The maid chuckled softly. "Sir Garrick is one of the kingdom's finest warriors. You're in good hands."
"I'm more worried about my bones."
She bowed politely. "I must return to assist at the palace. Good luck, sir."
He watched her vanish back into the gardens like some elegant NPC, and sighed.
"Alright," he muttered to himself. "Let's go say hi to the sentient battering ram."
Garrick met him halfway across the training ground with a thunderous clap to Noah's shoulder.
"HAH! There he is! The great hero!"
Noah staggered a little from the force of the greeting. "Y-Yeah. That's me. Hero of… waking up too early."
Garrick laughed — a big, booming laugh that echoed across the field.
"You've got some color in you! Good. I like that. Too many kids these days act like they were born in a monastery."
"I was born in Jersey," Noah said flatly.
Garrick clapped again. "Excellent! I don't know where that is!"
"Most people don't. It's for the best."
The captain turned and gestured at the weapon racks lined with swords, axes, and a couple of terrifying things that looked like medieval gardening tools.
"This here is your playground, lad. You'll be learning how to fight with weapon in hand, read the battlefield, and move like a soldier of Solmaria."
"Great," Noah said. "When do we cover running away and hiding in closets?"
Garrick threw his head back. "HAH! Humor! That's good. Keep that fire burning. You'll need it."
Noah looked at the training dummies with a wince. "Do I get beginner-level enemies first? Or are we skipping straight to boss fights?"
Garrick marched over to a pair of wooden swords and tossed one to him.
Noah fumbled the catch and barely avoided smacking himself in the face.
"First things first," Garrick said, drawing his own practice blade. "We teach you how not to drop your weapon like a soggy fish."
"Cool. Step one: stop being a soggy fish. Got it."
"Ready your stance," Garrick said, planting his feet apart like a tree with rage issues. "Feet shoulder-width, knees bent, keep your weight balanced."
Noah tried to mimic him.
He looked like a duck trying yoga.
Garrick inspected him for a moment, then stepped over.
"Alright, let me fix this. Your elbows are flopping. You're gripping like it's a chicken leg. And for gods' sake, don't stand like you're about to twerk."
"I am built for twerking," Noah muttered.
"I don't know what that means, lad, but stop it."
He adjusted Noah's posture with the gentle force of a man repositioning a garden statue.
Eventually, Noah stood slightly less like a sack of potatoes.
"Good," Garrick said. "Now strike."
Noah swung the wooden sword forward.
It was more of a wobble than a strike.
Garrick didn't even block.
He just stared at him.
"…What was that?"
"I panicked halfway through."
"Well, you should panic now."
"Wait, what — "
CLACK.
Garrick tapped him square in the ribs with the wooden blade — not hard enough to hurt, but with just enough force to make Noah flinch and question his life choices.
"Lesson one," Garrick said, stepping back. "Don't swing like your sword's made of spaghetti."
Noah wheezed. "Okay. Ow. Noted."
Garrick gave him a toothy grin. "You'll get the hang of it. You've got spirit. That's what matters. Even if your arms are limp as boiled cabbage."
"Thanks. I think."
Noah exhaled, trying to focus his breathing like some kind of anime swordsman.
His grip on the training sword tightened, the wooden hilt already slick from the sheer amount of sweat he'd produced in the last five minutes.
In fairness, it wasn't entirely from the training — he'd nearly had a panic attack watching Garrick crack his knuckles earlier.
That sound had a spiritual pressure behind it.
Sir Garrick, Captain of the Solmaria Vanguard, stood across from him like an ironclad tree.
A really buff tree.
The kind of tree that would probably suplex you if you tried to chop it down.
"Steady your stance," Garrick said, his voice like someone had sandpapered a lion's throat.
Noah adjusted his feet, raising the practice sword in what he thought was a proper stance.
In reality, he looked like a pretzel that had made a couple of bad life choices.
Still, he nodded at Garrick with all the fake confidence of a student bluffing their way through an oral exam.
"This better?" he asked.
Garrick, surprisingly, gave him a single approving nod. "Far better than the first time. At least now you don't look like a chicken mid-seizure."
"Progress!" Noah said with forced enthusiasm. "Next stop, becoming the hero this world doesn't deserve."
He stepped forward and began to swing.
Well, "swing" was generous.
He flailed. Like a wet towel in a hurricane.
His strikes had all the elegance of someone swatting at invisible bees.
He tried a forward stab, then an upward slice, then something that might've been a pirouette if he were on fire and screaming.
To his credit, he was aiming.
To Garrick's credit, he didn't even flinch.
The knight casually sidestepped, parried with the flat of his sword, and tapped Noah on the shoulder with the grace of a disapproving dad.
The moment the wooden blade touched him, a mini shockwave of wind exploded from Noah's back like his dignity was trying to escape.
"Wha — ?"
Before he could finish the word, Garrick struck again.
Thwack.
Right in the side. Another burst of air.
"Wait, hold — "
Thwack.
Stomach.
He felt his soul briefly disconnect.
"Okay, I ge — "
Thwack.
Back. His spine whispered betrayal.
By the fifth strike, Noah stood there, sword dangling from his fingers like it was contemplating a career change.
His knees buckled slightly, and his mouth hung open in a perfect "O" of betrayal.
Somewhere in the background, he was pretty sure a bird was laughing at him.
"I thought this was supposed to be basic training!" Noah wheezed, barely catching himself before falling over.
"It is," Garrick replied calmly, sheathing his practice blade like a samurai who just ended a war. "If this were advanced, you'd be bleeding."