Androkles waited until the sixth week to give Helios a real sword.
Not the dull practice blade he had used before. A real one. Bronze, sharp, balanced. The kind of weapon that could kill a man if used correctly—or accidentally, if used carelessly.
"You've earned this," Androkles said, handing it over. "But earning it and handling it are different things. Don't cut yourself."
Helios took the sword. It was heavier than the wooden one, but not by much. His enhanced strength made the weight feel trivial. What mattered was the edge—the way the light caught the bronze, the way the tip seemed to point at everything and nothing.
"It feels alive," Helios said.
Androkles nodded. "A good sword does. Now show me what you can do."
---
They started with the basics.
Footwork first. Androkles made Helios move through the same patterns he had practiced with the wooden blade: advance, retreat, sidestep, pivot. But now the sword had to move with him, not against him. The weight changed the rhythm.
Helios adjusted quickly. Not because he was a genius—because he had spent hours in his past life watching videos of fencers, HEMA practitioners, even kendo masters. He had never held a real sword before waking up in this world, but he had studied them. The way they moved. The way the body had to flow around the blade.
The sword is an extension of the arm, he reminded himself. Not a separate thing.
He made a cut. Horizontal, waist-high. The bronze whispered through the air.
"Too slow," Androkles said.
Helios cut again. Faster.
"Still slow."
Again. Harder. Faster. The sword began to hum.
Androkles held up a hand. "Stop. You're forcing it. A sword isn't a club. You don't hit with it. You guide it."
Helios lowered the blade. "Then show me."
Androkles took the sword and demonstrated. His cut was smooth, almost lazy-looking, but the blade moved faster than Helios's had. Less effort, more result.
"See?" Androkles handed the sword back. "It's about economy. Not strength."
Helios tried again. This time, he focused on relaxation. On letting the blade do the work. On the feeling of the edge moving through air like a fish through water.
The cut was perfect.
Androkles raised an eyebrow. "You learn fast."
"I watch closely."
"That's not watching. That's absorbing." The scarred man crossed his arms. "I've trained a dozen students. None of them picked up a real sword this quickly."
Helios shrugged. "Maybe I'm lucky."
Androkles snorted. "There's no luck in fighting. Only skill and stupidity." But his eyes lingered on Helios a moment too long.
---
Over the next two weeks, Helios trained every morning.
He woke before dawn, ran through his stretches, and met Androkles in the courtyard. They drilled cuts and parries until Helios's arms ached—not from fatigue, but from the focus. Keeping the edge aligned. Controlling the angle of impact. Breathing through the movements.
He started making small adjustments.
A cut that came from the shoulder was slower than one from the hip. He shifted his stance, lowered his center of gravity. The blade moved faster.
A parry that met the opponent's blade at a right angle wasted energy. He learned to deflect at an angle, redirecting force instead of stopping it. The jarring impact in his wrists faded.
He experimented with footwork, borrowing from memories of the Prince of Persia's wall-runs and Kirito's spinning slashes. Not copying—adapting. Making the movements his own.
Androkles watched in silence. He didn't compliment. He didn't criticize. He just watched.
One morning, after Helios had finished a particularly complex sequence—advance, feint, spin, low cut, recovery—Androkles finally spoke.
"Where did you learn to move like that?"
Helios wiped sweat from his forehead. "I told you. I watch. I think. I move."
"No. That's not watching. That's remembering." Androkles stepped closer. "You move like someone who has seen things he shouldn't have seen. Like someone who has practiced in his head for years before ever picking up a sword."
Helios felt a flash of panic. He buried it.
"Maybe I dream about fighting," he said. "Maybe the gods send me visions."
Androkles stared at him. Then he laughed—a short, sharp sound.
"The gods don't send visions to boys in Troy. They send them to kings and priests." He shook his head. "You're not normal, Helios. I've known that since the first day. But this—" he gestured at the sword, at the courtyard, at the boy's too-calm eyes "—this is something else."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me the truth."
Helios considered lying. Considered making up a story about a wandering sage, a secret teacher, a divine blessing. But he was tired of lying. Tired of hiding.
"My mind works differently than other people's," he said slowly. "I remember things I've never learned. I see patterns that don't exist yet. I don't know why. I don't know if it's a gift or a curse."
Androkles was quiet for a long moment.
"Can you fight?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Can you kill?"
Helios hesitated. He had killed in his past life? No. He had made decisions that led to deaths—corporate restructurings, factory closures, investments in companies that exploited workers. But he had never looked a man in the eye and ended his life.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Androkles nodded. "Good. That means you're not a monster. Monsters don't ask that question."
He picked up his own sword.
"Again. From the beginning. And this time, don't think. Just move."
---
They trained until the sun was high.
Helios's body moved on autopilot. Cut, parry, pivot, strike. His mind drifted. He thought about his past life—the boardrooms, the skyscrapers, the cold satisfaction of a winning trade. He thought about the first time he had watched Sword Art Online, staying up until 3 AM because he couldn't look away from Kirito's dual-blade dance.
He made it look easy, Helios thought. But it wasn't. It was years of practice compressed into animation.
Real life didn't have animation. Real life had sweat and mistakes and the constant risk of cutting yourself.
He made a mistake. His foot slipped on a patch of damp stone. His sword wobbled, off-balance.
Androkles's blade tapped his wrist. "Dead."
Helios reset. Tried again.
Another mistake. His weight shifted too early. Androkles's blade tapped his shoulder.
"Dead again."
Helios growled in frustration. "I'm trying."
"Trying isn't enough. You have to be." Androkles lowered his sword. "You think too much. You plan. You calculate. But fighting isn't a spreadsheet. It's a conversation. You have to listen to your body, not just your head."
Helios wanted to argue. In his past life, thinking had saved him. Calculating had made him rich. Planning had kept him ahead of competitors.
But this wasn't the stock market. This was bronze and blood.
"Show me again," Helios said.
Androkles smiled. It was the first real smile Helios had seen on his scarred face.
"Now you're learning."
---
That afternoon, Helios sat under the pomegranate tree and stared at the sword in his hands.
The bronze was warm. It was always warm when he held it, even in the shade. He didn't know why. He had stopped questioning it.
Maybe it's the sun, he thought. Maybe it's me. Maybe there's no difference.
Lysander found him there. The boy had been coming for training every morning, and he was getting better. Slower than Helios, but faster than most. He had good instincts.
"You look tired," Lysander said, sitting down beside him.
"I am tired."
"Then rest."
Helios shook his head. "I can't. There's too much to learn."
Lysander looked at the sword. At Helios's golden eyes. At the way the light seemed to bend around the boy like water around a stone.
"My uncle says you're not human," Lysander said quietly.
"What do you think?"
Lysander thought about it. Then he shrugged. "I think you're my friend. That's enough."
Helios felt something loosen in his chest. He hadn't realized how tight he had been holding himself.
"Thanks," he said.
"For what?"
"For not being afraid of me."
Lysander grinned. "I'm afraid of a lot of things. My mother. The dark. That one soldier who always smells like onions." He nudged Helios's shoulder. "But you? You're just weird. Not scary."
Helios laughed. It was a small laugh, almost surprised out of him.
"Weird," he repeated. "I can live with that."
---
The next morning, Androkles arrived early.
He found Helios already in the courtyard, practicing alone. The boy moved through the forms with a fluidity that made the scarred man's jaw tighten.
He's better than he was yesterday, Androkles thought. And he was already better than anyone his age should be.
He watched for five minutes. Ten. Helios didn't notice him. The boy was lost in the movement, the sword singing through the air, his feet tracing patterns on the stone.
He's not normal, Androkles thought again. He's not even exceptional. He's something else entirely.
He stepped into the courtyard.
"You're up early."
Helios didn't startle. He just lowered his sword and turned. "I couldn't sleep."
"Nightmares?"
"Memories."
Androkles didn't ask what memories. He didn't want to know. Some things were better left in the dark.
"Let's train," he said.
They trained for three hours. Androkles pushed harder than ever—throwing combinations, changing rhythms, forcing Helios to react instead of think. The boy kept up. Not flawlessly—he made mistakes, overextended, left openings. But he learned from each mistake. Adjusted. Improved.
By the end of the session, both of them were breathing hard.
Androkles sheathed his sword. "That's enough for today."
Helios nodded. He was sweating, his hair plastered to his forehead, but his eyes were clear. Focused.
Androkles looked at him for a long moment.
"You're not going to be a normal soldier," he said.
"I know."
"You're not going to be a normal anything."
Helios didn't reply. He just stood there, sword in hand, golden eyes catching the morning light.
Androkles sighed. "I don't know what you are. But I know what you're becoming. And it scares me."
Helios looked down at the blade. The bronze seemed brighter than it had a moment ago.
"It scares me too," he said.
They stood in silence, teacher and student, while the sun climbed higher over the walls of Troy. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed. Somewhere beyond the gates, the world kept turning toward war.
Androkles clapped a hand on Helios's shoulder.
"Rest today. Tomorrow, we start dual blades."
Helios's eyes widened. "You'll teach me?"
"I'll try. But I suspect you'll teach yourself." Androkles smiled—a tired, almost sad smile. "You always do."
He walked away, leaving Helios alone in the courtyard.
The boy looked at his sword. At the pendant around his neck—the one that held his twin blades, sealed and waiting.
Soon, he thought. Not yet. But soon.
He went inside to find his mother.
---
END OF CHAPTER SIX