The first hundred weren't hard.
Not really.
My arms were still fresh.
My grip still strong.
The blade moved how I wanted it to.
Swing.
Step.
Breathe.
Swing.
The sound of metal cutting air was clean.
Sharp.
Almost satisfying.
If this was all sword training was…
Then maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
…
By two hundred, my forearms started to burn.
Not pain.
Not yet.
Just heat.
A slow, creeping fatigue.
My swings lost a little speed.
A little sharpness.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But I noticed.
Swing.
Three hundred.
My shoulders began to ache.
Not surface ache.
Deep ache.
The kind that sits inside the joint.
Each lift of the blade required more effort than the last.
Swing.
Four hundred.
My breathing wasn't steady anymore.
Inhale.
Swing.
Exhale.
Swing.
My hands were starting to hurt.
Friction.
Pressure.
The skin felt tight.
Hot.
I didn't stop.
Five hundred.
Halfway.
I paused for half a second.
Not to rest.
Just to look at the blade.
It looked the same.
Untouched.
Unaffected.
Like it hadn't done anything.
Like I hadn't done anything.
"…Of course."
The sword didn't care.
The world didn't care.
Only the numbers did.
So I kept going.
Swing.
Six hundred.
My arms trembled now.
Not constantly.
Just at the end of each motion.
Small shakes.
Tiny failures.
My grip loosened.
I tightened it again.
Swing.
Seven hundred.
Pain.
Real pain now.
My shoulders screamed each time I lifted the blade.
My wrists felt like they were splitting.
My palms burned.
I could feel blisters forming.
Swing.
I didn't stop.
Eight hundred.
My swings were slower.
Each one required will.
Swing.
Nine hundred.
My body begged me to stop.
My arms felt heavy.
Too heavy.
The sword weighed more than before.
It didn't.
But it felt like it did.
My breathing was rough.
My vision blurred slightly.
Swing.
Nine hundred and ten.
Nine hundred and twenty.
Nine hundred and thirty.
Each number mattered.
Each number existed.
Each number was progress.
Swing.
Nine hundred and eighty.
My arms shook violently now.
Barely controlled.
Barely mine.
Swing.
Nine hundred and ninety.
I almost dropped the sword.
My fingers failed.
For a moment.
Just a moment.
I tightened them again.
Swing.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine.
My body didn't want to lift the blade.
It refused.
It hesitated.
It resisted.
…
I lifted it anyway.
And swung.
One thousand.
The blade cut through the air.
And stopped.
Exactly where I intended.
Silence.
I stood there.
Breathing hard.
Arms trembling.
Hands burning.
But standing.
I did it.
"…Hah."
A weak laugh escaped my throat.
It wasn't impressive.
It wasn't talent.
It was just repetition.
Footsteps behind me.
I didn't turn.
I already knew.
Arthur.
He had been watching.
Of course he had.
He always was.
He stopped beside me.
Silent.
Then—
"Again."
I froze.
"…What?"
I turned.
He wasn't smiling.
He wasn't joking.
"Tomorrow," he said.
Then he walked away.
Just like that.
Leaving me standing there.
Sword in hand.
Arms barely working.
Body barely standing.
I looked down at the blade.
"…So this is how it starts."
Not glory.
Not talent.
Not destiny.
Just repetition.
Just pain.
Just effort.
I tightened my grip slightly.
My hands trembled.
But they didn't let go.
then I passed out on the hard ground
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------'
Pov: Arthur
Then the brat passed out on the hard ground.
Just dropped.
One moment standing.
The next out like a light bulb turned off.
Arthur didn't move right away.
He just stood there, arms folded, looking down at the boy lying face-first in the grass. The sword rested a short distance from his hand, fingers still curled like they refused to admit it was over.
"…He actually did it."
His voice was quiet.
Almost disbelieving.
A thousand swings.
Not one skipped.
Not one cheated.
I was counting.
Every single one.
He watched the boy's back rise and fall slowly. Still breathing. Just unconscious.
that idiot pushed himself too far.
Arthur's lips curled slightly.
Proud.
"Brat you really did it…"
There was a faint warmth in his chest he hadn't felt in a long time.
"…you really pushed past it, surpassing your limits."
Most quit at three hundred.
Four, if they were stubborn.
Five hundred if they were desperate to prove something.
But one thousand?
At that age?
At that strength?
Heh.
Arthur shook his head slowly.
"He's gonna be sore for a while."
Probably won't be able to lift his arms tomorrow.
Maybe the day after too.
Arthur stepped forward and crouched beside him, his old knees cracking softly.
Up close, the boy looked even younger.
Too young.
Too young to be throwing himself at the world like that.
Arthur reached down and picked up the sword first.
Never leave a blade in the dirt.
Bad habit.
Then he looked back at Noel.
"…What a moron."
He said it gently.
Not as an insult.
Arthur slipped one arm under the boy's shoulders, the other beneath his legs, and lifted him carefully.
Heavier than six months ago.
Solid.
Not dead weight anymore.
Good.
He started walking back toward the house.
Slow.
Steady.
"…Might bring the potion over."
He muttered it to himself.
Didn't like using it.
Potions made people soft if they relied on them.
Pain was part of training.
But this…
This was the first time.
First milestones deserved to be protected.
Just this once.
Arthur glanced down at Noel's unconscious face.
"…You did good, lad."
His voice was quiet.
Almost lost to the wind.
He carried him inside anyway.