The wooden fist swept through the air with all the speed of a lazy autumn breeze, its trajectory so obvious that even a child could have predicted where it would land. Alph saw it coming. His mind catalogued the angle, calculated the force, identified three different ways to avoid it.
His body moved too late.
The impact caught him in the ribs, a dull thud that sent him stumbling sideways across the packed snow of Oakhaven's training ground. His feet tangled, and he went down hard, his shoulder hitting the frozen earth with enough force to send fresh spikes of pain through already-bruised muscle.
"Why did you try to dodge left?" Hemlock's voice carried across the clearing, calm and curious.
Alph pushed himself up on trembling arms, spitting snow from his mouth. "Because—" He paused, actually thinking about it. "Because it was faster than going right?"
"Was it?"
The Treant stood motionless ten feet away, a rough humanoid shape of twisted branches and moss-covered bark. No taller than a man but with arms that could extend like whips, it waited with the patient stillness only something without true consciousness could achieve. Hemlock's creation, animated by his will but operating on simple combat patterns.
Alph climbed to his feet, his breathing already ragged despite the fight having lasted less than five minutes. Yesterday's bruises screamed in protest, a full-body ache that made even standing feel like an accomplishment. His scholarly hands—soft despite recent weeks of exercise—were scraped raw from breaking his falls.
"I... my right foot was forward," he realized aloud. "Dodging left meant crossing my stance."
Hemlock made no comment, but Alph caught the slight nod of acknowledgment. The old druid sat on his familiar boulder at the edge of the clearing, staff resting across his knees, looking for all the world like he was watching clouds drift by rather than orchestrating a systematic beating.
The Treant moved again, raising one branch-arm in an overhead strike so telegraphed it might as well have sent a written announcement. Alph's mind immediately saw the opening—step inside the arc, the construct's rough approximation of joints would prevent it from adjusting mid-swing. Simple. Basic. Obvious.
He stepped forward.
His timing was wrong. His distance was wrong. His foot placement was wrong.
The branch caught him across the shoulders, driving him to his knees. Not hard enough to cause real damage—Hemlock's control was too precise for that—but hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to humiliate.
"What did your eyes see?" Hemlock asked.
"The opening," Alph gasped, still on his knees. "Step inside, avoid the arc."
"And what did your feet do?"
Alph's jaw clenched. He knew exactly what had gone wrong. "Stepped too early. Too far."
"Hmm."
That was all. No correction, no instruction. Just that thoughtful hum and the whisper of wind through pine branches. The Treant retreated to its starting position, waiting with mechanical patience.
Alph forced himself upright, muscles protesting. His mana core hummed with power, begging to be used. It would be so easy to conjure an ice blade, to meet wood with frozen steel. His fingers twitched with the muscle memory of yesterday's magical training, spell modules dancing at the edge of his consciousness.
No. He pushed the urge down. This wasn't about magic. This was about earning that dimly lit Fighter star, about building a foundation that could support the Arcane Squire lie. About becoming more than just a glass cannon.
The Treant advanced again, its movements different this time. Hemlock was adjusting the pattern, keeping him from simply memorizing sequences. A horizontal sweep from the right, followed by a jab with the left branch-arm.
Alph managed to duck the sweep—barely, more falling than dodging—but the jab caught him square in the stomach. Air exploded from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping.
"Your breathing," Hemlock observed. "What happened to it when you saw the attack coming?"
Through the haze of oxygen deprivation, Alph realized he'd been holding his breath. Anticipation had locked his lungs, tension seizing his entire body.
"I... stopped," he wheezed.
"Mmm."
The next exchange was worse. And the one after that. Each time, Hemlock's questions revealed another fundamental flaw. Why had he planted his back foot there? What made him think that angle would work? Where had his balance gone?
Alph's analytical mind could dissect every failure with surgical precision. He understood the physics, the geometry, the optimal responses. But understanding meant nothing when his untrained body betrayed him at every turn. Muscles fired too late or too early. Reflexes honed for turning pages and holding quills were useless against even this plodding wooden opponent.
Sweat soaked through his training clothes despite the mountain chill. His legs shook with exhaustion. Bruises layered on bruises until his entire torso felt like one massive ache. And still the Treant came, patient and implacable.
"Enough."
Hemlock's word cut through Alph's ragged breathing. The Treant immediately went still, then began to sink back into the frozen earth, its animation fading as Hemlock released the spell. Within moments, only disturbed soil marked where it had stood.
Alph collapsed onto his hands and knees, gulping arctic air. His body felt like it had been fed through a grain mill. Every muscle screamed. His hands were bloody from countless falls, and he was fairly certain his ribs would be more bruise than flesh by morning.
"Stand."
Somehow, he managed it. His legs wobbled but held.
Hemlock studied him with those ancient eyes. "What did you learn?"
Not what did I teach you or what techniques did you see. What did you learn?
Alph wiped blood from a split lip, thinking. "That knowing and doing are... completely different things. I can see what needs to happen, but my body won't listen. It's like trying to write with my off-hand—I know what the letters should look like, but..."
"But?"
"But the muscles don't know the movements. The reflexes aren't there. My mind is writing checks my body can't cash." He managed a rueful smile at the Earth phrase that had slipped out.
Hemlock nodded slowly. "A scholar's burden. Your mind races ahead while your flesh stumbles behind." He rose from the boulder, movements fluid despite his age. "Tomorrow, we continue. Rest. Eat. Let your body process what it has learned, even if your mind has not realized the lessons yet."
As the old druid turned to leave, Alph called out, "Teacher, how long before...?"
"Before you stop falling down?" A rare hint of amusement colored Hemlock's voice. "Ask me again when you can land a single blow on that Treant. Then we'll discuss what comes next."
Alph watched him go, then looked down at his trembling hands. Soft scholar's hands, now bloody and raw. In his previous life, he'd won battles with words, with preparation, with intellect. Here, none of that mattered.
But he'd asked for this. Chosen it. The Fighter star waited, dim but present. And if earning its light meant getting beaten into the ground day after day, so be it.
***
The meeting hall's warmth hit Alph like a physical embrace. He shuffled through the doorway, each movement a negotiation with protesting muscles. The familiar scent of Hemlock's medicinal broth—bitter herbs mingled with something earthy and green—drew him toward the hearth where a large pot bubbled quietly.
He'd barely managed to ladle the steaming liquid into a bowl when the door burst open behind him.
"Ha! I knew it!"
Alph turned—slowly, painfully—to find Kael grinning in the doorway, with Astrid, Emil, and even Finn limping behind on his still-tender ankle.
"Emil said you've been sneaking off here for secret soup." Kael sauntered in, eyeing the pot with interest. "What, the food at home not good enough anymore?"
"It's medicinal," Alph protested, lowering himself onto a bench with a barely suppressed groan.
Astrid's teasing expression shifted to concern as she took in his appearance. "Alph, you look like you've been mauled by a bear. What happened to you?"
"Training." He lifted the bowl to his lips, the hot broth sending blessed warmth through his battered body. "Physical combat practice."
Finn whistled low. "With my father?"
"A Treant."
"You fought a tree?" Kael's eyes widened. "And lost?"
"Repeatedly."
Emil had been unusually quiet, studying Alph with those serious eyes. "Is this about becoming a better Arcane Squire? Don't they mainly use magic?"
Before Alph could formulate a response that wouldn't reveal too much, Hemlock entered from his private chamber. The old druid took in the assembled youth with a raised eyebrow.
"The healing hall has become quite popular this evening," he observed dryly.
Astrid stepped forward with her brightest smile. "Grandpa Hemlock, that soup smells wonderful. And we're all very... injured. From... life."
A ghost of amusement crossed Hemlock's weathered features. "Is that so?" He moved to the hearth, producing several more bowls from a shelf. "Well then. Far be it from me to deny medicine to the gravely wounded."
The friends needed no further invitation. Soon they were clustered around Alph, bowls in hand, the atmosphere warming with their usual banter.
"This tastes like boiled grass," Kael complained, though he kept drinking.
"It's supposed to help with recovery," Emil said. "Grandpa adds silverleaf and mountain thyme for tissue repair."
"All I taste is bitterness and regret," Astrid muttered, but she too continued sipping.
Alph found himself relaxing despite his aches. This—his friends' chatter, their casual acceptance, their willingness to drink terrible soup just to keep him company—this was what he was training to protect.
"So," Finn asked, settling his injured leg on a spare bench, "how does one lose a fight to a tree?"
Hemlock went rigid.
The change was instant, absolute. His eyes unfocused, his knuckles white on his staff. The warm hall suddenly felt cold.
"Grandpa?" Emil's voice came out as a whisper.
Hemlock didn't answer. He turned toward the door, moving with an urgency that made Alph's stomach drop.
The door burst open before he reached it.
Borin stumbled through, ice in his beard, chest heaving. His eyes were wild.
"They're moving," he gasped. "All of them. The mercenaries—they've broken camp."
Hemlock's expression darkened. "How many?"
"Fifteen, maybe twenty. Armed and armored." Borin's gaze swept the room, taking in the young faces staring at him. "They're not leaving, Teacher. They're coming straight for the village. Full battle gear—shields, weapons drawn."
He swallowed hard. "I could feel it from a hundred yards. Their bloodlust. They're not coming to talk."
The warmth drained from the room.
Kael's bowl slipped from his fingers, clattering on the stone floor. The sound seemed impossibly loud. Astrid had gone white as fresh snow, her hand finding Finn's shoulder for support. Emil pressed closer to the wall, trying to make himself smaller.
Alph felt something cold settle in his chest—not fear exactly, but a crystalline clarity. All his training, his careful secrets, his growing power... none of it mattered if those mercenaries reached the village. He thought of Elara, probably on patrol. Of the scattered houses with their thin wooden doors. Of his friends' families, asleep and unaware.
Twenty armed killers against three defenders.
He set down his bowl, unable to swallow another drop.