Training

The next morning came and they were now close to the city of Essex. Just a few more days, and they would arrive.

They camped by a river bank and Sol finally took a good, long look at his face.

His mocha brown skin, emerald green eyes and shoulder-length black hair came into view as he stared into the icy pond.

His baby face was completely gone and replaced by gaunt features that screamed of everything he had been through since his village was destroyed.

Sol blew hot air on his hands and drew his dark gray scarf closer around his neck.

This scarf was precious to him—he was wrapped it when Rona had found him alone as a baby.

It was the only memento he had from his birth parents and despite knowing that he had been abandoned by them, he could not help but feel loved and at peace every time he clutched it in his hands.

His mother in this world must have surely had some affection for him if she bothered to make it and knit the letters of him name on it.

It did not seem like something a mother would do if she did not want a child. At least, he hoped that was the case.

His thoughts were cut short as he view suddenly darkened. He nose was filled with a pungent smell and he quickly picked up the fabric that had been thrown onto his head.

The rest of Grimm's men took off their clothes and dumped it all on Sol as they went into the pond to bathe.

Sol was buried under the mountain of filth.

He quickly wrung his head out of the pile, gasping for breath.

He wouldn't be surprised if those clothes had already developed their own ecosystem.

'God, my nose won't be recovering from that anytime soon.'

Suddenly, a voice barked out. "If you want your clothes washed, then do it yourself. Sol is one of us now and has proven himself, I won't let any of you treat him as anything but your equal."

Sol was surprised at the sharp turn of attitude from Grimm, this man used to treat him as if he was nothing.

Was beating that man that impressive to him?

Well, either ways it didn't matter.

He quickly got out of the pile of clothes and watched the men who seemed completely comfortable in the freezing cold pond.

Apparently, aura protected them from its cold.

Sol didn't understand what that power was but he was determined to learn it no matter what.

He had already started training his body since they left Arn, doing exercises and swinging a wooden sword he had crafted from a tree branch.

He had left Tamak's daggers behind back then on the battlefield when he passed out and no longer had any weapon on him, so he at least had to make something to train with.

Sol wanted to ask Grimm about his promise to train him, but he felt too scared of the man to even try.

It seemed like Grimm would want him to at least show if he was worth his time before teaching him anything.

Maybe if he actually produced some good results, Grimm would finally give him the time of the day.

He didn't know how long the good treatment from Grimm and his men would last, but he knew for certain that if he stayed useless he would quickly and easily be discarded.

'Time to get to work then...'

Sol sighed and picked up his wooden sword, then left for the woods.

Normally, he'd train closeby but today there was something he wanted to try out.

Sol found a small clearing, bathed in the soft morning light, and decided this would be his training ground.

Sol began with the basics, mimicking movements from the countless amounts of information he had learnt on swordsmanship back on Earth. His strikes were clumsy, and his stances were awkward, but Sol was determined.

He eventually made an attempt to combine the countless techniques he knew of into a style uniquely his own.

His first task was footwork. Sol knew that a swordsman's strength lay not just in the arms but in the legs.

He practiced moving in various directions, forward and backward, side to side, each step light and quick.

It was almost like a dance. He tried to keep his steps silent and his movements fluid as he moved.

Next, he focused on his grip and stance. Sol held his wooden sword with both hands, feeling the grain of the wood against his palms.

He remembered the teachings about balance—how a firm yet flexible grip allowed for quick adjustments. He practiced different stances, lowering his center of gravity to improve his stability.

He swung the sword in slow, controlled arcs, feeling the strain in his muscles and the growing ease that came with repetition.

Hours passed, and the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows in the clearing.

Sol paused to catch his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. His hands were raw, small blisters forming where the wood rubbed against his skin.

But he didn't mind; these were signs of progress.

He found a sturdy tree and marked a spot at chest height. With focused intensity, he practiced thrusting his wooden sword at the mark, over and over, each strike accompanied by a grunt of effort.

His training style was unorthodox but still very effective. His aim improved with each repetition, and his motion grew more confident.

When, he was satisfied with his accuracy, he visualized opponents, imagining their strikes and countering with all the knowledge he possessed.

After several hours, Sol finally stopped, exhausted, but satisfied.

He was far from mastering the art, but he had made a lot of progress and with every swing, every step, he had grown stronger.

He didn't agree with Grimm's logic that the weak deserved to be trampled upon, but he knew Grimm was right in saying that he wouldn't be able to protect anything if he wasn't strong enough.

Sol had made up his mind that he would become strong no matter what so no one would trample on his life ever again.