Tell Him The Truth

Asselin drew his sword swiftly, but he had barely drawn an inch when a firm grip stopped his movement. The armor-clad old man was now standing in front of him, looking at him with chilling hostility.

"Know your place boy." Orym Torfiel berated him coldly. "Not even your father would dare point a sword at me, let alone a brat like you still wet behind the ears."

"Let me go." The swordsman snarled as he yanked his sleeve with a sharp tug while retaliating with a front kick.

Asselin managed to free himself from his overcoat, but instead of pushing his opponent with his kick, he toppled backwards as if he had just hit an iron board. Unfazed, the old man looked at the empty sleeve of the coat in his hands, then his anger gone he threw it back to the young man.

"At least the jungle hasn't dulled your reflexes." Orym curled his lips, his animosity just an old memory. "Are you still practicing the training techniques I taught you?"