Damn Oberon. Damn that old man straight to the lowest circle of hell. Rygart thought this as he lay there, broken and shattered, nearly on the brink of death. I thought that old bastard was just kidding, but I might actually die. Rygart had faced a new hell ever since meeting with Oberon’s “old friend”, culminating in the pain he felt now, after being hurled through the forest with devastating force. As he lay there, Rygart thought about everything that had happened since Oberon had told him about the man that had now, undoubtedly, killed him.

Rygart had, obviously, taken up the offer to meet with the man Oberon had told him about. Evidently, he was some sort of mentor to Oberon in his early days. His name was Doran and, back in the day, he was a 1st class A rank member of the assault guild. Supposedly he’d even come close to earning a Title, but, according to Oberon, Doran didn’t get along with the city officials, which evidently stopped him from progressing.

Oberon had said, “He might not have been formally Named, but he is every bit as worthy as the others, if ya ask me”, but Rygart suspected that he was exaggerating. Probably because this man had been his teacher. Either way, Rygart held off on making any judgements until he met the man in person, which had only been a couple days after Rygart accepted the offer.

He had been instructed, by Oberon, to bring sturdy clothes, and whatever weapons he planned on using, with him. Rygart left the smithy early in the morning, before the light had begun to peek through the holes that lined the walls of the tower. Oberon had said to take everything he thought he might need, which was now in Rygart’s pack, and meet Doran by the entrance to Draghiem. Evidently they would be training outside the Tower.

Rygart had asked what the man looked like, since he assumed there would be a steady flow of traffic, even this early in the morning. According to Oberon, the man was well into his sixties, long silver hair with two large braids, wrapped in leather, hanging down on either side of his face. Even though this, along with some cryptic words about knowing him when I see him, was all that Oberon had given him to go off of, Rygart expected it’d be enough. This man seemed to be the type to stand out in a crowd.

As Rygart approached the giant tunnel that acted as the entrance to the Tower, he began searching through the crowd of travellers, looking for the silver haired man that Oberon had described. He spent some several minutes looking and hadn’t found anyone he thought accurately fit the description. There were some elderly men, though they looked too frail to be the man he was looking for.

There was a bit of a lull in the crowd of people coming to and from the city, and suddenly Rygart saw him. Oh, I’d say he’d stick out in a crowd alright. Rygart had spotted the man, standing some ways off to the side of the road, leaning against the wall, with a large pack sitting next to him. Rygart had seen the man earlier, out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t think anything of it, but, as he grew nearer, he knew this was the man.

Once Rygart had gotten close enough to tell it was Doran, he stopped dead in his tracks. Now Rygart realized why Oberon had said he’d stand out in a crowd. The man must have been nearly 250 centimeters tall! If Oberon was a giant of a man, Doran was titanic. His silver hair fell just past his shoulders, and of course he had the two braids, which hung to his jaw, framing his face.

Another remarkable feature was that the man didn’t look nearly as old as Oberon had said. Hell, with the clean shaven look the man wore he looked just a bit younger than Oberon. This man is a good 20 years older than Oberon, but hardly looks it. Not only did his face have a distinct lack of the wear that comes with aging, but the man’s arms rippled with muscles. He wasn’t as thick as Oberon, but the muscles were much more defined. In fact, every part of the man’s skin, that Rygart could see anyway, was rippling with taut muscle. As Rygart looked on, he couldn’t help but get the feeling of well contained power. Like the man had to willfully stop his muscles from bursting forth. It was clearly evident that Doran was in peak condition. A feat that was all the more impressive considering his age.

He wore a simple cloth tunic, with some leather padding seemingly strapped around his waist. The sleeves only just extended past his shoulders, leaving his arms fully exposed to the air. There were leather bracers covering his forearms, starting at the wrist and extending very nearly to his elbow. And he wore plain, brown trousers. On his feet he wore, what seemed to be, thin-bottomed sandals.

After Rygart recovered from the sheer size and stature of the man, he began walking over, readying himself for introductions. Doran was leaning against the Tower’s wall, arms crossed with one leg propped up behind him, and with his head bowed a bit, eyes closed. Rygart couldn’t tell if he was asleep or deep in prayer. Or possibly neither, I suppose. Now that Rygart was just a few paces away, he could see the details of the man’s face.

He had smooth skin, slightly more pale than Rygart’s own. His jaw was strong, with hard edges. Overall his face had a bit of an angular look to it. He might be what some would consider attractive, although Rygart was hardly a judge of such things. His eyebrows still had a touch of black in them, but only just, and his face lacked any sign of great age. There was, however, a long, thin scar, forming a near perfect line that extended from his right brow all the way down past his jaw, and disappeared beneath his tunic.

Rygart was about to announce himself when the man spoke with a deep, yet silvery, voice.

“So you’re the kid Oberon spoke of.” Rygart had been caught a little off guard, and wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“Uh, yes sir, I suppose I am. I take it you are Doran?”

“That’s right. I hear you want to join the assault guild, and that you plan to participate in the upcoming Eisenverd Festival.” By now he had opened his eyes, which were inspecting Rygart with a very scrutinizing look. “Oberon says you’ve got spirit. He compared you to himself when he was younger. So tell me, young Rygart, do you believe you have it in you to surpass Oberon?”

Rygart hadn’t been expecting a question like that. Did Rygart even want to surpass Oberon? He’d never thought of him as a rival or anything else like that. However, he did know one thing.

“My only goal is to be the first to reach Draghiem’s top floor, and add my name to those that have defeated a Tower. And I believe I have more than enough to accomplish that” Rygart spoke with purpose and determination etched onto his face.

Upon seeing Rygart’s intense look, the corner of Doran’s mouth pulled back just a bit, leaving the slightest hint of a smile.

“Is that all? I just hope you know it won’t be easy, and I intend to show you just how much blood, sweat, and tears it will take to achieve that goal.” Doran pulled himself off the wall as he spoke. “If you can’t survive a few months with me, you won’t stand a chance in Draghiem”, and with that Doran hefted his pack, which was nearly as big as Rygart, and set off, leading the way out of the Tower.

I guess that means I passed his test? Rygart followed just to the side of Doran, as they began their trek, walking through the massive tunnel that separates the inside of Draghiem from the rest of the world.

Together they walked, heading away from the Tower. Walking until nightfall, in complete silence. After several hours of walking, Rygart had gotten annoyed that the man chose to walk in silence, instead of spending the time getting to know Rygart. This guy is a bit of an odd ball. Who walks for this long with someone and doesn’t start some kind of conversation? But Rygart kept quiet, not wanting to be the first to break the silence.

As the sun began to hang low, they entered a large forest, having long since left the main road. Still they walked, with the sun sinking ever lower and the forest growing thicker. After the sun had disappeared completely Rygart had lost all patience. He could hardly see where he was going, and was just about to say so when Doran finally stopped and spoke.

“This looks like a good place to get started” He looked around as he spoke, and then set his pack down at his feet. “We’ll make camp here and go over a few things.”

Rygart followed suit, and soon they both began searching for firewood. Once enough was gathered, Doran built a small campfire while Rygart unrolled his bedding. Just as Rygart finished he felt a burst of warmth as the fire came to life.

“That was quick”, he said as he sat down next to the fire.

“You learn a trick or two after doing it a thousand times. I’ve become quite adept at setting up camp” Doran said, with a slight smile.

Rygart began unpacking his cooking utensils and some of the food he’d brought with him for the trip. It was nothing special. Just some salted meat, a few pieces of fruit, and some dried roots that Rygart had been told would keep for months and would add flavor to his food.

Again they sat in silence, with Doran keeping a watchful eye on everything Rygart did. As Rygart finished preparing his food, Doran riffled through his pack and pulled something out. It vaguely resembled bread, the likes of which Rygart had never seen before. Together they sat by the fire and ate their food. Only after finishing did Doran speak.

“Your patience is better than I thought it would be. You’ve gone this entire day without saying a word. There was one moment, when I thought you’d had enough and were about to go stark raving mad, but you held it in. Not many could do the same.” He poked the fire with a stick, pushing the coals around and rolling some of the logs.

“Being a smith means you often have to wait and be patient. Metal takes time to heat after all.” Rygart hadn’t realized it was all a test, and that Doran had been judging him ever since they left Draghiem. Probably ever since he’d first laid eyes on Rygart, in fact.

“True enough. A lack of patience is often the deadliest killer in Draghiem. I think it is apparent you’ll do well in that area. Now, let us talk a bit about what we’ll be doing in the coming months. Oberon says you’re decent with a blade, but ,ultimately, I will be the judge of that. Tomorrow, I will put you through your paces. Testing your skill, strength, and stamina. I’ll push you hard, just so you know. And I will for the rest of our time together. Tonight will be the last night you go to bed without us crossing blades”, he paused a moment before continuing, “and some sore muscles.”

Rygart sat by the fire, listening to what was in store for him. He didn’t expect an easy time, though he was more than confident he could handle himself. All the time working at the smithy had brought both his strength and stamina to new heights. He very much doubted any sort of training here in the woods could do more for him than that. As it would turn out, however, he was very wrong.

“We have roughly four months to prepare. We will split that into two halves. The first half will let me see what you can do, and how quickly you can progress. This will be our first two months here. First, we will start with some basic strength building, and I will get to know how you fight and see where you need improvement. Then, we will go through rigorous skill instruction. You might think you’re good, but no one is ever done learning. If you are willing, I have much I could teach you. After that, we will move on to survival training. There is a lot that could kill you in Draghiem, not just the plethora of creatures that exist solely to hunt you down, but also more mundane things. Cold, sickness, hunger, thirst, these are all things that few think to prepare for before challenging the Tower.” Rygart was getting the feeling that he wouldn’t be the same person after leaving these woods.

“What about the festival? I have to do well if I hope to become a member of the assault guild.”

“Believe me, the festival will be much more than games. Everything we do out here will prepare you for what is in store for you when you compete.” Rygart was nodding along as Doran spoke. He was determined to surpass every other applicant at the festival. That first place prize was his. “Now,” Doran continued, “at the end of these first two months will be survival training. One week out here in this forest on your own. As if you were scaling the floors of Draghiem.” Rygart almost laughed at that. How bad could a few days of camping in these mundane woods be? “On top of gathering food and water, as well as preparing adequate shelter, you will need to fend off attacks from the creatures of this forest, including myself.”

With that last statement Rygart realized this would be the real test. There was no telling what all Doran had install for him for that week.

“So, it would be a little like cat-and-mouse then?” Rygart’s mouth had dried, and he spoke with a weak voice.

A wicked little smile crept into Doran’s eye, “I suppose it would.”

In the mornings to follow Doran would wake Rygart just as the sky began to lighten. Doran’s morning routine was simple enough. He would either meditate, or pray, while Rygart made himself a small breakfast of dried fruit. Rygart was never quite sure which it was. Meditation or prayer. Doran didn’t say much about himself. Instead he focused entirely on the training. Only ever speaking to explain or to criticize.

As the days passed Rygart found that every one of his expectations had been blown apart. He was a fool to think this would be easy. Doran worked him harder than he ever thought possible. Rygart had been confident that his time swinging hammers had prepared him for anything Doran might throw at him. He was so astoundingly wrong.

Doran knew ways of working a man’s muscles that Rygart could only have ever dreamed of. Doran would create elaborate exercises that Rygart was certain weren’t even possible. And failure often meant a world of pain for Rygart. The man was an animal.

Rygart often got a glimpse of just what Doran could do with his strength. Once, when Rygart was exasperated and suffering from one of his recent failures, Doran upheaved a tree just to prove a point. The man lifted the tree straight out of the ground, roots and all. Rygart couldn’t believe his eyes. Such a thing shouldn’t even be possible! He’d thought, not willing to believe his own eyes.

After seeing Doran’s strength in action, Rygart never again complained about the necessity of his rigorous strength exercises. If it means having power like that, I’ll move all the boulders the old man wants.

It wasn’t just raw strength Doran cultivated. Other things like balance, judgement, reflexes, all of these and more were pushed, and often lead to one injury or another for Rygart. Doran’s exercises often required some form of agility, as well as strength. Nothing was ever simple, and Rygart loved it. He could feel himself changing. Becoming sharper. Quicker.

Everyday Doran’s routines would put Rygart’s body through its paces, and every night he’d do it again with a sword. There was instruction, of course, but there was also pain. Lots and lots of pain. They wouldn’t use their own sharpened swords. Instead, Doran had brought along two dull-edged longswords. Even though they wouldn’t cut, that didn’t mean they didn’t hurt.

And so went the next few weeks.Until the eve of the survival training was upon them. Doran and Rygart sat by the fire, with the night stars circling above. Rygart was nursing some new injuries from the day of arduous events.

It was all quiet, except for the crackling of the fire, until Doran spoke, “You’ve do well. You have an impressive ability to grow. Very few I’ve seen can boast the same level of adaptability you’ve shown these last weeks”

“I’d appreciate that a little more if I wasn’t covered in bruises. Much like I have been since we started this torment you call training.” Rygart winced as he cleaned a fresh scrape, in too ill a mood to truly appreciate the compliment.

Doran let the corner of his mouth pull back slightly, the closes the man ever got to smiling. “Pain is needed for any kind of growth. And I’ve found that the more pain there is, the quicker the growth.”

“A theory I’m sure you enjoyed testing on me. Quite thoroughly.”

“You talk as though it were over. Don’t forget, we’ve only just begun. Tomorrow is the start of the survival training. Up until now you’ve had it easy. The true test is about to begin, and after that, the true training.”

Rygart’s heart sank at the thought that the old man had been going easy on him this whole time. “Are you going to enlighten me anymore on this ‘True training’ or are you just going to be cryptic. Like you are every other time you speak.”

Rygart knew Doran have a great appreciation for sarcasm. But Rygart didn’t particularly care for the cryptic way Doran often spoke. So, as far as he was concerned, they were even.

“A full explanation of what is to come would be completely unnecessary if you didn’t live long enough for it to matter” Again Doran’s little half smile crept to his face. God I hate that smile.

“If I live through this test of yours you’ll be more upfront with me?”

“I will make an effort to.” Doran spoke with the same deep, silvery voice as always, though his eyes seemed to cast a solemn mood into the air.

“Oh boy. That’s reason enough to pass. Now I’ve just got to make it seven days in these woods. It’ll almost be relaxing.”

“Don’t think this to be any mundane task. Don’t forget, starting at sunrise I will begin to hunt you down. Much like the creatures of the Tower. You will not have come as far as I had hoped if you truly expect this to be easy.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I have a very good idea just how these next seven days will be”

For the past week Rygart has been the mouse, while Doran has hunted him relentlessly. Nowhere was safe. Try as he might Rygart was never able to evade Doran for more than a few hours. He must be part bloodhound. It’s the only explanation.

Even at night, it seemed that no matter the time Doran was on the hunt. Rygart only ever managed a few hours of sleep, which he only got by being unpredictable. Doran might be his biggest adversary out here, but exhaustion wasn’t far behind. Not to mention the plethora of other creatures that called this forest home. Most were harmless enough. Most. Rygart has had his share of run in’s with the more harmful creatures, and some were nearly as terrifying as Doran.

Seven days Doran said. And only one day remained. Only hours, in fact. It was rather late into the night, and Rygart was beyond exhausted. He knew it was only a matter of time before Doran found him again. And again Rygart would have to fight for his life.

It might have been the final night, but the sun was still a ways away, and their little “game” didn’t end until sunrise. Rygart let his anger rage inside him, giving him the power he needed to fight back. Rygart didn’t know if he could take too many more skirmishes with the beast that was hunting him. To hell with being the mouse. Tonight, Rygart would hunt Doran, and repay the man, 100 times over. I will put everything I have left into our next confrontation. I’m going to end this.

Ever since Rygart had started his training he hadn’t been able to strike the man even once. Fighting him was nearly impossible, however it seemed that Doran was feeling these weeks of training as well. The last time Rygart had found himself facing off with Doran, just hours ago, something had seemed off. He had been slower, careless even. Rygart hadn’t noticed it until later, as he was busy trying to escape like he had done since the start of the week, but he was certain now. The old man was tired, and Rygart would exploit that for all that it was worth.

Rygart knew that his greatest asset was his speed. Doran’s strength was nearly absolute, and not something to underestimate. His speed was great, to be sure, but this late in the game, it had been the first thing to diminish. Rygart was certain he could get the upper hand, as long as the conditions were right.

After every skirmish, Doran would give Rygart an opening to flee. He was certain it was intentional. Every time Rygart broke free, the old man would stand there and smirk, as if it had been his plan all along. And after months of fighting him, Rygart new how the man thought, and he knew better than to think Doran left those openings on accident.

Rygart was going to let Doran find him again, and go through the motions of their fight, with Rygart trying desperately to get free of the man’s relentless barrage. This time, however, Rygart had something special in mind for the moment he makes his escape. For Rygart had developed, what he liked to call, his trump card. He had worked tirelessly on an attack that pushed his body to it’s very limits. He highly doubted he could pull it off completely with the shape he was in, but he knew he had enough strength left for just one final strike.

Rygart had walked through the forest, treading lightly, trying his hardest to go unnoticed. He knew, of course, that it was all in vain. Doran had managed to find him no matter how hard he’d tried to avoid him. Rygart only crept low through the forest for appearances sake. He had to make Doran believe this would be just like all the other skirmishes they’d had up until now.

Hours went by as Rygart made his way, slowly and quietly through the forest. Every fiber in his being ached and screamed, begging him to rest. Yet he continued, staying on his feet through sheer force of will. Suddenly, Rygart felt an intense pressure ahead of him. Luckily, the moon above was full, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight.

“You hide yourself well.” Each word rang out in the darkness, dripping with sarcasm, “If the beasts in Draghiem were blind and deaf, you might even make it past one or two.” The old man smirked as he stood there facing off against Rygart, with his longsword in his hand, resting against his shoulder. “Not getting tired are you? Think you can make it through the night?”

“Did you just come here to talk?” Replied Rygart, with equal amounts of sarcasm and humor, “If so, I could do this straight into winter”, he smirked, trying his best to get underneath the old man’s skin.

“Very well, have it your way.” And with that Doran lunged at Rygart, bringing his blade down in a heavy blow. Rygart parried it as best he could, and returned with a strike of his own. Doran danced to the side, easily dodging the attack. Back and forth they went, blow after blow, parry, dodge, attack, together they danced, neither one showing any sign of relenting.

After a few minutes of fighting, Rygart feigned exhaustion, which wasn’t too hard, as his body was nearly falling over anyway. As the fight raged Rygart would soften his attacks and slow them down, as if he couldn’t fight any longer. Seeing this, Doran relented, just a bit, until he eventually gave Rygart yet another avenue of escape.

Just as Doran relaxed, seeing Rygart step away, as if to flee, Rygart drew every ounce of strength he had to the surface, prepared to end not only this fight, but this game of cat-and-mouse as well.

Rygart gripped his sword and lunged towards his enemy with all his might. He flew through the air at unbelievable speed, only stepping again once he was within striking distance of his target. Rygart planted his feet, and struck out with the tip of his blade so fast, no human could possibly defend themselves.

The muscles and bones in Rygart’s legs screamed in agony from the force of his moves. He could feel them give out, tearing and breaking, just as he had launched his final attack. His arm, which he had used to deliver the devastatingly fast blow, was in much the same condition, but Rygart didn’t care. Not as long as he won.

During the moment Rygart attacked, it was as if the world itself slowed to a stop. Rygart could see his blade sailing through the air, aimed directly at his enemy’s heart. As the blade approached, time began to slow, until its tip was all but piercing the skin. Just as Rygart’s sword made contact with Doran’s skin, time itself stood still. The air around Doran warped and rippled, and a silvery, shimmering energy arced out from the place of contact, striking Rygart in the chest.

The force of the energy, coupled with the force of Rygart’s own attack, almost crushed every bone his body, and sent him flying, breaking through dozens of branches as he sailed through the forest. Rygart finally came crashing down to the earth, bouncing and flipping, coming to a halt as he slammed into the trunk of a large tree.

Rygart lay there, motionless and dying, cursing Oberon and his own rotten luck. The thought had never occurred to him that he might actually die while training with Doran. Rygart’s consciousness was slowly ebbing away, as his final thoughts drifted through his mind. He actually killed me. That bastard.