Noah flopped onto the ground dramatically, limbs sprawled out like he was making a snow angel of regret.
"Sir, I'm a pacifist now. I've seen the light."
Garrick chuckled, sitting beside him.
The ground trembled slightly under his weight.
"You've got a good heart, boy. But the sword doesn't care about pacifism. Nor do the beasts outside these walls."
"Yeah well, neither do my shoulders," Noah groaned, rubbing them. "Feels like you're trying to turn me into a musical instrument."
"You make a fine drum."
"Please don't say that with pride."
They sat in silence for a moment, Noah catching his breath while staring up at the sky.
The clouds were beautiful. Probably because they weren't currently getting beat by Garrick.
After a while, Noah sat up. "So, how'd you end up as the royal vanguard guy? You look like someone who's personally drop-kicked a dragon."
Garrick laughed, the kind of hearty, booming sound that made you feel like everything was going to be okay.
Unless you were fighting him.
"Used to be a blacksmith's apprentice," Garrick said. "Picked up a sword one day, and the rest is history. I've served the royal family since I was seventeen. Trained three generations of knights. Even the king used to run laps under my orders."
"Wait — seriously? You made the king run?"
"Cried halfway through the second lap. Don't tell him I told you."
Noah grinned. "My lips are sealed. I don't want to get exiled before lunch."
"You'll make it," Garrick said, standing up and offering him a hand. "But not if you keep swinging like you're swatting flies."
Noah took his hand and got to his feet. "You know, the flies in this world probably are sword-proof, so that might not be the worst tactic."
Garrick ignored the comment and pointed to a wooden dummy nearby. "Let's try something else. Focus your strikes there. Get a rhythm going."
Noah groaned. "Do I get snacks after this?"
"You get water."
"Fine. But I'm writing a complaint to the Hero Union."
"There is no Hero Union."
"Exactly. That's my first complaint."
Despite his whining, Noah approached the dummy.
He adjusted his grip, took a deep breath, and began striking.
It still looked like interpretive dance meets self-defense, but at least he wasn't hitting himself anymore.
As he continued, Garrick nodded in approval.
"Better. Keep at it. You've got potential."
"Thanks," Noah said, panting. "If I collapse, tell my family I died doing something heroic."
"They'll say you tripped over your own sword and fell into a cabbage cart."
"That's oddly specific."
"It's happened before."
He kept swinging.
Swing after swing.
His arms felt like noodles.
His back screamed. His legs were writing angry letters to HR.
But he kept going.
Because despite the pain, despite the humility, there was something… thrilling about it.
…
Many minutes later, Noah wasn't sure what hurt more — the fact that he got sent flying like a paper bag in a hurricane, or the wounded pride from how calm Garrick looked doing it.
He blinked up at the sky, stars still dancing around his vision.
His body twitched slightly in the dirt, limbs stiff like someone had replaced his bones with spaghetti and left them al dente.
The spot where the wooden training sword had smacked into his ribs still pulsed, as if trying to remember the exact shape of Garrick's disappointment.
"Take ten as a break," Garrick called out casually, stabbing his wooden sword into the ground like it owed him money. "You didn't die that time, so that's a win."
"Oh yay," Noah coughed. "I'm improving."
From the side, a small procession of maids entered the training ground like magical lunch fairies.
Their shoes padded gently against the grass, hands full of silver trays.
One of them had a napkin over her arm like they were in some five-star fantasy café and not in what Noah had begun to call the Field of Bruised Ego.
"Sir Hero, allow us to help you freshen up," one said sweetly.
He didn't even argue. His arms were shaking harder than a junkie on caffeine withdrawal.
He let them gently wash his hands with a warm cloth and accepted the weird, colorful snack things they offered.
Some of the food looked like marshmallows that had been in a fight with fruit.
Others resembled cookies, but when he bit into one, it was soft… and then spicy?
"What the hell," Noah muttered between chews. "Did this cookie just insult me?"
"It is spiced honey-root bread," one maid replied, beaming like she'd just handed him a Nobel Prize in choking hazards.
Noah gave a shaky thumbs-up and went back to chewing.
"Sir Garrick," he wheezed mid-bite. "How the hell did you do that thing?"
Garrick was sitting nearby on a stump like it was his royal throne, arms crossed and face calm.
His armor gleamed in the sun.
"That thing?" Garrick raised an eyebrow.
"You hit me," Noah said, waving a half-eaten snack like it was a courtroom exhibit. "Five times. Five different points. And every time — boom — shockwave outta my spine like I just sneezed out a tornado."
Garrick chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made Noah feel like a schoolboy again.
"That is what we call 'Impact Flow.' It's a basic application of soul weight and precise motion."
"Okay, whoa whoa. Back it up. Soul weight? Is that like… fantasy cholesterol?"
Garrick blinked. "Your soul has presence, young Hero. When trained, that presence can be channeled into your attacks, your stance, even your very breath. It's how seasoned warriors fight. I simply used five calculated strikes to temporarily disrupt your flow and simulate pressure. If I'd used a real sword, your bones would've become gravel."
Noah nodded slowly, not because he understood, but because he was afraid of what follow-up demonstrations would look like.
"Cool cool," he said. "I'll just learn to weaponize my soul and casually slap people into next week. Totally normal stuff. This is fine."
A maid reached over and wiped some honey-root residue off his chin.