Riven woke up before dawn.
Not because of discipline.
Because a rooster screamed directly into his soul from outside the window.
He sat up with a groan, joints creaking from the hard floor. His master didn't believe in beds—"Real warriors sleep where they fall," he'd once said. Or maybe he was just too cheap to buy one.
Riven stretched, cracked his neck, and stepped outside into the crisp morning air. Mist coiled between the trees like ghostly fingers. The smell of damp earth and pine clung to everything.
His master was already waiting on the porch, sipping tea with one leg crossed over the other like a man who absolutely enjoyed ruining lives.
"You're late," he said.
"It's not even sunrise."
"Exactly. A warrior's spirit should rise before the sun."
Riven squinted at him. "...I'm not fighting the sun."
His master smiled and handed him a broom.
"Today," he said, "we begin your training."
Riven took the broom with reverence. "Am I sweeping to master footwork? Balance?"
"You're sweeping because my porch is dirty."
A beat.
"…What?"
"Clean the porch. Then the floor inside. Then weed the entire garden. After that, scrub the training dummies. And—oh—don't forget the outhouse. That thing's a war crime."
Riven blinked. "You're joking."
The man grinned. "Did I look like I was joking when I trained you the first time?"
No. He didn't. That man once made Riven crawl through freezing riverbeds to "bond with nature."
Still, Riven took it in stride. He'd read enough martial arts scrolls and stories. This was all part of the process. Humility. Endurance. Control.
He swept the porch with a soldier's determination.
He weeded the garden with precision, wondering which muscles this helped build.
He cleaned the dummies, polished the windows, and even chased off a raccoon that had claimed dominion over the firewood pile.
He was exhausted by mid-afternoon. His hands were blistered, his knees dirt-stained.
He dragged himself back to the porch where his master was now napping in a chair.
Riven flopped beside him. "Okay… what did I learn?"
His master yawned and stretched. "That my house is now spotless. Good job."
Riven blinked. "Wait. That's it? That wasn't part of a bigger lesson?"
"Nope."
"You seriously made me clean for nothing?"
"Well," the man said, sipping his tea again, "I learned something. You're still gullible."
Riven stared at him. "I hate you."
"No, you don't. Now go clean the shed."
Riven groaned. "This isn't training. This is free labor."
"It's not free. You're getting food."
"Barely!"
His master laughed heartily, slapping his knee. "Consider it emotional training. Builds character."
And despite how much Riven wanted to punch him, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Somewhere in this chaos, it felt a little like old times.
Even if he was just the world's strongest janitor.