Path of Dragons-Chapter 3Book 9: : Crutches

Ivin’s sword came in low, whistling through the air with such speed that Miguel questioned whether or not the shackles even affected the elf. His responding moves were slow. Sluggish. Like he had a thousand-pound weight strapped to his ankle. Still, he forced his leg back, narrowly dodging the oncoming blade.

It still clipped the loose fabric of his pants, but Miguel danced back in a retreat, unscathed and ready for the next attack. He held his sword before him, prepared for whatever angle Ivin’s blade took.

The elf was much bigger than him. At least half a foot taller, and maybe thirty pounds – of pure muscle – heavier. He was also significantly more skilled, as Miguel had learned on multiple occasions over the past month. More often than he wanted to, at least. And probably less often than he really needed to drive home the lesson.

Because Miguel had grown complacent.

Certainly, Birk’s lessons had carried him through the Hollow Depths, and they were likely the only reason he’d managed to survive. However, the second he’d faced off with Ivin, he was reminded that his education was both far too short and woefully insufficient.

But then again, that was expected. Birk had warned him that he would fall behind if he didn’t keep up with his training, if he let his edge dull. Miguel had listened. He’d taken that advice to heart. Yet, there were only so many opportunities for self-improvement when he spent most days fighting for his life.

And as he’d learned in Ironshore, good sparring opportunities were few and far between. Colt, for all his folksy wisdom and dedication to swordsmanship, was no longer a good partner. He was a good man, a great mentor, and a decent Warrior. But he was not a true technician with the blade.

Miguel had outstripped him long ago.

The result was complacency, and the second he’d faced off against Ivin, he was reminded of just how little he knew about swordsmanship.

Or fighting in general.

Ivin’s sword whipped toward him, and Miguel barely managed to get his own blade up in time. The two clacked together, the sound echoing across the training room. Miguel shifted his feet, ready for the next strike. It came, but not on the path he’d anticipated. Less than a second later, the blade slammed into his side, cracking one of his ribs and leaving a welt on his naked skin.

He didn’t give up, though. Instead, he returned the attack with one of his own. Ivin’s weapon moved like a snake, whipping upward and parrying Miguel’s first strike. The second almost slipped through, and Ivin shifted backward. Sensing an opening, Miguel pressed his advantage, pelting Ivin with furious blows. Each intercepted strike fueled his assault, his pace quickening with every passing moment.

But he couldn’t keep it up.

He knew that, and so did Ivin. The older man was stronger, more durable, and had far more stamina. While Miguel’s body was slick with sweat, Ivin looked the same as he had when they’d begun their training session hours before. That was just the outward evidence of the differences, though.

Miguel’s rush of adrenaline helped for a few seconds, but soon enough, his fatigue affected him. Not by decreasing the fury of his assault – he kept that up admirably, pushing through his exhaustion and keeping the effects of fatigue at bay. Rather, his attacks grew sloppier with each passing moment until he left a huge opening.

Ivin took advantage, slamming his blade into Miguel’s head with so much force that he blacked out for a few seconds. When he came to, his cheek was buried in the sand of the small arena. A moment later, he realized Ivin was standing over him.

“Your technique became sloppy.”

Miguel exhaled, blowing coarse sand away, then rolled over. Closing his eyes against the piercing pain of what he knew was a concussion, he said, “I got tired. I’m not used to low attributes.”

“Here,” Ivin said, and Miguel opened his eyes to see that the Illythiri had extended his dark, calloused hand. He took it, then allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. A second later, the elf handed him a small vial full of clear liquid. “Drink this. It will help.”

Miguel downed the vial, letting the cool rejuvenation it offered wash through his body. It did nothing for his exhaustion, but it would put his body in position to mend quickly. Ivin called it the Water of Life, but from what Miguel knew, it was basically just a diluted alchemical healing potion.

Even that was a luxury most people in Eldrathûn could not afford.

“Do you know why you continue to fail?” asked Ivin, stepping back and inspecting his practice blade. It was made from some sort of wood native to the Hollow Depths, its extreme durability making it perfect for the task at hand. Even if his attributes and skills hadn’t been shackled, it would have been difficult for him to break the blade.

Not that he’d been allowed to go around unshackled.

“Because you’re better than me,” he guessed.

“Because you lean on your crutches,” Ivin stated. “Attributes are a crutch. Skills are a crutch. Cultivation is a crutch. The only thing that matters is the discipline of technique. From it flows true strength. With it leading the way, everything else will come. You have not truly embraced the blade, and so, you fail.”

“Is that why I have to wear these shackles all the time?” Miguel asked, holding up his arms. A pair of woven silver bands encircled his wrists. They weren’t shackles, per se. He could remove them anytime he wished. However, from what he’d learned, there were versions used on prisoners, which was where the name had been derived. The kind he wore were intended for training purposes.

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“Yes. The shackles free your body from the tyranny of attributes. They remove the temptation to take the easy way out,” Ivin answered. Then, he gave Miguel a rare smile, adding, “It also saves us the trouble of creating an appropriately sized space.”

Miguel sighed. That was probably true. Even the training grounds back in Ironshore had, by necessity, encompassed an area the size of two football fields stuck together. One day, that might not even be enough.

“You need to work on your footwork and increase your stamina. You know the training regimen,” said Ivin. “You have improved, but you have a long path ahead of you. Do you have any questions?”

Miguel shook his head. As Ivin had said, he knew what he needed to do. There were no special tricks to swordsmanship. No secret moves that would unlock his potential and guarantee victory. The only answer was hard work, discipline, and time.

Colt had said something similar, though he’d been a little more concerned with integrating increased attributes, spells, and skills into the mix. Presumably, Ivin felt the same way, but he’d often stated that those things were useless without a good foundation of technique.

And given Miguel’s experiences in his tutelage, he had to agree.

He ran his hand through his sweat-slick hair, then asked, “Again?”

The Water of Life had banished his budding headache, and even the ache in his ribs had decreased to a dull soreness. He was still exhausted, but he would keep going until Ivin wanted to quit. That was the commitment he’d made in the very beginning. In matters of training, he had no say. He simply obeyed.

“No,” Ivin said. “You are too fatigued. Go and rest. Tomorrow morning, we will spar again before your daily routine.” freёnovelkiss.com

Miguel bowed at the dismissal. Ivin nodded in approval, then left his pupil to his own devices. Once the elf was gone, Miguel felt his shoulders slump as the weight of true exhaustion settled over him. He wanted nothing more than to simply flop down and go to sleep right then and there. However, he refused to allow that.

For one thing, he was filthy. His sticky torso – and his cheek – was covered in sand, and he felt absolutely disgusting. To remedy that, he gathered his things and headed to the exit. The small arena was only about a hundred feet wide, but it was part of a much larger training complex within the palace. Everywhere Miguel looked, he saw Illythiri in various states of practice. Some fought in identical arenas, using practice weapons similar to the one Miguel had been issued. Others lifted weights or did calisthenics. Still others engaged in cardiovascular training, doing gymnastics or simply sprinting around a large track that encircled the whole facility.

In all, it reminded Miguel of a high-end professional sports compound. The only difference was that it was populated by dark-skinned elves. And Miguel himself, of course. Everyone there wore the shackles, though some of those woven metal bands were far thicker than others.

They had to be to suppress the truly strong.

Miguel was not among those who needed such measures – not so far away from the grove, at least.

With a sigh, he entered the public baths and quickly stripped off before ducking into one of the shower stalls. The cold water washed his sweat away, and he used a harsh soap to scour the filth from his body before he plunged into a nearby pool of scalding water. There, he rested.

He wasn’t the only one in the baths. Indeed, there were dozens of men and women there. At first, Miguel had found it difficult not to stare – which the elves found absolutely hilarious – but in the month since he’d taken up residence in the training facility, he’d grown accustomed to nudity.

Mostly.

Every now and then, he still found his eyes wandering, but he had thankfully learned to manage his reactions.

Someone slipped into the pool only a few feet away, and from the sound of the sigh, Miguel didn’t need to open his eyes to know that his friend had joined him.

“I hate it here,” Isaak complained. “Have I told you that before?”

“You have,” Miguel responded.

“Well, I do.”

Miguel opened his eyes and focused on his friend. “What was it this time?”

“Mostly just the running,” he muttered. “I’m a mage. I don’t need cardio.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

“When I decided to stick around, I thought I’d have my nose in books. Not…”

Miguel knew his friend well enough to know why he’d trailed off. For all that Miguel had learned self-control, Isaak very much had not. Every time an elven woman came near him, he started stuttering. And it was even worse in the baths – a predictable turn of events, but still something he wished Isaak would get over. If he didn’t, he’d get a bad reputation.

“Snap out of it.”

“What? Oh. S-sorry,” Isaak muttered. In a lower voice, he said, “I don’t know how you manage not to stare.”

“Discipline. That’s the whole point of all this. You realize that, right? If you want to reach your potential, you need to be able to –”

“I know. I heard the same thing you heard when we got here,” Isaak sighed. “How long do you think we’ll be here before we’re allowed to level again?”

“As long as it takes,” Miguel said. He was more than eager to get back onto the battlefield and earn some experience, but Isaak took it to an extreme. The young man was already Miguel’s superior – at least in terms of levels, if not cultivation – but he had an appetite for progression that sometimes bordered on mania.

It really wasn’t surprising, either. Since the very beginning, Isaak had been mostly alone. Sure, he had his cat, Artemis, to keep him company, but that particular feline was even more independent-minded than most. Isaak had risen to the occasion, becoming the hero of Argos well before Elijah had even visited. He was strong, and he was driven to become stronger.

Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have survived so long.

“All we can do is commit to the training,” Miguel went on. “Learn what we’re meant to learn. I’m sure Ivin has a plan.”

“For you, maybe. I’m just your plus-one.”

“That’s because they haven’t seen you fight,” Miguel argued. “I think when you start roasting trolls with soulfire, they’ll think differently.”

“Maybe,” Isaak said.

For the next few minutes, the pair silently soaked in the warm, rejuvenating waters. Miguel felt his muscles unkink, and his fatigue faded into a dull ache. He still wasn’t fit for further training – not yet – but it did wonders for his recovery.

“I wish Artemis was here. She would have loved it,” Isaak stated.

“Trevor would hate it. He doesn’t like buildings,” Miguel responded. As much as he wished the stag had come with him, he knew it just wasn’t practical. And if Artemis had come, she’d have likely already killed someone. That cat might’ve started out as a domesticated cat, but she’d definitely returned to the wild.

If Miguel was honest, he mostly just missed other humans. Having Isaak around was great. It helped more than Miguel was willing to admit. But being surrounded by elves came with more than a little culture shock. In some ways, the manifestations of that alien culture was obvious. The food was odd, with unfamiliar spices and unrecognizable components. But social norms were weird as well – like the slightly matriarchal society and their reverence for the empress. Countless other differences were evident the moment he looked a little closer.

These people were even more alien than the dwarves, gnomes, and goblins that populated Ironshore.

But just because they were different didn’t mean they were evil. Miguel had to keep reminding himself that, else he’d remember that it wasn’t that long ago he’d been forced to kill hundreds of them as they attacked his home.

Once again, he sighed, then decided he’d soaked long enough.

Pushing himself from the pool, he said, “I’m going to train a little more before dinner.”

“You’re a machine,” Isaak said, pointedly looking away from a pair of giggling Illythiri women who very much knew he wanted to look at them.

“Just taking it seriously,” he said before treating to the changing room where he’d left his clothing to be cleaned. The moment he was dressed, he headed back to the training yard and got to work.