Son of King Arthur is a Demon

He didn't say a word.

Not a single one.

After the wager, Aldrik had stood up without so much as a glance. He swept the chess pieces off the board with a curt motion, then turned his back to me.

"Tomorrow. At dawn. Not a word to anyone."

That's all he said.

Then he vanished down a dark hallway, the reek of alcohol clinging to his wake.

The first morning, the cold cut straight to the bone. I was up before the servants. My chamber was freezing, the wind slipping through the cracks in the stone walls. My straw mattress was still damp, my clothes stiff with frost. I forced on my rigid boots and wrapped strips of cloth around my wrists.

I slipped out of the castle in silence, skirted the kitchens, crossed the old garden, and slid behind the abandoned forges. There, a rickety door led to a training yard long forgotten walled in by crumbling stones and surrounded by dead trees. Snow lingered, mixed with mud.

He was already there.

Leaning against a stone pillar, Aldrik stank of cheap wine from ten paces away. His face was drawn, his beard thick, one eye half-shut. An empty bottle lay at his feet. He gave me a dull look, then muttered:

"You won. So now you're gonna die. Like you asked."

He tossed me a training sword worn down, chipped. The grip nearly slipped from my fingers.

"Keep your guard high. I don't want to see your feet dragging like some damn duck. And stop breathing like an ox."

I took my stance. Too slow. The first blow slammed into my ribs. A second one clipped my shoulder. I stumbled, fell hard into the slush.

"Up. We're starting."

That was day one. And it was hell.

The first days were pure punishment: twenty, thirty laps around the yard in the snow. Pushups on bare fists, planks with stones on my back, pull-ups until my shoulders nearly tore. Most mornings I vomited. He said nothing. Just watched, arms crossed, the stink of wine soaked into his clothes.

Whenever I faltered, he'd dump a bucket of ice water over my head. Once, he even stepped on me, growling:

"Get up or die. I've seen scrawnier brats tougher than you."

Then came the weapons. Each day, something new: longsword, hatchet, dagger, staff. He offered no instruction. He just hit. And I learned. I got beaten again and again sometimes to the point I couldn't stand. My hands were blistered raw, my back torn up, my knees black with bruises. I limped home each night without a word.

And always, his silence. Never a shred of encouragement. Just curses:

"You look like a lame colt trying to dance."

"Keep dropping the sword like that and I'll kill you myself before the enemy gets the chance."

"You don't talk. Good. At least you got that part right."

But I watched everything. Every strike, every shift in his stance, how he breathed. I studied him. I mimicked. I adapted. Every blow was a lesson.

Weeks passed. Then months.

My body changed. My legs grew stronger, my arms faster. The pain didn't fade it just became... normal. Each morning, my muscles screamed. Each night, my bones cracked. I slept little. But I kept going.

One day, he knocked me down with a kick to the chest. Took me a full minute to stand. He gave a low chuckle.

"You're thin as a reed, but you've got the grit of a seasoned fighter. Gotta admit, I like that."

The following week, I grazed his shoulder for the first time. Just a scratch but I was improving.

He paused. Looked at me for a long time.

"Hmph. Not bad. You've picked up a few things... You're almost worth training now."

He didn't smile. But that day, he barely smelled of alcohol.

From then on, he'd sometimes correct my form. Not often. Just enough to let me know he was watching. That maybe just maybe he believed I could go the distance.

"No. Turn your hips. There. Without pivoting, you've got no power. Even a one-armed fool could block that."

I nodded. Still without speaking.

Some nights, back in my room, I'd find a crust of bread left by a kind-hearted servant.

Occasionally, on the way back from training, a squire would sneak up to me, hesitant, and slip an apple into my coat pocket.

"Hard time walking today, huh? Looks like your brothers roughed you up again..."

I stayed silent. Let the rumors grow. I ate. Then went back to my room.

One winter day, snow soaking through my torn boots, I collapsed. Every breath lit fire in my ribs. Not broken, but close.

Aldrik walked over, his gaze sharp and steady.

"You lasted longer than most. I'd say you're stronger now than a squire. Not a beast yet, but not far off."

I tried to stand, teeth clenched, every muscle burning.

"If you want to survive on a battlefield, you better die here a hundred times. Out there, you only get one shot."

I reached for my sword. He glanced down almost surprised.

"I've seen worse than death."

Without a word, Aldrik turned to an old training dummy, worn down and leaning beside a split log.

"Grab that," he said.

I hoisted it, heavy on my aching shoulders, and set it in the center of the yard.

He drew a circle in the snow with the tip of his blade. Slowly. Then knelt, placing the sword against the dummy.

"Up till now, I've taught you how to take hits. How to stand through the pain. How to parry the basics, no matter the weapon. Your body holds. That's the foundation."

He rose, arms crossed, sizing me up.

"But you're not a weapon. Not yet. You've got sharp eyes now, a decent build, and the will to get up when you fall. That's what makes the difference."

"So, for those pretty eyes of yours, kid, I'll show you what you're going to need to master in the weeks ahead."

He stepped in front of the dummy.

Then, without warning, Aldrik raised his sword.

Just a whisper of a motion. A blur of a strike. The air seemed to hum.

Nothing happened until the dummy's head slid slowly to the side and dropped into the snow with a muffled thud.

He sheathed his sword with a crisp motion, not even glancing at the result.

"That was the Reaper's Cut. A strike you never see coming. Fast. Precise. Sharp enough to take off an arm or a head before your opponent even knows what hit him."

He took a step toward me, his shoulders squared, voice low.

"Now that you've seen it… playtime's over."

A cold smile cracked his lips.

"Real training starts tomorrow."