Chapter 109 – Until His Muscle Screamed
Chapter 109
Until His Muscle Screamed
Date : Day 15 of Grimleaf 1024 Aethellgard Concord Year.
Ronald set down his own practice sword—stretching his arms above his head. The muscles in his shoulders rolled beneath his tanned skin. A satisfied groan escaped his lips—the sound deep and resonant in the morning air.
"Reon, Lad. Time to rest a bit, then we will continue training how to fight as a tank."
He rolled his neck—the spine popping in quick succession. The sound was sharp. He then looked at Hyoren. His eyes were assessing—measuring the young man's frame with a veteran's gaze.
"Firstly, why do you want to use a sword?"
He glanced at Reon. The question was directed at both of them—but the answer was obvious for one.
"If it's Reon… definitely influenced me."
Reon jumped. Her posture straightened—her chin lifting with pride. Her boots shifted against the grass—a small movement that betrayed her eagerness.
"Of course! I want to be like Papa!"
Ronald looked at Hyoren. His expression was curious—waiting for the real answer. His brow furrowed slightly—the lines deepening on his weathered face.
"So, what about you? It was the hard weapon to wield."
Hyoren smiled—considering. His fingers traced the edge of the wooden practice sword in his grip. The grain was smooth beneath his touch—worn by countless hands before his.
"Actually… that was the same. I thought all shields were going to be partnered with swords?"
He pointed at Ronald's practice sword. The weapon lay on the grass—still within arm's reach. The morning dew clung to its surface—tiny droplets catching the light. He remembered about Gregorius. That man was also a tank who wield a sword.
But suddenly he remembered the other tank he knew—Stonebreaker's Jigor, the dwarf. He was using a hammer instead.
"Oh wait no… Jigor was using a hammer…"
Ronald nodded. He recognized the dwarf—both veterans of Akela. So they met often.
"That's right, just like Jigor, there are few options."
He started counting with his finger. Each digit rose as he listed the choices—his callused knuckles flexing with the movement.
"First, the most popular because it was flexible. Sword."
He tapped his own sword on the ground. The wood thudded against the packed earth—a dull, solid sound.
"The sword was flexible because it could be used as a slashing weapon. Meaning you as a tank could contribute to damaging the enemy. It would be easier to parry an enemy attack too when your shield is already busy and there is another enemy which is going to hit you. It was hard to use though. You need to learn its stance and proper timing."
He raised another finger. The morning light caught the calluses on his palm—evidence of decades of training. The skin was rough and thick—mapped with old scars.
“Then mace or hammer or axe. Heavy weapon. Second popular choice. Did you know why, Lad?”
Hyoren contemplated. Thinking about the usefulness of the heavy weapon. His brow furrowed—processing the information. The weight of such weapons—the heft of them in the hand.
"Because it's weight and balance? Easier to stagger the enemy. And axe was easier to wield. Using the weight to deal damage."
Ronald smiled. Satisfied with his answer. The corners of his eyes crinkled—warmth breaking through his stern demeanor. His teeth flashed briefly in the morning light.
"That's right. With mace or hammer you would gain more crowd control abilities. And it was the easiest weapon to use. You don't need to think about slashing angle. Parrying angle. Timing. Just swing your mace, and as long as the attack connected, it would still damage the enemy to some extent. And with axe, you could use its weight to increase the power behind your attack."
He crossed his arms. His biceps flexed.
"But with these three heavy weapons, your movement will be cumbersome because of the weight."
Hyoren then asked. He remembered some armies on Earth use Shield and Spear. Like the famous phalanx formation of the Roman army. The images flickered through his mind—shields locked together, spears bristling outward like a porcupine's quills.
"How about a spear, Ronald?"
Ronald crossed his arm. His expression turned thoughtful—considering. His thumb rubbed against his bicep—a subconscious gesture.
"Spear could work if you are a knight or in the army. So you could use shield and spear reach to hold the enemy line alongside other knights."
He shook his head. The motion was definitive—closing the door on that option.
"But as an adventurer… it will be hard. The spear was too cumbersome to wield with one hand. You couldn't move properly. You couldn't attack properly. Give it up."
Hyoren finally understood. He would give up using a spear. He was a bit sentimental about letting go of his trusted skill. The memory of the spear's familiar weight in his hand flickered through his mind—the way it had become an extension of his arm during those long days in the forest. But he wouldn't let sentiment override his goal of protecting Elise. The image of her falling—blood spreading across the ground—pushed aside any hesitation.
Ronald, seeing him, already understood. He pointed at the sword on Hyoren's grip.
"Now Lad. Let's talk about the sword."
He then looked at his daughter. His voice carried a note of authority—commanding attention.
"And you also listen, Reon."
Reon's posture straightened. She had been waiting for Hyoren and Ronald's conversation to end. So her mind had wandered—her gaze drifting toward the fence. The call snapped her back to attention.
"Sorry, Papa!!"
Hyoren chuckled—a short exhale through his nose—then he focused on his training sword. The wood was smooth beneath his fingers—worn by countless hands before his. The balance felt wrong—too light toward the blade end.
The wooden practice sword felt foreign in Hyoren's grip. He had held weapons before—the spear that had become an extension of his body during his time in the forest. But this was different. The weight distribution was wrong. The balance was off. His hand kept wanting to shift—searching for the familiar shaft of a spear that wasn't there.
Ronald stood across from him—his own wooden sword held loosely at his side. His stance was relaxed but ready. The ease of a veteran who had spent decades with a blade. His weight settled naturally on his back foot—balanced and unhurried.
"Lad, you need to forget everything about your spear. A spear gives you reach. You can strike from a distance, keep your enemy at bay. But a sword?"
He lifted his weapon. The wooden blade caught the morning light—casting a brief shadow across the grass. The edge gleamed despite its worn condition—polished by use.
"A sword is intimate. You're close enough to smell your enemy's breath. Close enough to see the whites of their eyes. There's no distance between you and death."
He demonstrated a basic swing. The motion was not elaborate—a simple horizontal arc. But the power behind it was undeniable. The blade cut through the air with a sharp whoosh—the sound slicing through the morning quiet.
"For a tank, your sword is not your primary weapon. Your shield is. Your sword is for punishment… when your enemy leaves an opening. For finishing blows. For keeping pressure."
He gestured for him to take a proper grip. His fingers indicated the correct placement—wrapping around the hilt in a specific way. The demonstration was brief but precise.
"Show me how you would attack."
Hyoren held the sword. His body shifted into a more natural stance—the stance of a speed fighter. Light. Mobile. He raised the blade—his weight shifting to his back foot. The transition was automatic—muscle memory taking over. He swung his sword.
"Stop."
Ronald's voice was sharp. Commanding. The word cracked through the air like a whip.
"Wrong. You're moving like you still have a spear. You're trying to create momentum through speed and extension. But with a sword, and with your role as a tank, your power comes from something else."
Ronald looked at Reon. His expression shifted—something between pride and resignation crossing his features.
"Now, show me yours, Reon."
Reon did practice swings. Her stance was different from Hyoren's. Practiced. The power behind the swing was there—controlled and deliberate. The wooden blade hummed through the air—each cut precise and measured. The sound was different from Ronald's—lighter but still confident. Her feet shifted with each swing—pivoting on the balls of her feet.
"Reon. You…"
Elise on the bench shouted. Her voice carried across the backyard—bright and teasing.
"I did say before Ronald! She was a genius! You wasted her talent if you didn't let her become an adventurer."
Ronald scowled. His brow furrowed—the lines deepening on his weathered face. His jaw tightened—muscles bunching beneath his beard.
"Please be silent, Elise."
Elise giggled on the bench. Amused. Her pointed ears twitched with mirth. Then she went back to watching—her emerald eyes tracking the training session with quiet interest. A small smile played on her lips.
Ronald then looked at Reon. His eyes swept over her form—analyzing each detail. The angle of her feet. The position of her shoulders. The grip on her practice sword.
"You swing… have you practiced swing already? I almost couldn't find anything to fix."
Reon smugly pushed her chest. Her chin lifted—pride radiating from her expression. A grin spread across her face—bright and unapologetic.
"Of course! Almost everyday when you are out, Papa!"
Ronald shook his head. The sigh that escaped his lips was heavy—laden with a father's resignation. He then looked at Hyoren.
"Did you see Reon's swing just now?"
He stepped closer. His large hand adjusted Hyoren's grip on the sword—repositioning his fingers on the hilt. The calluses on Ronald's palm were rough against Hyoren's skin—like leather worn smooth in some places and rough in others.
"You're not going to dance around your enemy. You're going to stand in front of them. Absorb their attacks. And when they're tired, when they're frustrated, when they leave a gap in their defense—you strike."
Ronald demonstrated again. This time, he moved slowly—breaking down each part of the motion. His body rotated first—hips leading—then the shoulders—and finally the arms followed through. The sequence was deliberate—each movement flowing into the next.
"Your power comes from your core. Your legs. Your hips. Not your arms. Your arms just guide the blade… the real force is generated here."
He tapped his own stomach—then his hips.
"When you swing, you're not throwing the sword. You're rotating your body. The sword follows."
Hyoren watched carefully. The motion was subtle—not the wide arcing swings he was used to with a spear. It was contained. Efficient. Every movement served a purpose. Nothing was wasted.
"Now you try. On me."
Hyoren faced Ronald. He adjusted his stance—trying to remember the tank posture from earlier. His feet planted. His core engaged. The grass was cool beneath his boots—grounding him.
He swung.
The wooden blade moved through the air—and Ronald caught it easily with his own sword. The impact was minimal. The force behind Hyoren's swing was negligible. The blades met with a dull clack—barely a sound. The vibration traveled up Hyoren's arm—weak and unconvincing.
"No. Again. This time, use your hips."
Hyoren reset. He tried again—consciously rotating his body this time. The swing had more force—but Ronald still caught it effortlessly. The wooden blades clacked together—slightly louder this time. A small puff of dust rose from the impact.
"Better. But you're still thinking too much. Your mind is in the way of your body."
He pushed Hyoren's sword aside—the practice weapon swinging wide. The motion was casual—almost dismissive. Hyoren's arm followed the momentum—his body twisting slightly from the force.
"A tank's sword work is simple. You don't need fancy techniques. You need three things—basic cuts, basic thrusts, and the ability to follow up after a block."
Ronald demonstrated each. A horizontal cut. A vertical slash. A thrust. The movements were utilitarian—stripped of anything unnecessary. Each motion was clean—economical in its execution. The wooden blade whispered through the air—each swing ending with perfect control.
"These are your tools. Master these, and you can handle most situations. But you need to be able to do them without thinking. Without hesitating."
Reon watched Hyoren with amused eyes. Patiently waiting before her father would teach him next. A small smile played on her lips—friendly but teasing. Her weight shifted from foot to foot—impatient but contained.
Ronald then raised his sword. His stance shifted—becoming more aggressive. His weight settled forward—his eyes locked on Hyoren.
"Now. I'm going to come at you. Don't try to hit me. Just try to block."
Hyoren's heart rate quickened. He had faced monsters before—the goblins in the forest, the Servant of Gidol. But this was different. This was training. Controlled. And yet his body reacted the same way—adrenaline spiking, senses sharpening. The morning air felt cooler against his skin—his pulse loud in his ears.
Ronald moved.
The older man was faster than he looked. His wooden sword came in a horizontal arc—aimed at Hyoren's midsection. The blade cut through the air with a whisper—deceptively quick.
Hyoren raised his shield. The impact was harder than expected—the force rattling through his arm. The wooden blade crashed against the shield with a solid thunk. He stumbled back a step. His boots scraped against the grass.
"Your stance. You lost it the moment I moved."
Ronald was already resetting. He came again—this time from above. A vertical strike. The wooden blade descended like a hammer—the shadow falling across Hyoren's vision.
Hyoren raised his shield. The wooden blade crashed against it. The shock traveled through his forearm—into his shoulder. The impact reverberated through his bones—a jarring sensation that made his teeth click together. He grunted. His footing shifted—the ground seeming to tilt beneath him.
"Again. You're moving like a speed fighter. You're trying to evade… to redirect. But a tank doesn't evade. A tank absorbs."
Ronald came at him again. And again. And again.
Each strike was measured—but powerful. The wooden blade found its mark every time—thwack, thwack, thwack. Hyoren found himself retreating. Stepping backward. Losing ground. His breath came in short bursts—each impact driving him further from his starting position. The smell of crushed grass rose beneath his feet—fresh and green.
"Stop."
Hyoren froze. His breathing was heavy. Sweat dripped down his temples—tracing cool lines down his heated skin. His arms trembled slightly—the muscles protesting the unfamiliar strain.
"You keep stepping back. Every time I hit your shield, you retreat. That's instinct… that's what a speed fighter does. Creates distance. But a tank?"
Ronald shook his head. The motion was slow—deliberate. His beard swayed with the movement.
"A tank stands firm. When you block, you don't step back. You brace. You absorb. You hold your ground."
He stepped forward—demonstrating the stance again. His feet planted wide—his weight settled into his legs. The grass bent beneath his boots—yielding to his solid foundation.
"See how my back leg is positioned? It's angled. Ready to receive weight. When I block…"
He brought his shield up. The motion was solid—unwavering. The wooden surface caught the light—scarred but steadfast.
"...I don't give ground. The force goes into my arm, into my shoulder, into my core, into my legs, into the ground. I become the wall."
He looked at Hyoren with measuring eyes. The gaze was heavy—expectant. Unyielding.
"Try again. This time, don't step back. Hold your ground."
Hyoren reset. His stance. His grip. His breathing. He planted his feet—pressing his soles into the grass.
Ronald attacked.
The wooden blade came fast. Hyoren raised his shield—the impact jarred through his body. The shock traveled from his arm through his shoulder—down his spine—into his legs. His arm ached. His shoulder burned. But he didn't step back. He held his ground. The force traveled through him—into the earth beneath his feet. His boots pressed into the soil—anchoring him.
"Good."
The word was simple—but it carried weight. A small acknowledgment that felt like a victory. Ronald's voice was gruff—but there was a hint of approval beneath it.
"That's the beginning. But your body fought you. You wanted to retreat. Your instincts screamed at you to create distance. That's what we need to change."
Ronald lowered his sword. His breathing was steady—barely affected by the exercise. The sweat on his brow was minimal—a stark contrast to Hyoren's drenched tunic.
"Your instincts were forged in survival. Speed. Evasion. Hit and run. But now you need new instincts. And that takes time. Repetition. Pain."
He then looked at Reon. His expression shifted—softening slightly. The stern instructor gave way to something warmer—a father's pride mingled with concern.
"Okay, Reon. Now it's your time."
Reon straightened her posture. Took the stance. And Ronald started training her.
Hyoren watched from the side with an amazed expression. Reon truly was talented. Or she already trained a lot. Or maybe both.
She could absorb Ronald's attack properly. Ronald tried to press on—his strikes coming faster, harder. And she held her feet. Her shield absorbed each blow—the impacts ringing through the backyard like a drummer's beat. Sometimes she even counter-attacked. Ronald's shield took her sword—the impact ringing through the backyard. The wooden blades clacked together—sharp and clear in the morning air.
The two training sessions were a step different from his. He now was eager to become like Reon—to catch up with her. His fingers tightened around the practice sword—determination settling in his chest like a burning coal.
***
The morning had stretched into midday. The suns were higher now—beating down on the backyard with increasing intensity. The light was harsh—casting short shadows beneath their feet. The air had grown thick with heat—carrying the scent of crushed grass and sweat.
He and Reon took turns in a mock battle with Ronald. The wooden blades cracked against shields—the impacts ringing through the backyard. Each session left Hyoren more exhausted than the last. His arms burned. His legs trembled. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Hyoren's clothes were soaked with sweat. The fabric clung to his back—dark patches spreading across his tunic. His muscles ached in places he didn't know could ache. The kind of deep soreness that settled into the bones.
Reon, despite her experience, was in a similar state to Hyoren. Her face was flushed—beads of sweat rolling down her temples. Her breathing was heavy—but she held her stance. Determined.
Ronald, seeing the two already exhausted, decided to take a break. His own breathing was steady—barely affected by the exercise. The morning training was nothing to a veteran of decades.
"Reon, Lad. Let's take a break."
Ronald's voice was a welcome relief. The words washed over Hyoren like cool water.
And at the same time—as if she knew when they were going to take a break—Elise called them. Her voice carried across the backyard—bright and cheerful.
"Hey, Martha gave refreshment. Let's drink."
Ronald, Reon, and Hyoren approached the bench. Their footsteps were heavy on the grass—each step sending small tremors through their tired legs.
There were four jugs of chilled drinks. And a few sandwiches. The bread was fresh—the smell wafting through the air. The drinks were cold—condensation beading on the ceramic surface.
They were really grateful for thoughtful Martha. The refreshments were a godsend after hours of training under the dual suns.
They took the drinks to quench their thirst. The liquid was cool and refreshing—sliding down their parched throats. Hyoren drained his cup in seconds—the relief immediate and profound.
Ronald took a bite from the sandwich, and looked at Hyoren and Reon. His jaw worked steadily—chewing with the methodical pace of a man who had eaten on battlefields.
"How are you feeling, Lad?"
Hyoren gulped. The last of the drink settling in his stomach. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Honestly? Like I know nothing about fighting."
Ronald chuckled hearing it. The sound was rough—but not unkind. It rumbled from his chest—genuine amusement.
"That's normal. You've spent your time in this world learning to be fast. Quick. Light on your feet. Those instincts are strong. They've kept you alive. But they're the opposite of what a tank needs."
He took the mug and gulped down greedily. The drink spilled slightly from the corner of his mouth—a thin stream running down his jaw. He didn't seem to care.
"A tank is heavy. Grounded. Immobile. Everything your instincts tell you to do is wrong for this role. That's why training takes so long. You're not just learning new skills… you're fighting your own muscle memory."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The gesture was rough—practical.
"Most people give up. They think being a tank looks easy. Stand there. Hold a shield. Take hits. But the reality? It's exhausting. Painful. Unrewarding at the moment."
Reon watched the two men talking with Elise. Both of them ate the sandwich too—biting into the bread with hungry urgency. The cheese and meat were simple but satisfying—the flavor enhanced by exhaustion.
Ronald then looked at the two. His eyes swept over their tired forms—assessing.
"Okay, Reon, Lad. Morning practice is done."
He sat down on the chair nearby. The wood creaked beneath his weight—protesting briefly before settling.
"Rest a bit. Then we will continue in the afternoon."
He grinned. The expression was knowing—a teacher about to introduce a new kind of suffering.
"It was time for the boring training. Sword swing."
They spent an hour resting their bodies. Eating and drinking. The food replenished their energy—the drinks cooled their heated skin. The shade of the inn provided relief from the relentless suns. Hyoren's muscles slowly unwound—the knots in his shoulders loosening slightly.
Then Ronald stood and went to the backyard again. Reon and Hyoren followed him. Their legs were still heavy—but the rest had helped. The afternoon air was warm but not as oppressive as before.
"Okay Lad, Reon. For sword users, swinging your sword should be second nature. You should not think. The sword should become an extension of your arm."
He took a stance with his sword. His feet planted wide—his grip firm but relaxed. The wooden blade rose smoothly—held at the ready.
"Now, let's do a thousand practice swings. Follow my lead."
Hyoren gulped. A thousand swings sounded insurmountable. The number loomed in his mind—an impossible mountain to climb. But he gritted his teeth. Back in the Forest of No Return he did practice stone throwing for thousands of times. Until his arm ached. To get the throwing skill. So he should not become lazy just because he arrived at civilization.
He needed to persist. The memory of Elise falling—the blood spreading across the ground—pushed him forward.
Reon beside him also took her stance. It seemed she was already used to it. Her grip was sure—her posture practiced.
"First. Vertical swing."
Ronald swung his sword. The wooden blade descended in a clean arc—cutting through the air with a soft whoosh. Then Hyoren and Reon followed. Their blades mirrored the motion—less polished but following the same path.
"Next. Horizontal swing."
He gave another example. The blade swept sideways—a smooth horizontal arc. And the two followed. Their swings were less precise—less controlled—but they approximated the motion.
"Now. Vertical swing for 100 times first."
He then walked around. Correcting their form. His footsteps were soft on the grass—barely audible over the sound of swinging blades.
"Hyoren, your swing was wrong. Wrong form. Your swing was off by a few degrees. Use your dominant hand to swing, and use the other hand to direct your sword!"
Hyoren corrected his form. His grip shifted—the weight redistributing in his palms. Ronald helped by touching his shoulder and arms. His large hands guided Hyoren's elbows into the proper position—adjusting the angle of his swing.
"Good. Now continue."
Ronald then went over to Reon. She didn't need correction. Her form was already clean—each swing precise and measured. He as a father felt a bit conflicted. Pride warred with concern in his chest. But he needed to praise her.
"Your form was good, Reon. Keep doing it. Your training truly paid off."
Reon smiled enthusiastically. Her face lit up—the exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
"Yes, Papa!"
The repetitions blurred together. Swing after swing after swing. The wooden blade rose and fell—cutting through the air in endless cycles. Hyoren's arms burned. His shoulders screamed. The muscles in his back knotted with each motion—tightening until they felt like ropes about to snap.
Fifty swings in, and his form started to deteriorate.
His dominant hand was doing all the work—his other hand barely guiding the blade. The sword wobbled at the apex of each swing. The angle was wrong—tilting slightly to the left. His wrists were beginning to ache—a dull throb that pulsed with each movement.
Ronald noticed. His eyes caught the deviation immediately.
"Stop."
Hyoren paused mid-swing. The wooden blade hung in the air—trembling slightly from the strain. Sweat dripped down his temple—tracing a cool line down his heated skin.
"Your form is slipping. You're muscling through the swing instead of letting your body do the work."
He stepped closer. His large hand reached out—grasping Hyoren's shoulder and rotating it slightly.
"Your shoulder is too tight. You're tensing up before the swing even starts. That's why your angle is off."
Hyoren tried to relax his shoulder. The muscle unclenched—slightly. But the tension crept back almost immediately. His body was fighting him—resisting the unfamiliar movement.
"I can't… it keeps tensing up."
Ronald nodded. The motion was understanding—not dismissive.
"That's your old instincts fighting back. Your body wants to move like a speed fighter. Quick. Explosive. But a tank's swing isn't about speed—it's about control."
He positioned himself beside Hyoren—mirroring the stance.
"Watch me."
Ronald raised his sword. His shoulder was relaxed—the muscle loose beneath his tunic. The blade descended in a clean arc—smooth and unhurried. The motion was almost lazy—deceptively simple.
"See? No tension. No force. Just the swing."
He repeated the motion—slower this time.
"Your body should be loose until the moment of impact. Then you tighten—drive the power through your core and into the blade. Not before."
Hyoren mimicked the stance. His shoulder relaxed—or tried to. The muscle kept wanting to bunch—anticipating a movement that wasn't coming.
"Again. From the top."
He raised the sword. The blade wobbled slightly—his grip uneven. He swung.
The angle was still wrong—tilting to the left. The blade cut through the air at an awkward trajectory.
Ronald's hand caught his elbow—stopping the swing mid-motion.
"Your off-hand. You're not using it."
He adjusted Hyoren's grip—repositioning his left hand on the hilt.
"This hand guides the blade. Your dominant hand provides the power. But you're trying to do both with one hand."
Hyoren adjusted. His left hand settled into the proper position—fingers wrapping around the lower portion of the grip.
"Try again."
He swung. The blade descended in a cleaner arc—still not perfect, but better. The angle was closer to vertical. The wobble was less pronounced.
"Better. Keep that form. Don't let it slip."
Hyoren continued. The swings came one after another—each one a struggle against his own body. His arms burned. His shoulders ached. The blisters on his palms were beginning to form—raw spots that stung with each grip.
But he persisted. The memory of Elise falling pushed him forward. The image of her blood spreading across the ground. The helplessness he had felt.
He would not fail her again. He would swing this sword—until his muscle burned and screamed.
The afternoon wore on. The dual suns of Kresneger, now small golden Sol and way bigger silver Luna, a sign of winter coming, started to descend towards the horizon—painting the sky in shades of gold and silver. The shadows lengthened across the backyard—stretching like reaching fingers across the grass.