Chapter 119: It’s all wrong.

“It’s all wrong.”

Caerth’s voice was firm, without anger—but filled with a coldness that weighed more heavily than any shout. The veteran watched Damon with his arms crossed, his expression like someone assessing a structure about to collapse.

“Using a spear alone without training has destroyed your entire foundation,” he continued, circling the blond slowly. “Your entire posture is wrong. Essentially, any martial art or bladed weapon requires a firm foundation. Yours…” He paused behind him, his voice dropping to an almost didactic tone of disdain. “It’s garbage in every way.”

Damon turned his head, casting a sideways glance—somewhere between irritation and disbelief. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of the wind rustling leaves on the ground.

“…Well, you don’t have to say it like that,” he muttered, raising his eyebrows and letting out a heavy sigh.

Caerth didn’t laugh. He didn’t even seem to hear.

“Straighten your right foot,” he ordered.

Damon did so, dragging his foot across the cold stone of the courtyard.

“Now your left… no, not like that.” Caerth moved toward him, nudging his knee with his foot. “You’re putting the wrong weight on it. If this were a real fight, you’d be down by now.”

Damon snorted. “Hard to keep your balance with a teacher kicking me.”

“Better than keeping your balance with a sword through your stomach.”

The dry comment made Damon close his mouth. Caerth watched him for a moment, then stepped back and drew his sword. The silver blade gleamed in the cold morning light.

“Listen, Damon. Swordsmanship—whether noble, military, or demonic—is based on three pillars: position, rhythm, and intent. If one fails, the others crumble. And you…” he gestured vaguely, “have none of them.”

Damon rolled his eyes. “Are you always like this with those you train with?”

“Only with those who have the potential to not die in five minutes.”

“Oh. What a compliment…” the blond sneered.

“Shut up.” Caerth raised his sword and pointed the edge at him. “Guard position.”

Damon mimicked the movement, feet apart, sword in front.

Caerth looked. Then shook his head.

“You look like a drunken blacksmith trying to hold a shovel,” he said, walking toward him. “The front arm isn’t for thrusting, but for focusing the blow. The back arm directs, but the power comes from the hip.” He touched Damon’s shoulder and turned him slightly. “The base of the body is like a bow. The sword is the arrow. Understand?”

Damon tried to adjust his posture, but his balance felt… off. The spear had always given him distance; the sword, on the contrary, demanded intimacy. He felt vulnerable, too exposed.

Caerth noticed. “Are you afraid to approach?”

“It’s not fear. It’s habit.”

“Tradition kills more than fear,” he replied firmly. “Advance.”

Damon hesitated for a second, then advanced.

Caerth blocked with a single, crisp, clean movement. The sound of steel echoed in the courtyard, a metallic clang followed by silence. Damon attempted another blow—more strength than technique. The veteran dodged with minimal effort, and Damon’s blade scraped against the air.

“You’re attacking with your arms,” ​​Caerth corrected him. “Use your body.”

Damon attacked again, rotating his hips, trying to feel the weight of the sword flow with the movement. The blow still came out crooked, but at least it hit the right spot.

“Better,” Caerth said. “Now block.”

The blow came fast. Damon barely had time to react—he raised his blade, and the impact knocked him back three steps. Caerth’s strength was absurd. The man took a step back and stared at him impassively.

“See? Defending isn’t about blocking. It’s about directing the enemy’s blow. Absorbing and redirecting.” He swung his sword in a slow arc, demonstrating. “The blade is an extension of your body, not a wall.”

Damon nodded, trying to mimic the movement.

Caerth made him repeat the gesture dozens of times. Short steps, cutting, parrying, retreating. Each mistake was mercilessly pointed out:

“You’re lifting your elbow too high.”

“Your right foot is dragging.”

“The blade is misaligned.”

“Don’t look at the sword—look at the enemy’s chest.”

With each correction, Damon felt his anger rising. Not at Caerth, but at himself. His body wouldn’t respond. His muscles, molded by the spear, resisted the lightness the sword demanded.

After more than an hour, sweat was already dripping down his chin, and the cold air bit at his lungs.

“Again,” Caerth ordered.

“I’ve lost count,” Damon replied through gritted teeth.

“Good. So you’re starting to learn.”

The blow came. Damon raised his blade, deflecting the sideways attack and stepping back with a twist of his foot. The sound of metal was clean this time. Caerth gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“That’s it. Now attack.”

Damon lunged forward, executing a thrust. Caerth dodged, countered, and the two blades met hard. The impact vibrated through Damon’s arms.

Caerth pushed harder, pushing him back. “Don’t fight the pressure. The sword isn’t about overcoming force, but about controlling the flow.”

“Easy to say.”

“Easy to do, if you stop thinking.” Caerth flicked his wrist and disarmed him in one swift movement. Damon’s sword clattered to the ground with a dull metallic clang. “See? You’ve thought too much.”

Damon took a deep breath, retrieving his sword. “Are you telling me to fight without thinking?”

“I’m telling you to let your body think instead.” Caerth pressed the tip of his sword to the ground. “Reasoning comes after you stop dying.”

For a moment, silence hung between them. The wind blew again, stirring up the frozen dust.

Caerth broke the moment. “Let’s try something different.”

He picked up a small stone from the ground and threw it high into the air.

“Cut.”

Damon reacted quickly, shifting his body and raising his sword. The blade sliced ​​through the air—but the stone fell intact, thumping lightly against the ground.

Caerth crossed his arms. “Again.”

Another stone. Another missed cut.

Again.

Again.

On the tenth try, Damon finally landed—the sound of impact was a soft crack, and the stone split in half.

Caerth just watched, his gaze appraising. “You’re starting to feel the time. That’s what separates a quick strike from a precise one.”

Damon was panting, but there was a slight glint in his eyes.

“Then I’m not that bad.”

“Still awful,” Caerth replied dryly. “But it’s less terrible than it was an hour ago.”

Damon gave a short laugh. “You really don’t know how to give a compliment, do you?”

“And you still don’t know how to take one.”

They returned to their guard position. The routine began again. Cut, parry, thrust, retreat.

Caerth spoke little, but every word was a direct hit:

“Feel the weight of the blade, don’t fight it.”

“Breathe in time with your steps.”

“Don’t push the enemy. Draw the enemy.”

As the hours passed, Damon began to notice something. Every move Caerth made had a purpose. There was no waste, no hesitation. He seemed to know what Damon would do before the blond even moved.

As the sun began to rise in the sky, Caerth lowered his sword. “That’s enough for today.”

Damon was sweating, his arms trembling, his entire body crying out for rest. But for the first time, he wasn’t frustrated. The initial discomfort had given way to something different—a strange sense of… stability.

Caerth noticed. “You feel that?”

“What?”

“That your body has stopped fighting you.”

Damon thought for a moment and nodded.

“It’s the beginning of learning.” Caerth wiped the blade with a cloth and put it away. “The sword demands harmony. It doesn’t bend to force. It follows the rhythm of who you are.”

Damon looked at his calloused hands, scarred from spear training. “What if what I am is chaos?”

Caerth gave a slight smile, the first of the day. “Then the sword will teach order.”

The wind blew again, cold and steady. Caerth turned, walking to the center of the courtyard. “Tomorrow we’ll do it again. We’ll start with thrusts and shifts. Then we’ll see if you can attack without looking like a blind bear.”

Damon let out a hoarse laugh. “You really have a talent for flattery.”

“If you want compliments, go find Elizabeth,” the veteran replied, without turning his head. “If you want to learn how to kill without dying, show up here at sunrise.”

Caerth stopped walking and looked back, his gaze sharp as the edge of the sword he’d just sheathed. Damon was still breathing heavily, leaning on his knees, sweat dripping down his neck and onto the stone floor.

“Enough steel for now,” the veteran said, his voice filled with that calm that always preceded an order. “Tomorrow we’ll start with wooden weapons.”

Damon looked up, frowning. “Wooden swords?”

“Yes,” Caerth replied dryly. “Iron deceives. Wood reveals.”

The blond blinked, confused. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Caerth crossed his arms. “It does, if you think like a warrior, not a blacksmith.” He took a step forward. “Steel makes you believe you’re strong. It weighs, it responds to impact, and for a moment, it makes you think you’re in control. But wood…” He made a vague gesture with his hand, as if holding something invisible. “…wood shows how out of control you really are.”

Damon stared at him, still panting. “So you want me to play with a stick?”

“I want you to learn to master what’s inside you before you hold on to what can kill you,” Caerth replied without hesitation. “If you can’t measure your own strength, you’ll end up breaking more than swords.”

The comment hung in the air for a few seconds. Damon felt the impact of the words, even though the man’s tone was almost casual. He knew Caerth wasn’t just talking about physical strength.

“You’re too brutal,” the veteran continued, pacing in slow circles around him. “When you fight, your entire body screams. Every muscle in you is at war with the next. That’s why you lose your balance, why your blade trembles.”

“I’m not a monk, Caerth,” Damon replied irritably. “I’m not going to meditate on harmony and breathing while someone tries to cut off my head.”

Caerth stopped, turning to him. “And that’s why I would die before the second blow.” There was no cruelty in his tone, just absolute certainty.

Damon fell silent.

Caerth approached, his gaze serious. “Strength is useless without direction. And direction only comes with awareness. Tomorrow, you will learn this. You will learn to feel the weight of your body, the rhythm of your stride, the limits of your own pulse.” He patted Damon’s chest. “You have too much muscle and too little control.”

“And how will wood solve that?”

“Because it doesn’t lie,” Caerth replied. “Steel forgives. Wood doesn’t. If you miss an angle, it bounces. If you miss the timing, it vibrates. It will feel every mistake. Every missed blow will punish you.”

Damon took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the man.

“And when I learn?”

Caerth arched an eyebrow. “When you stop fighting yourself.”

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