Sam couldn’t believe he’d just been knocked on his ass…again.

  Stars swam in his vision, the breath forced from his lungs as his back slammed into the dirt of the training ring. The last hour had been one of the most humiliating of his life. He felt like a toddler swatting at their father with a pool noodle. His mind knew exactly what he needed to do, knew where to thrust and when to block, but his newly refined body seemed determined to fail at even the most basic exercises.

  What made it worse was that he knew he could move like he envisioned in his head. He had the presence of mind to know that his body now possessed the speed and strength to at least begin to compete with the Warden, but no matter what he did, or how fast he willed his muscles to move, he always seemed one step behind.

  “You alright there, lad?” Sam could hear the man wince as he leaned against the fence that bordered the training yard.

  “Give me a minute,” Sam wheezed, fighting down panic as air finally started circulating through his lungs. His newly repaired body was already covered in bruises, but he was pleased to find that the ones from the start of the session had already fully healed; the deep blue and purple welts fading at a perceptible rate.

  He rolled over and got to his hands and knees, spitting out the dust that coated his tongue. His spear lay a few yards away, where Arther had knocked it with shocking ease.

  “I don’t get it,” he said with a growl. “I know what I need to do, I can see the openings, I just can’t move fast enough to capitalize on them.”

  The Warden nodded slowly, absentmindedly adjusting the padded leather sheath that covered the tip of his spear. “I am faster than you, but that’s not your problem.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow, “Please do enlighten me, oh wise mentor.”

  Arther scowled, “You say that sarcastically, but that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.” He sat cross-legged in the dirt, looking like an overgrown child despite his age. “Your problem is that you’re thinking about what you’re doing.”

  Sam sat up, face twisting in confusion. “Sorry? I assumed that thinking was an appropriate thing to do in armed combat.”

  “You would think that,” Arther said with a rueful grin, “but thinking takes time. You just had petabytes of data downloaded directly into your brain. You’re analyzing the situation, comparing it against known references, and formulating a solution to a problem. The issue is that the problem is changing faster than your mind can keep up. Now, that’s something you’ll eventually be able to enhance with skills, but there is a much simpler solution.”

  Sam leaned forward, still fascinated by the man’s completely anachronistic range of knowledge. “Well, what is it?”

  “Don’t think, just act. Right now, your body is processing and filing away millions of known combat permutations. The information is there, but actively seeking it out is what’s costing you. Instead, you simply need to rely on instinct.”

  “Instinct?”

  “Aye, it sounds more mystical than it is. The reality is, you’re just tricking your brain into making a decision, rather than thinking about making a decision.”

  Sam frowned, trying to wrap his head around the infuriatingly vague statement. “But what if I’m wrong? What if my instinct says to go left when I should go right?”

  “Then you get hit…and you learn. And the next time your body knows to go right instead. The key is to make those mistakes against enemies who won’t make you pay too hard for them. Ideally, you’d only make them in training, but we just don’t have the time.”

  Sam hated that it actually made the tiniest bit of sense. He’d been someone who’d always struggled to trust their gut. The scientist in him made him want to slow down and analyze the data. Because what if he was wrong? That self-doubt had cost him on more than one occasion. Over-analyzing was something he’d been fighting against his whole life.

  “Alright, let’s try again,” he said with a groan, pulling himself to his feet and retrieving the fallen spear.

  Their next bout didn't go any better. Nor did the one after that. Arther was the definition of economy of motion, with footwork that would have been the envy of any professional dancer. He seemed to know exactly how to limit his strength and speed to keep pushing Sam at one hundred percent, without completely overwhelming him. He’d often swap grips, using the spear as a quarterstaff, forcing Sam to react to the sudden change in style.

  He was a complete contrast to the novice warriors. While they’d been all wild swings and reckless charges, Arther was a picture of control. His thrusts maximized every inch of range, and his parries always left him with a favourable position.

  After what felt like the twentieth time retrieving his spear from the ground where it had fallen, Sam finally called for a break. His chest was burning, and his muscles were starting to spasm uncontrollably. He sprawled in the dirt, leaning his back against a fencepost.

  “This is ridiculous,” he groaned. "I feel like I'm getting worse, not better.”

  “Not an inaccurate assessment, unfortunately,” Arther agreed, summoning a water skin and passing it to him. “You're trying so hard not to overthink that you're thinking about not thinking. It makes your movements too stiff, and you've completely tensed up.”

  “Mhm,” Sam grunted, trying to rein in the frustration he was feeling.

  “You have to trust yourself to make the right move. The skills are there, inside your head. They get better every cycle as The Arbiter expands their pool of data.”

  “Sure,” Sam replied, “But I haven't actually learned any of it. It's just been dumped straight into my brain. And while yes, it's surprisingly easy to utilize, I still have no idea what I'm doing.” He hated that he couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  Arther leaned on the fence beside him, staring out through the trees. The sun had begun to shift around the spire, and the fields were bathed in the warm light of evening. “It's more like remembering than learning. Right now, you have the pieces of a puzzle, one you've completed a thousand times. You simply need to remember how to put the pieces back together.”

  “But I haven't done this a thousand times!” Sam said with a snarl, forcing himself to his feet. “Three days ago, I was in my tiny apartment, with my shitty job. I went to school, I had friends, I had a family. I wasn't a soldier; I studied biochemistry. How in the fuck am I supposed to beat people who've been training their whole lives for this? Forget even people, they’re aliens, real life fuckin’ aliens! And sure, I won today, but what happens when they also get skills, what happens when they can use magic?”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  If Arther was phased at all by the outburst, he didn't show it. He seemed content to let Sam get it all out. “They are aliens, and they will have magic, and coming in, they had every advantage. Now, they have much less of one. While enhancements benefit from a higher starting base, the more you upgrade tiers, the more that initial balance will correct itself.

  “You're angry, and you should be. But you're not alone in this, Sam.” Arther walked out into the center of the yard. “The knowledge in your head has been accumulated over thousands of years. You are the product of every Warrior who’s come before you. Every lowly peasant and murderous warlord. Champions, all of them. And while your enemies will have access to the same font of knowledge, that doesn't mean they'll be better at using it. You're smart, and you're driven, and despite what you think, you do have good instincts. You wouldn't have been able to survive against twenty dire-rats without them.”

  Sam pursed his lips but couldn't deny the argument. When the rats had cornered him, he hadn't thought—he'd just acted. His limbs had moved of their own accord. He’d felt the anger boiling inside of him, and it had animated him, guiding his movements with lethal intent.

  “Pick up your spear, Sam. We’re going again.” Arther said it with a finality that brokered no argument.

  Sam hoisted his spear and settled into a defensive stance, forcing himself to ignore the pain from his injuries. The two circled one another, and Sam found himself attempting to read the older man’s movements, trying to predict where he’d strike. Every subtle motion set off warning bells, but the Warden never initiated; he just kept circling, making the odd feint with his all-black spear.

  He’s waiting for me to attack, but that's obviously a trap. Sam had gone on the offensive in their earlier bouts and had been rebuffed with little effort. Some of his nastier bruises had come from those first failed strikes. It had made him hesitant to over-extend, to create an opening for the more seasoned warrior.

  I'm fighting scared. The realization came to him unbidden, his clinical side offering it without judgment. I'm fighting to not lose, I'm not fighting to win. The thought gave him pause, their initial engagements flashing through his mind. Not once had he ever attacked, actually expecting the strike to land. Not once had he gone for a killing blow, not expecting it to be turned aside. I'm fighting as if I've already lost.

  The epiphany didn't arrive with the sound of thunder, but it did make him laugh. A small chuckle escaped his lips, and Arther instantly tensed. The movement was almost imperceptible, and Sam wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been explicitly looking for it.

  He struck, bringing his spear forward in a simple thrust, keeping his body turned, and maximizing the power from his legs and back. Arther raised his spear to block, but Sam continued powering through the motion, aiming past the target and pushing his spear into his opponent's collarbone.

  Arther’s eyes went wide, and he brought his own spear down into Sam’s shoulder. He winced at the pain, but the damage was done. The two men stood there, weapons pressed into one another.

  “So, I see you've figured it out.” A broad grin cracked the older man’s face, his crow’s feet catching the sun’s fading light.

  “I guess so,” Sam replied, withdrawing his spear and massaging his tender shoulder. “I basically can't rely on beating my opponents with pure skill. Maybe eventually, but right now there's just no way I'm overcoming that gap. So instead, I need to win another way.”

  He took a few steps back, letting the brisk evening air cool the sweat on his brow. “I'm in a unique position. Between [Rodent’s Resilience], [Basic Constitution], and [Apostate], I'm going to be more durable than almost any human out here. I need to get comfortable trading blows that would disable or kill a regular person.” Even as the words left his mouth, he felt his stomach churn. Saying it was one thing, but accepting he’d need to get hurt in order to win fights was still profoundly unappealing.

  “You figured it out faster than I would have,” Arther said, still smiling. “It's not about fighting recklessly; major injuries will still take you out of commission, and it's not like you're able to regrow limbs. Right now, you're able to trade blows with almost anyone. Eventually, you’ll need to get more offensive options. There's no way you'll be able to compete on the higher rings against warriors with defence-focused deities. But you'll have one of the more balanced builds out there, an all-rounder who can take damage and dish it out.”

  Sam found himself nodding along. It wasn't glamorous; he wouldn't be flinging fireballs or sliding on bridges of magic ice—but he could do it. With the right armour and weapons, he would be able to contribute. There was a way to win.

  He felt himself smiling as well, looking across the yard at the old warrior. He brought his spear up again and settled back down into his stance. Arther followed suit without a word, and the two exchanged a flurry of blows.

  Not worrying so much about getting hit unlocked thousands of additional options. As the bout wore on, he found himself favouring moves that brought him in close to his opponent, using his weight and momentum to knock them off balance. Often it would result in taking a glancing blow, but it was worth it in a drawn-out fight.

  Health is a resource, one I'm going to have more of than anyone else. The realization brought a fierce grin to his face, and he pushed forward into Arther’s defences with a newfound intensity. For the first time since the training began, Arther was forced to push past his self-imposed restrictions. The impact was instantaneous, as Sam felt his spear slam into what felt like a brick wall.

  The difference in strength was overwhelming, and he was thrown back like a sack of potatoes, landing in a heap in the center of the ring. He came up smiling like a madman, and it stretched even farther as he saw a single bead of sweat trickle down the side of Arther’s face.

  “That's enough, lad, you've proved your point.” The Warden sounded winded, and that was victory enough for Sam. He collapsed back in the dirt, chest heaving, but feeling a profound sense of accomplishment.

  “While I'm glad you're making progress, you don't have to take a hit with every attack.” The old Smith sounded like he was holding back laughter. “While it's good to know how to take a beating, it shouldn't be your goal for every engagement.”

  The throbbing bruises across Sam’s body were a testament to the wisdom of that mindset, but the pain was worth it if he knew he had a way to win fights against stronger opponents.

  “You're still hesitating, and your combinations are atrocious, but you're making progress. More than most would have made after only a few hours. However, you can't fall into the trap of always thinking you'll come out on top in an exchange, not when you're facing [Divine Skills] you've never even heard of. For now, it should be enough to get you started, but we won't be able to slack off even a little if you want to have any hope of making it to the next Ring.”

  Sam sat up slowly, letting the words sink in. “But there is hope, isn't there?”

  “Aye, lad, there is. More than a little. You've got a warrior’s spirit, and that's more important than any title or achievement.”

  Sam nodded, not accustomed to receiving that kind of praise. “Should we keep going? I've probably got one or two left in me.”

  Arther shook his head, “Let's call it there. Any more and you might make a mistake and really get yourself hurt. The stew should be almost ready, and we need to be on the road before dawn tomorrow. Go take a shower and meet me back at the house. We’ll get your armour fitted and make any adjustments to your shield.”

  Sam stood and nodded before limping off towards the bathhouse. After a few steps, he paused and turned to look back at the old warrior. “Hey, Arther,” the words came out stiff and lurching, “I just want to say, thank you. You didn't have to help me; you could have left me on the side of the road. You didn't have to train me or guide me. But I know I'd absolutely be dead without you. So, I just want to say thanks, for what it's worth.”

  The Warden gave a small smile, “It's worth a lot, thank you, Sam. Now go and get cleaned up before I decide to fight you for real. I'll leave another tunic in the guest cabin, though I'll need to charge you for it.”

  “Cheap bastard,” Sam said with a laugh, and set out down the hill.