Willpower vs. Wooden Dummy

I had gone straight back to the inn after the whole fiasco at the dining hall to sleep. Coming close to death had tuckered me out.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the smell.

Not food. Not something nice like soap or flowers.

No, it was the rancid stench of… me.

I sat up slowly, wincing as every muscle in my body protested. My borrowed tunic was ripped and caked in dirt, ash, and gravy. One sleeve was practically gone, and the hem looked like it had been chewed by an angry goat. The tailor-made outfit I got yesterday was totaled in less than two hours of use. And my school uniform? Dissolved by Glorb like it was a snack while I was off almost dying at the feast.

This was not how I pictured my new life in another world.

I dragged myself out of bed and flexed my right hand. The faint scar from where I gripped the blade too hard still stung. My sword—the one that was supposed to protect me, make me a “hero”—was now just a pile of sad, jagged pieces sitting in the corner.

I guess I need a new weapon now.

***

I limped outside to the empty training yard behind the nearby barracks. The air was crisp, the sun just peeking over the castle walls. For a second, I let myself think, Okay. Fresh start. Today, I focus. No more distractions, no more depending on anyone.

Then I tried to train. I didn’t have a proper weapon, so I used a stick I found on the ground. Ten swings in, the stick snapped.

Plan B was shadowboxing, only that had me gasping for air after two minutes.

“This… is fine,” I wheezed, bending over my hands on my knees. “Totally fine. I’ll just… figure something out.”

Except I couldn’t. Not without a weapon or a plan.

Everytime I closed my eyes, I saw Kaela with her basket of exploding fruit, doing everything she could to help me against those masked intruders.

I hated it. I hated that I was weak enough to need help.

This was supposed to be a solo run, not a team project.

Hold on… yesterday before I left the castle, Elara  mentioned a weaponsmith in Dragon’s Row—”Ardan’s Forge.” Said he sometimes traded work for gear if you were desperate enough.

Oh, I was desperate.

***

The streets were buzzing once again in the capitol. Somewhere, I could hear a bard butchering a love ballad on a lute. It was like the whole fiasco last night never happened.

I stuck out like a grime-streaked sore thumb as I limped my way along the streets.

The forge was tucked behind a row of stone buildings, smoke curling from its chimney. Inside, the heat hit me like a wall. Sparks flew as a man the size of a wardrobe hammered glowing steel.

He looked up, eyes narrowing. “What.”

“Uh… hi,” I said. “I, um, need a sword.”

“Got coin?” His voice traveled like distant thunder.

He stared.

“Okay, no coin,” I admitted quickly. “But! I can work. Odd jobs, whatever you need. I’ll scrub floors, shovel coal, fight a raccoon—” he grunted.

“Does Minecraft count?”

“...Huh?”

“Never mind.”

He jabbed a thumb at a mountain of crates. “You move those. Then scrub the troughs. Do that for a week, along with some other work, and I’ll give you something in exchange.”

“Deal,” I said instantly.

I’ll take anything, as long as I don’t have to use my fists to fight.

So I rolled up what was left of my sleeves and got to work. Turns out crates filled with ore are heavy. Like, “goodbye spinal health” heavy. By the time I finished, I looked like I’d gone three rounds with a troll and lost every single one.

The smith—Ardan—grunted in what might’ve been approval. “Not bad. Come back tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait,” I groaned, staggering out.

***

By late evening, I’d dragged myself back to the training yard.

I had to get stronger. Or at least slightly less pathetic. I couldn’t wait a week to train with the sword I’d get from Ardan.

I borrowed a wooden practice sword from a rack and squared off against a training dummy.

I swung.

Thunk.

The dummy didn’t even wobble. I swung again. Same result. My arms ached, my grip slipped, and after ten minutes, I collapsed.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

A shadow fell over me. I rolled onto my back and—yep. Silver hair.

“Of course it’s you,” I muttered.

Elara looked down at me. “Your stance is weak. Your balance is worse. You’re wasting energy. Let me show you.”

She stepped forward, taking the wooden sword from my hands like it weighed nothing. In one fluid motion, she slashed the dummy clean in half. Wood splintered. My jaw hit the dirt.

“…How did you do that?”

“You rely on brute force,” she said, handing the sword back. “That will get you killed. You need precision. Awareness. Intent.”

“Great, I’ll just download those,” I said, miming a progress bar.

Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“I suppose I can give you some advice,” she said.

A part of me—the stubborn, prideful part— wanted to scream no immediately. The other part wanted to say yes.

“...Why?” I asked finally. “Why help me?”

“Because you’re not ready,” she said simply. “And if you fall, everything falls.”

Cryptic much? But before I could argue, she stepped back.

“There’s a training hall beyond the lower courtyard,” she said. “Weapons. Dummies. Instructors. Go there tomorrow. Tell them I sent you.”

“But—”

Then she left without another word, vanishing into the night like a phantom.

I stared after her for a while before returning to my training.

***

By the time I collapsed onto my cot, my body felt like overcooked spaghetti. But my brain wouldn’t shut up.

Elara’s words kept echoing.

Kaela’s panicked face flashed in my mind.

And underneath all the annoyance, all the pride… was a tiny ember of something else.

Hope.

I hated it. But it was there.

Maybe I couldn’t do this alone. Maybe relying on others could help. Maybe—ugh, I can’t believe I’m thinking this—it could actually keep me alive. For now, anyway. Once I’m prepared enough, I’ll just go solo again.

“…Still feels gross,” I muttered into my pillow.

But tomorrow, I’d continue those jobs at the forge. I’d go to the training hall. I’d figure this out. Because if I didn’t…

Well. Let’s not find out.

***

The streets were quiet when Kaela had left the tavern. Lantern light spilled across cobblestones, casting long shadows that danced with every flicker of the flame.

Her steps were quick—too quick. She hated this feeling, like eyes were watching her from the dark. Maybe they were. After yesterday… it wouldn’t surprise her.

She hugged her cloak tighter and whispered under her breath, like reciting a mantra: “Just get home. Stay quiet. No one knows.”

Because if anyone did know—about the sigils etched in her grimoire, the catalysts hidden under loose floorboards—she wouldn’t just be in trouble. She’d be dead. The Council would make sure of that. There was a reason alchemists like her were almost gone from Valeria.

“Exploding apples. Real smart, Kaela…” Her own voice sounded bitter in her head. She hadn’t planned to fight at the feast. She only wanted to blend in, observe, and leave unnoticed. But then those men attacked, and—

She clenched her fists. She didn’t regret saving him. But she hated the attention it brought.

A sound pulled her from her thoughts. Metal striking wood—rhythmic, determined. She stopped at the edge of the barracks yard, heart jumping when she saw him.

The Hero. She remembered King Edyrias calling him Itsuki.

His clothes were torn, his stance unsteady, but he kept swinging that battered practice sword like sheer willpower could make up for everything he lacked. Every movement screamed exhaustion… and stubbornness.

Kaela gripped her cloak tighter. Why was he pushing himself so hard? Didn’t he understand how dangerous this world was for someone like him?

Or maybe… that was why.

Her throat felt tight. For a long moment, she just watched, hidden in the shadows, torn between stepping forward and running home.

But in the end, she turned away.