Lyriq Raveline-The Time Swordsman

Days blurred into weeks as Lyriq's world shifted from silk halls and marble floors to mud paths, dense forests, and ink-stained parchment. The noble garments of Ravelinora were traded for rough linen, and the soft words of maids for the gruff, patient voice of the nameless man.

Training was slow, exhausting and unlike anything Lyriq ever imagined.

Each morning began with running. Not far at first just across the tree-lined path or through an open glade but by the second week, the man had Lyriq running alongside the cart for half a mile at a time. Lyriq's legs burned. His lungs felt like fire. But the man never yelled, never mocked. He simply said:

"If a swordsman cannot endure, he cannot survive. Endurance is not stamina it's the will to continue even when you have none left."

Though Lyriq struggled, he slowly began to run a little farther each day. When he could run no more, they rested. And when they rested, they read.

The man gave him an illustrated field book well-worn and thick with creases. Inside, Lyriq discovered the world he never knew existed: animals with curved horns and camouflage coats; birds with venom in their feathers; monsters with five heads and names that felt heavy on the tongue.

One page showed a sinuous, scaled creature labeled Kilatora, a mind-controlling serpent said to hypnotize prey before striking. Another displayed a terrifying beast a Blue flamed dragon, with wings so vast they eclipsed sunlight. Lyriq stared wide-eyed.

"These aren't made-up?" he asked.

"No. The world is vast," the man replied. "Even I've never seen them all. Some places are untouched by civilization where man is the prey."

That night, Lyriq stayed up late by candlelight, tracing every page, memorizing habitats and weaknesses. He was fascinated by how each creature had evolved to survive and how each weakness could be used as a tactic.

After reading, the man would quiz him.

"If you had food to last four days, but needed to fight for ten, what would you do?"

Lyriq thought carefully.

"I'd try to ration the food," he said.

"And risk starving your soldiers?" the man countered. "What if the enemy surrounds you?"

"Then… I'd hide supplies near the battlefield in advance?"

"A good answer," the man nodded. "But that takes preparation. What if you're ambushed?"

The lessons weren't just about fighting they were about thinking.

Tactics, Endurance, Deception.

The man had taught him that animals, though not as intelligent as humans, could be predictable. Many had poor frontal vision, relying on the sides of their sight to detect movement. That was their blind spot.

"You strike where the enemy isn't looking," he taught. "And when they do look make sure they see something false."

They crafted traps using berries, herbs, and sharpened sticks. Lyriq learned to bait snares and track footprints, even detect broken twigs left by passing prey. When they caught rabbits or foxes, the man would show Lyriq the vital points the neck, under the shoulder, behind the ears where the smallest blade could bring down the largest beast.

Despite his progress, Lyriq remained a child. His body could not yet match his ambition.

There were days he collapsed from fatigue after only short sparring drills. The man never mocked him but never let him rest too long.

"You breathe faster in battle, not because you're weak," he explained one day as Lyriq lay panting. "But because your mind panics. That panic drains stamina faster than any sword swing."

"So… how do I stop it?" Lyriq asked between gasps.

"You don't. You control it. By slowing the battle down in your mind. You do that with deception. Make them swing wide. Make them hesitate. And you breathe."

Lyriq tried. He trained. And though he failed again and again, he began to notice small victories:

He could run farther without stopping.

He could detect the shift of weight in his opponent's stance.

He could remember ten animals' anatomy, and where their weakest spots were.

And above all, he no longer cried when he failed.

One night, while lying under the stars by the cart's side, Lyriq looked up and whispered:

"Master… when will I be strong?"

The man, sitting nearby, sharpening his sword under moonlight, said without looking:

"When you stop asking that question."

Lyriq didn't understand then-but in his heart, something settled. Like a stone skipping across water, only to one day sink.

He wasn't there yet. But he was no longer the boy left behind at Ravelinora. Not anymore.