Loser

The training match continues, their swords clashing and creating echoes of metallic sounds throughout the garden. The reality of their circumstances hangs heavily in the air: two warriors, imbued with the strength and resilience of their respective artefacts, engaging in a fierce duel. The balance of power is seemingly tilted in Garrick's favour, despite Argon's brutish strength.

With every clash of swords, every parry, and every dodge, Argon finds himself growing more and more frustrated. He feels as if he's trying to cut through a waterfall; every time he lands a solid blow, Garrick recovers almost instantaneously. He moves fluidly, each parry and thrust coordinated and executed with deadly precision, leaving Argon with little room for attack.

Argon's brow furrows under the weight of realization. Garrick had not only activated the attribute-enhancing artefact but also the healing one. It was the only explanation for his swift recovery, even after the forceful blows landed by Argon.

Argon's breaths come in ragged and heavy. The sweat trickles down his face, stinging his eyes, but he doesn't blink. He can't afford to. With a renewed sense of determination, he continues to attack, but Garrick effortlessly sidesteps and parries, seemingly impervious to the onslaught.

Despite his exertion, Argon's respect for the knight deepens. His exceptional sword skills and tactics are further amplified by his use of the artefacts. The sheer spectacle of their duel - an intense display of skill, strength, and speed - is a testament to the power of these magical artefacts. It is a harsh but vital lesson for Argon. His opponent is not just superior in combat skills but also in understanding and utilizing the powers of the artefacts.

The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the garden as their fight rages on. It's clear that Argon has met his match, but he is far from admitting defeat. His determination doesn't waver, and even though he is being outmatched, he continues his attacks. The duel becomes a testament to endurance, a spectacle of resilience. Argon isn't going to back down, not now, not ever. He is committed to proving himself - as a warrior, as an artefact holder, and as a man of worth.

Despite the mounting odds against him, Argon stubbornly persists. He decides to dig deep into his repertoire of fighting skills - the dirty and unconventional ones he learned in the mean streets of the Outer City. The thought of surrender or yielding is alien to him. A change overcomes Argon; his eyes become more calculating, his movements craftier.

He attempts to use the element of surprise, lunging forward unexpectedly, aiming to knock Garrick off balance. But Garrick, with his practised agility and foresight, is always one step ahead. Each time Argon aims for a dirty low blow or a tricky feint, Garrick manages to parry or dodge, countering with powerful and precise strikes.

Argon tries to use his bulkier frame to his advantage, aiming to overpower Garrick with brute strength. He charges, aiming to crush Garrick beneath his amplified strength. Garrick, however, agilely leaps away, his own artefact-enhanced strength allowing him to match Argon's momentum. With a swift and precise slash, he sends Argon sprawling to the ground.

The sharp impact of the ground meeting his back is numbing. His vision blurs for a moment, and his breath escapes in a harsh wheeze. He tries to get up, but his body doesn't respond. His head throbs and his limbs feel heavy. A buzzing noise fills his ears. Argon's world spins, and the last thing he sees before everything goes dark is Garrick standing over him, sword in hand and a look of exasperation and admiration mixed in his eyes.

With that, Argon descends into unconsciousness, the sounds of the garden and the image of Garrick's towering figure fading into a world of black. He's been defeated, knocked out cold, and it stings far more than any physical blow. The last thought that echoes in his mind before the darkness takes over is a silent vow - he will rise stronger, he will learn, and he will not be defeated again.

Slowly, consciousness seeps back into Argon. He feels a pulsating headache, his muscles aching from the gruelling fight. Opening his eyes, he sees the sky now painted in hues of red and purple, the sun sinking in the horizon. It's evening. He's been out for hours.

He winces as he pushes himself off the ground, the ache in his muscles intensifying. He's surprised to find himself still in the training circle. Garrick had evidently left him there, unconscious, after the sparring session. He looks around; the manor is quiet now, and the bustling activity of the day faded with the setting sun.

A lump forms in his throat as he takes in his defeat. His ego is bruised, his pride wounded, but he forces down the wave of self-pity threatening to rise within him. He didn't win today, but he had held his ground, he had fought, and most importantly, he had learned.

Garrick hadn't killed him, a fact that he was profoundly grateful for. He stumbles to his feet, each step towards the manor house's exit a painful reminder of his defeat. But there's a determination in his stride, a stubborn defiance in his eyes. He would lick his wounds, mend his ego, and come back stronger.

Finally, he reaches the streets, the familiar sight of the Merchant Area bringing him comfort. It's a long walk back to the apartment, each step a painful reminder of his ordeal. But the thought of Brolan's food and being in the safety of his home spurs him on.

He stumbles into their apartment, tired but unbroken. Today, he had tasted defeat, but tomorrow, he would strive for victory.

When Argon finally arrives back at the apartment, the sky outside has turned into a deep indigo hue, with the first stars of the evening starting to peek out. He immediately takes off his armour. Brolan was stirring a thick stew in the pot over the fire, filling the air with a savoury, mouthwatering aroma. As Argon entered, he paused, looking up at his master.

Argon looked like he had gone through a meat grinder. His hair was askew, and dust coated his tunic. There were visible bruises on his face, arms, and visible legs. He seemed to be favouring his right side, wincing slightly as he moved. A darkened circle around one eye hinted at a particularly tough blow he'd received.

Brolan gaped at him for a moment. "Boss...you look like shit. What happened to you?" he finally stammered, dropping the wooden spoon in his hand in surprise.

Ignoring his question, Argon simply grunted in response, shifting his gaze towards the simmering pot. "Is that stew ready yet?" he asked, his voice hoarse. His only interest right now was filling his stomach and getting some rest.

Brolan, sensing that his master was in no mood to talk, quickly regained his composure. He mumbled a quick "yes, boss" before dishing out a hearty bowl of stew and passing it to Argon.

Argon took the bowl, the rich aroma of the stew momentarily distracting him from his aches and pains. He wolfed down the meal with little regard for manners or decorum, barely pausing to breathe. Despite his rough appearance, he was ravenous, and the food Brolan had prepared was as good as ever.

After finishing the meal, without a word of thanks or acknowledgement, Argon retired to his bed. His body protested with every movement, but sleep was what he needed now more than anything else. As his eyelids grew heavy, the last thought that crossed his mind was the training session he had with Sir Garrick and the brutal beating he received. It was a painful lesson but one he knew he had to endure. Tomorrow, he'd rise and face it all over again.