Riven stood outside the small house, sweat clinging to his back as he chopped wood for the fifth time that morning. The sun hadn't even peaked yet.
His shoulders ached. His palms were blistered. And the worst part?
His master was lounging in a bamboo chair nearby, sipping ice tea which he had made.
"You done with the firewood?" the old man asked without looking up.
"Yes," Riven muttered, wiping his brow.
"Good. Weed the garden. Again."
Riven blinked. "Again? I already did that."
"There's always more weeds. Nature doesn't stop. Neither should you."
He clenched his teeth but said nothing. After the broom-sweeping, floor-scrubbing, rice-washing, bucket-hauling, and that ridiculous leaf-counting task (yes, leaf-counting), he had hoped this would be the day the real training began.
Instead, he was beginning to suspect this man just liked having a free assistant.
But Riven still did it.
Because somewhere deep down, he knew the old man wasn't all nonsense. The way he moved. The way his presence alone could quiet the wind. The way his eyes held weight.
There was something beneath the surface.
---
The First Lesson
Later that evening, Riven was finally called into the training yard behind the house. The wooden dummies, the faded targets, the cracked tiles—everything screamed age, use, history.
The old man stood with a wooden staff in his hands.
"Attack me," he said simply.
Riven hesitated. "No instructions?"
"You've been attacking everything around you lately. Let's see how much of that you've actually learned."
Riven rushed forward—quick, sharp, fists up.
Crack.
His vision blurred. He hit the dirt before he could even realize what happened.
"Too slow," his master said. "Again."
He scrambled up. Charged again. Got dropped again.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Every strike Riven threw was met with a flawless counter. A flick, a step, a twist of the wrist. Nothing fancy. No glowing eyes or exploding punches. Just precision. Timing. Skill.
It was brutal.
And humbling.
---
Nightfall
That night, Riven sat on the porch, a cool cloth pressed to his jaw. The moon cast silver light across the training yard.
His master sat beside him in silence, chewing on a rice cracker.
"Frustrated?" he asked eventually.
Riven didn't answer.
"Good," the man said. "You were arrogant when you arrived. Now you're listening."
Riven's eyes narrowed. "I just want to get stronger."
"You will. But first, I'll break every piece of who you were. Every bad habit. Every reckless punch. You think pain is strength. I'll show you control."
Riven looked down at his fists. Bruised. Scraped. But still clenched.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Break me, then."
The old man smiled.
"Good. We begin at dawn. And tomorrow, you clean the roof."
Riven groaned.