Chapter 37: Offer

Chapter 37: Chapter 37: Offer

"There is no elevator to success. You have to take the stairs." — Zig Ziglar

The autumn air grew sharper as the days passed, turning the mud of the lower district into a hard, frost covered crust.

For around two weeks, Riven lived through the same exhausting routine.

He worked during the day and trained at night.

With almost no money left after paying for his healing, he had little choice but to take whatever work he could find. He accepted gathering requests, sorted dried grain in damp merchant cellars, cleared stubborn roots from the apothecary’s herb beds, and hauled bundles of firewood for the bakeries in the lower district.

None of the jobs paid particularly well, but they kept a few coins in his pouch and they were safe letting his wounds heal.

He was careful to avoid work that would put too much strain on his injured shoulder or reopen the wound in his palm. Even so, the tasks were difficult for a five year old. By the end of each day, his small body ached from exhaustion.

But he endured.

Every evening, once the sun had disappeared beyond the settlement’s walls, Riven made his way to the Adventurers’ Guild.

The private training grounds became his second home.

Under the dim light of his brass lantern, he practiced the same technique over and over again.

Shadow Veil.

He drew mana from his Level 1 core and guided it down his arm, carefully spreading it across the blade of his short sword. At first, the mana would flicker and disappear almost immediately. Sometimes, it refused to form at all.

But he kept practicing.

He learned to control the flow rather than force it. He experimented with different amounts of mana, trying to find the smallest amount necessary to maintain the shadow coating.

Slowly, his control improved.

He also began practicing basic footwork and sword stances. He had no instructor, so most of what he learned came straight from the book. He watched other adventurers when he could, then tried to imitate their movements in the empty corners of the yard.

His form was terrible.

His stance was often too narrow, his balance uneven, and his movements stiff. He knew it, but without anyone to correct him, he could only keep experimenting.

Some nights, he trained until his muscles trembled and his head throbbed with pain. When he could no longer concentrate, he reluctantly packed his things and returned to the inn.

He was slowly learning the limits of his feeble body.

And he was learning that determination alone couldn’t overcome every weakness.

By the end of the two weeks, his shoulder had improved considerably. His right hand was also healing, though the scar across his palm remained tender.

He also had gained a little bit of color and despite being obviously malnourished it wasn’t to the same degree as when he was first reborn.

His swordsmanship, however, had barely progressed.

His Shadow Veil was more reliable, but he still struggled to maintain it for long. He could feel that his control was improving, yet he had no idea how to turn that improvement into an advantage during a fight.

The goblin ambush had taught him an unpleasant lesson.

He needed more than a sword and a little magic.

He needed proper instruction.

It was during one of his evening training sessions that someone finally approached him.

Riven was practicing his footwork, he was moving through a series of awkward steps with his short sword held in both hands.

He shifted his weight, stepped forward, then swung.

His blade cut through the cold air.

A sharp, rhythmic clack echoed across the yard.

Riven immediately stopped.

A man stood a few paces away, leaning on a wooden cane. He was the one eyed attendant who usually sat near the Guild’s entrance.

Without his usual seat and desk, the man seemed considerably larger. He wore a heavy leather jerkin over a faded tunic, and a well balanced broadsword hung from his belt.

His face was weathered, with deep lines and old scars. One eye was covered by a jagged scar that ran from his forehead down toward his cheek.

The man’s single visible eye moved from Riven’s sword to his feet.

Then he looked at the small boy himself.

"You’ve been beating yourself against that post every evening for two weeks, kid."

Riven lowered his sword but didn’t answer.

The man gestured toward his stance.

"Your form is an absolute disaster. You swing like you’re trying to chop down a dead tree with a butter knife."

Riven glanced down at his feet.

He already knew his form wasn’t good. He had spent the past two weeks trying to correct it himself, but he hadn’t made much progress.

"You’re holding your sword too tightly," the man continued. "Your shoulders are stiff, your balance is terrible, and you’re putting far too much weight on your front foot."

Riven looked back at him.

"Who are you?"

The man gave a faint, humorless smirk.

"Aiden."

He shifted his weight, resting one hand on the hilt of his broadsword.

"I used to fight on the front lines. Spent years taking contracts and fighting monsters. Eventually, an orc’s spear cost me an eye and put an end to that."

Riven studied him.

Aiden didn’t look particularly interested in impressing anyone. His clothes were worn, his face was scarred, and he moved with the slow, measured steps of someone who had learned to be careful with his body.

But Riven had seen enough adventurers to recognize that the man knew how to handle a weapon.

"I watch people come through these gates every day," Aiden continued. "Most of them think they’re ready to fight because they can swing a sword or cast a spell. Then they end up dead in a ditch within a month."

He tapped his cane against the ground.

"Raw grit doesn’t make up for ignorance."

Riven remained silent.

Aiden looked at the short sword in his hands.

"You’ve got some determination, I’ll give you that. Most children your age would have given up after the first few days."

"I’m not most children."

"No," Aiden replied. "You’re certainly not."

The veteran stepped closer, examining Riven’s stance.

"Still, determination won’t help you much if you keep fighting like that. You need to learn how to use your weapon properly. How to move, how to defend yourself, and how to recognize an opening before it’s too late."

Riven’s grip tightened around the hilt.

He remembered the goblin’s arrow punching through his palm.

He remembered the pain, the blood, and the helplessness of watching his sword fall out of reach.

He didn’t want that to happen again.

Aiden seemed to notice the change in his expression.

"I can teach you how to wield that blade," he said. "I can turn that wild flailing into something that might actually keep you alive."

Riven narrowed his eyes.

"What’s the price?"

Aiden chuckled.

"Straight to the point. Good."

He leaned against the stone buttress.

"I’m not running a charity? Proper instruction at Iron Crest Hall costs silver. More than you can afford, judging by the clothes you’re wearing."

Riven didn’t respond.

"But the Guild owes me a favor, and I’ve got a backlog of maintenance work around these grounds. More than my old bones feel like handling."

Aiden gestured toward the central sparring rings.

"Equipment needs hauling. The practice rings need scrubbing. Blunt staves need sharpening, and the armory annex could use a good cleaning. There’s plenty of work to keep you busy."

Riven looked toward the training rings.

Several adventurers were still practicing, their weapons clashing beneath the evening sky.

"And in exchange?"

"I teach you."

Aiden’s answer was immediate.

"You work before and after training. You do whatever jobs I assign you around the grounds, and I’ll teach you how to fight properly."

Riven considered the offer.

It wasn’t charity. Aiden was getting something out of it, and Riven understood that well enough.

But the arrangement had potential.

He wouldn’t have to spend the little money he had left on lessons, and he would finally have someone who could correct his mistakes.

There was one problem.

His body was still recovering. He couldn’t afford to push himself too hard, especially with his shoulder and hand not completely healed.

"How much work?" he asked.

Aiden raised an eyebrow.

"Depends on the day. Some days you’ll be hauling equipment. Others, you’ll be cleaning or helping with repairs. I’m not going to make you do everything at once."

Riven continued watching him.

"And if I can’t finish?"

"Then you don’t finish. But don’t expect me to give you a lesson while you’re sitting around doing nothing."

It was a fair answer.

Riven looked down at his sword.

For two weeks, he had struggled to teach himself. He had improved, but he knew how little he actually understood.

He needed someone who could show him what he was doing wrong.

Someone who could teach him how to survive.

He looked back at Aiden.

"All right. I’ll do it."

The veteran nodded.

"Good. We’ll start tomorrow morning. Be here before the yard gets busy."

Riven sheathed his sword.

Aiden turned to leave, then stopped.

"And one more thing, kid."

Riven looked up.

"Don’t mistake hard work for training. You can swing that sword a thousand times and still learn nothing if you’re doing it wrong."

He tapped his cane against the stone.

"From now on, when I tell you to stop, you stop. When I tell you to rest, you rest. I don’t care how stubborn you are."

Riven said nothing, but he understood the warning.

Aiden began walking toward the entrance.

"Get some sleep. You’ll need it."

Riven watched him disappear into the dimly lit yard.

For the first time since arriving in the settlement, he had found someone willing to teach him.

He didn’t know how difficult the work would be, or how much Aiden would demand from him.

But he knew one thing.

Tomorrow, he would finally begin learning how to use a sword.