“Eyes closed!”

Once again, the wooden cane dug into Alistar’s side with crisp smack. His legs were sore from sitting cross-legged for so long, his joints rigid as if frozen. Forcing his eyelids down, he let slip a whisper of protest. “But it’s been an hour…”

He braced himself just in time to receive another hit. Why did he have to go ahead and let slip that little statement? He should have known better by now.

“No talking!”

He grated his teeth, biting back another retort. How did things come to b—

“No thinking!”

Another strike caught the small of his back.

He was currently sitting at an outdoor area of the collegia, on the trimmed grasses just out front of a recent extension to the training complex. He’d woken around sunrise and eaten by himself so that he could hurry to his first lesson with Swordmaster Tramon. After asking around for a time, he found his way to Mr. Lawson’s quarters, a small but private wing attached to the main building of the training grounds with walls as white as the rest of the structures. Even though Alistar had only been early by an hour, the grumpy old man had almost turned him away, even when presented with the certificate of enrollment.

“Was that today?” Tramon had said, scratching at his scalp with a chewed-up fingernail. His beard was wild with a few weeks’ growth, grey like what remained of his fading hairline, and he smelled strongly of liquor. “I’ve changed my mind. Go and tell that scheming uncle of yours that he’s out of luck.” When he’d gone to close the door, he’d nearly crushed Alistar’s foot.

“Have I finally gone senile, or are you blocking my doorway with your heel?”

Alistar had tried to reason with him, but the grizzled man had shoved him out of the way and slammed the door shut without another word. Slightly shocked and at a loss, Alistar had been reluctant to give up. He knocked endlessly, pestering Tramon in a test of patience for well over an hour before he finally got him to open the door again. When he finally walked out into the sunlight, his aged body stocked with well-nurtured muscles, it was with a naked sword in hand. What an odd sight that had been, an old man in white robes that were stained with countless mysteries, brandishing an exquisite sword which reflected powerful rays of sunshine.

“You annoying little brat!” he'd bellowed. “Knock one more time, I dare you.”

A moment after Tramon had stepped outside, Alistar dove through the gap between his legs and rolled neatly into the living quarters. Though the small building was new, it looked as if it hadn’t seen a cleaning in months. Torn books and crumpled up parchment littered the floor, along with dozens of empty and partially depleted bottles of spirits, in addition to some recent spills. A large, plain bed sat off in a corner, the coverings ruffled and marked with sweat stains. Like the walls of a fortress, the sleeping area was surrounded by stacks of old books, and was lined with a moat of musty, discarded clothing. Overall, the room stank of alcohol, charred firewood, and stale tobacco.

When the gruff old man had stormed in after him, it was with a raised sword that was poised to strike. He faltered, however, when met with an unexpected bow and apology from Alistar.

“I’m sorry. I seem to have mistaken you for somebody else. I was told that the legendary Swordmaster Tramon Lawson lived in this house, but as I thought, there’s no way you’re him.” He’d sighed, as if embarrassed that he had made such an obvious mistake. “Though, I find it strange you knew of my lessons. Might you know where he is?”

“You just broke into his house!” Red with rage, Alistar was grabbed by the collar and hurled out of the front door. Working his jaw, the man’s face foreshadowed discipline.

Lying on the ground, Alistar had been reminded of the guards from Crystellum. That wasn’t the first time that an adult had thrown him to the ground, and for no good reason, at that. Frightened and increasingly frustrated, Alistar had adopted the most unimpressed look that he could muster, which also contained some of the repressed hatred he held for his previous tormenters.

“Oh?”

“Drunk at daybreak, living in that mess, beating an innocent child—are you really a famous knight? My father told me all about them, and they’re supposed to be honourable. What kind of knight goes back on his word? I wouldn’t let you teach me even if you begged to be my master.”

He’d done nothing to deserve such treatment. If he was going to get hit, then he figured that he might as well speak his mind. He was no longer in the mines, so he wouldn’t get into trouble for doing so.

Seized by the collar once again, he was thrown off to the right of the building, where he tumbled into the shade of a nearby tree.

“You sit your smart ass down right there,” the man grumbled. “Cross your legs, rest your hands on your lap, close your eyes and rid your mind of all those snarky thoughts. We’ll see if you’re worthy of my time.”

Alistar had almost tried to leave, but thought against it. His uncle had gone to great lengths to arrange these lessons, so he planned to prove that he was worth more than boozing alone in a smelly bathrobe at the onset of the day.

An hour had passed since then, and Alistar was now sitting under the constant heat of the morning sun, which grew hotter as the day continued to awaken. Tramon sat where the shade of the tree had migrated, sipping from a flagon of water from atop a similar chair to the one used by Mr. Herst. He had replaced his sword with an old cane of hand-carved cherry wood, and was busy shaving away his peppered beard while Alistar sat nearby in silence.

Now that the sun was on him, it was very difficult to clear his mind. All he could think about was the constant discomfort that the rising temperature caused him. Today was particularly hot, and he hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast. Still, he didn’t want to get hit again, so he chose to remain seated, however uncomfortable, and focused on the noises around him. The rustling leaves, the singing birds, the chattering insects, the distant thuds of nearby practitioners drilling against straw dummies on the training grounds. Simple as they were, these were all sounds that had never reached his ears mere months ago, each as intriguing as the last. After a while, he found that he didn’t mind the heat so much anymore.

“You can open your eyes now.”

Alistar complied with the eventual comment.

“Hmph, looks like you get the picture.” He looked Alistar up and down. “Only earned yourself twelve hits. It’s not many pupils that get off with so few. It truly is a shame.”

He wanted to hit me more?

Alistar rubbed at his sensitized eyes, and remembered the first day that he had stepped into the world outside of the mines.

“Who are you?”

Tramon smacked him on the head. The old man had gained about ten years of youth after shaving his beard. Looking closer, he wasn’t as old as Alistar had figured, perhaps in his early fifties.

“You look better without the beard.”

“No one asked your opinion.”

Alistar pushed himself to his knees and gave Tramon his well-practiced bow. “I’m sorry, I spoke without thinking.” Stiff as his limbs were, he lost his bearings and tripped onto the grass.

“Yes, you did,” said Tramon. “So, what was your name again?”

“Alistar.”

“Right. So, Alistar, how much do you know about swordsmanship?”

“Nothing.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve always been told that I learn quickly, though.”

“Swords and books belong in different worlds, boy.” The man regarded him with a studious gaze, wrinkles deepening around his brow. “So, you a bastard of Caedmon’s then? Didn’t take him as the type to go philandering around.”

“I’m the son of some Silverkin or other.”

“And Caedmon took it upon himself to raise you, is it? A black sheep amidst a pack of winter wolves, he is. Still, I prefer the sheep to the wolves.” The man began prodding at him here and there. “Hey now, you’ve got quite the build for a boy of your years. This worthless father of yours leave you in the hands of some field families?”

“My father wasn’t worthless.”

“Apparently not. But that’s neither here nor there.” He paused, donning a thoughtful look. “Well, if you plan to learn the way of the sword, there’re a few things you’ll need to know. Cross your legs again and listen.”

“But they’re so numb.”

He winced as the cane struck him for the thirteenth time.

“There are many schools of swordsmanship out there, each with a different style.”

“Style?”

Another strike.

“Don’t interrupt me. Anyhow, each school practices a set of techniques that are unique only to them. The style I generally teach is called the Crown Style, which is the most widely used style in the world. One in five swordsmen will be moderately versed in it. The techniques originated in Baldus. Do you know where that is?”

Alistar nodded. It was the imperial capital of the Baldor Empire.

“It used to be exclusive to the royal family, but it became public knowledge soon after they began to teach it to their soldiers, the fools. Next, different from styles are the classes of swordsmanship. These are basically ways of measuring one’s skill and prowess as a swordsman. The higher class you achieve, the more techniques you’ll be able to learn, and the stronger you’ll become. You following so far?”

After another hesitant nod, Tramon raised his cane, but then lowered it with a laugh. “I’ll only hit you if you interrupt me. You can respond if I ask you something.”

“Okay…”

“Where was—ah, yes. No matter what the style, the rankings are generally the same. First is the apprentice stratum, followed by the adept, warrior, ascendant, and apex stratums. Each stratum is further broken up into three series; lower, middle, and higher series. A series covers a set of techniques and skillsets, and every time you graduate you move up a tier to the next series. You’ll be starting as a lower practitioner of the apprentice stratum, and after your first graduation, you’ll be a middle practitioner of the same stratum. Make sense?”

“So, once I clear the third series of the apprentice stratum, I’ll become a lower practitioner of the adept stratum?”

“Exactly. Humph, that’s one thing you bookish types are good for, you sure catch on faster than the meatheads I’m used to.”

“How do you know I read books?”

“Are you kidding? You’re Caedmon’s nephew.”

Unable to contain himself, Alistar asked, “What’s your ranking, Mr. Tramon?”

“Even if I told you, you wouldn’t be able to appreciate it.”

“Mustn’t be too high then,” he teased.

Tramon smacked the tip of his cane hard against Alistar’s thigh, smashing his muscles to the point of rendering his leg useless for a few moments.