. “But you can’t let it control you. In battle, hesitation will get you killed. Trust yourself, trust your training. And remember—winning isn’t always about strength. It’s about strategy, patience, and knowing when to strike.”

  Sam nodded slowly, Lareth’s words sinking in. He clenched his fists, determination welling up inside him. “I won’t let fear hold me back. Not anymore.”

  Lareth clapped him on the back. “That’s what I like to hear. Now get some rest. Tomorrow, we’re stepping things up a notch.”

  As Sam lay in his bed that night, his body sore but his mind sharper than ever, he realized how much he had grown. Lareth’s training was grueling, but it was shaping him into a warrior—not just in body, but in spirit.

  A Battle Within

  Sam lay on his cot, staring at the wooden ceiling of his temporary quarters. The aches in his muscles were a constant reminder of the grueling training he’d endured under Lareth. The veteran's words from earlier replayed in his mind.

  “Fear will get you killed. Trust yourself, trust your training.”

  Sam clenched his fists, the frustration bubbling up inside him. Lareth’s advice made sense, but it wasn’t as simple as flipping a switch. Fear wasn’t something he could just discard. It clung to him like a shadow, always there, whispering doubts in his ear.

  He sat up, his shadow blade leaning against the wall catching his eye. Its sleek, dark surface seemed to glint faintly in the dim light, almost as if mocking him. He grabbed the weapon, holding it tightly in his hands.

  “Why does everyone want me to be a warrior?” Sam muttered to himself. “Why does everything in this world demand that I fight?”

  He thought back to Lareth, to his parents, even to Isonorai. They all believed in his potential, in his strength. They trained him with unwavering resolve, as if molding him into something he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

  “Do they even see me? Or just the person they want me to become?”

  Sam sighed, leaning back against the wall. The truth was, he didn’t want to be a warrior, not like Lareth or his parents. He didn’t relish the thought of spending his life in constant battle, always preparing for the next fight.

  “I just want to be… me,” he whispered. “But who even is that anymore?”

  His mind drifted back to his old life, the blurry memories that seemed so distant yet so close. He couldn’t remember much—faces, names, a few fleeting moments. But he remembered the feeling of being ordinary, of not having the weight of an entire village or a prophecy resting on his shoulders.

  “Back then, I didn’t have to worry about saving anyone. I wasn’t responsible for anything beyond passing my exams or making it through the day.”

  But now, in this world, he had been given a system, a blade, and a purpose he hadn’t asked for. He was expected to stand tall, to fight, to protect.

  “Is it even okay to want to be normal when everyone’s counting on me?”

  He exhaled shakily, gripping the blade tighter. His knuckles turned white as he wrestled with the growing tension in his chest. He didn’t resent the people around him, but the pressure was suffocating.

  Sam’s gaze shifted to the shadow that danced on the wall beside him, mirroring his movements. Fear wasn’t just something he could train away, like a clumsy stance or a lack of balance. It was deeper, more ingrained.

  “I can’t just stop being afraid,” he muttered. “I’m scared of dying, of failing, of losing everyone again. How am I supposed to fight when I feel like this?”

  His thoughts wandered to the battle with Varak, to the moments when he had been certain he wouldn’t survive. The terror, the helplessness—they were still fresh in his mind. No amount of training could erase that.

  “Maybe that’s what they don’t get,” he said quietly. “I can’t just stop being scared. It’s part of who I am.”

  He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. Fear wasn’t going to disappear overnight, no matter how hard he pushed himself. But maybe… maybe that wasn’t the point.

  Sam stood and walked over to the window, looking out at the night sky. The stars were scattered like tiny pinpricks of light, distant and untouchable. They reminded him of how small he was in the grand scheme of things.

  “Maybe I don’t have to be fearless,” he thought. “Maybe I just have to keep moving, even if I’m scared.”

  The realization was a small one, but it eased some of the tension in his chest. He didn’t have to be like Lareth or his parents. He didn’t have to be the warrior they envisioned. He could be his own kind of fighter—someone who fought not because he was fearless, but because he had people worth fighting for.

  With that thought, Sam returned to his cot. The doubts and fears were still there, but they felt a little less overwhelming. He wasn’t sure if he could ever truly live up to the expectations placed on him, but for now, he would take things one step at a time.

  “Tomorrow’s another day,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “I’ll figure it out. Somehow.”

  And as sleep claimed him, the faint glimmer of determination sparked in his heart. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him going. For now, that was all he needed.