(Proofread and partially written by AI for coherence and completeness.)
Ferris was not a patient teacher. His methods were harsh, his words blunt, and his expectations unforgiving. But Kieran welcomed the cruelty of his training with a fervor that surprised even himself.
Mornings began with drills, Ferris dragging Kieran to a secluded grove beyond the village's border. The trees loomed overhead like twisted sentinels, their branches swaying in the cold wind. Leaves crunched beneath Kieran's feet as Ferris handed him a wooden stick, roughly hewn but sturdy enough to bruise.
"If you can't wield a stick properly, you'll be dead before you ever get your hands on a blade," Ferris snapped, his gaze sharp and unforgiving. "Show me your stance."
Kieran mimicked the position Ferris had demonstrated earlier. Feet apart, knees bent, arms raised to guard his chest. It felt unnatural, his muscles trembling with the effort.
"Pathetic," Ferris spat. "Your balance is off. You're too stiff. Loosen your shoulders. Bend your knees, not like a puppet, like a man."
Kieran adjusted, frustration burning beneath his skin. Ferris's criticism was relentless, his insults stinging like thorns. But Kieran refused to falter. If enduring the old man's scorn was the price of learning, he would pay it gladly.
For hours, Ferris drilled him in the basics. Footwork. Angles. Strikes and parries. Kieran's hands grew raw from gripping the stick, his knuckles scraped and bleeding. Sweat clung to his skin despite the chill, his breathing ragged.
Ferris struck him often. Not out of cruelty, but out of necessity. Each blow was a lesson, each bruise a reminder of his own inadequacies. Kieran learned to anticipate the strikes, to dodge or deflect them with desperate swiftness.
But Ferris's movements were deceptively quick for a man his age. His strikes came without warning, his steps silent. It was like fighting a shadow.
"Again!" Ferris barked, his voice echoing through the grove. "You're too slow. Your enemy won't wait for you to get it right. They'll kill you before you even realize your mistake."
Kieran's chest heaved, his limbs trembling from exhaustion. But he refused to relent. With each failure, he pushed himself harder, his determination hardening like tempered steel.
"Why are you doing this?" Ferris asked one afternoon, his gaze piercing. "Why bother learning to fight when you could just run away and scavenge like the rest of them?"
Kieran met Ferris's stare without hesitation. "Because I'm done running. I've been given a second chance, and I won't waste it. If I'm going to survive here, I need more than scraps. I need power."
Ferris's lips twisted into something resembling a grin. "Power, eh? And what do you plan to do with it?"
"Take control of this village," Kieran replied. "Then, when I'm strong enough, I'll leave this place. I'll find the nobles who rule over this world and tear down everything they've built."
The old man's laughter was harsh and dry. "Ambitious. But ambition without skill is nothing but a child's dream."
"Then make me skilled," Kieran retorted. "Show me how to be more than just a scavenger."
Ferris regarded him for a long moment, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. Approval, perhaps. Or amusement.
"Very well," Ferris said. "But training isn't just about swinging a stick. It's about understanding your own limitations and turning them into strengths. And right now, your greatest weakness is your recklessness."
Kieran bristled at the criticism but forced himself to listen. "What do you mean?"
"You charge in headfirst, thinking that determination alone will see you through. That's a fool's way of fighting. A real fighter knows when to attack and when to retreat. When to observe and when to strike."
"I'm not a coward," Kieran snapped.
"No," Ferris replied, his voice calm but firm. "But neither are you a warrior. Not yet."
The words stung, but Kieran forced himself to swallow his pride. "Then teach me."
And Ferris did.
Days bled into weeks, the harsh training continuing without mercy. Ferris's methods were brutal, his guidance laced with contempt. But Kieran began to see the purpose behind the old man's cruelty. It was not kindness that drove Ferris, but pragmatism. A need to sharpen Kieran into something more than just a desperate child with grand ambitions.
Every lesson carried pain. But with pain came progress. Kieran's body grew stronger, his movements quicker, more precise. His senses sharpened, attuned to every flicker of movement, every whisper of sound.
Ferris drilled him endlessly in combat, but also in observation. He forced Kieran to watch the villagers, to understand their habits, their weaknesses. To learn how to manipulate them without them ever realizing it.
"You said you want power," Ferris would say, his voice a rasp. "But power isn't just about strength. It's about knowledge. Control. Knowing when to speak and when to remain silent. When to be seen and when to disappear."
Kieran absorbed these lessons with the same hunger that drove him to survive. He studied the village's dynamics, learning how alliances were formed and broken. He listened to the whispers of discontent, the murmurs of betrayal.
And all the while, Ferris watched him with a keen, calculating eye. The old man offered no praise, only further challenges. But Kieran could sense a shift in their relationship. The hostility had lessened, replaced by something akin to grudging respect.
One night, as they sat by the fire, Ferris handed Kieran a crude knife. The blade was dull and chipped, its handle wrapped in worn leather. But to Kieran, it was more precious than gold.
"You've earned it," Ferris said simply. "But don't mistake it for strength. It's just a tool. Your real weapon is your mind."
Kieran took the knife, his fingers trembling with a mixture of gratitude and determination. "I understand."
"Good," Ferris grunted. "Because your training is far from over."
And Kieran welcomed it.
For every scar earned, every bruise endured, brought him one step closer to his goal. And Ferris, whether the old man admitted it or not, was becoming something more than just a mentor.
He was becoming a guide. A piece of the puzzle Kieran was slowly assembling.