CHAPTER 87: MORE TRAINING

Charon took the first few steps like a man wearing shackles. The satchel sagged from his waist, dragging him sideways. Every motion required a conscious decision thanks to the cubes.

’Heel, toe, heel, toe, heel, toe.’

His scythe rested in his palms like a snake, ready to bite the moment he let his guard down. It had never felt heavier.

Charon moved around the first corner of the mat. Wallflower watched in silence, her arms folded and her expression blank.

She dryly called out to him, her voice cutting through the stale air.

"You may breathe."

He grunted in response, sweat dripping from his brow. It blinded him, making every glance a struggle.

"I forgot how."

The turn was sharp, and with the weight pulling him, his foot nearly twisted. He jerked his knee to stabilize, overcorrecting, then swung the scythe backward to counterbalance. It worked, but barely, reminding him of how fragile everything was.

’Why did I agree to this? I willingly came here this time! I could’ve run home and slept!’’

Wallflower tilted her head, unimpressed.

"You’re correcting, not adjusting. There’s a difference. One is reactive. The other is practiced."

Charon bit his cheek to avoid replying. He didn’t even have the breath to waste.

Each lap was worse than the last. The burn started in his calves, then crawled up his thighs until it sat in his spine. His arms trembled from holding the scythe. It felt like lifting a steel bar while standing on a balance beam, one that changed direction every time he blinked.

By the third lap, his breath came in ragged bursts.

She finally moved, walking beside him as he stumbled through another corner.

"You see now? This is the cost of imbalance. You waste energy with every misstep. Every time your body fights your weapon, you lose. The scythe does not care about your pain, your anger, or your pride. Neither will your opponent."

Charon couldn’t help but shoot a comment back.

"So my scythe is like my opponent?"

She tapped the butt of her weapon into his side, barely putting any force into the blow, and yet it caused him to collapse all the same.

Wallflower’s lips curled upward.

"Push-ups."

He stopped, wheezing, and stared at her in disbelief.

"You’re joking."

"Do I look like I joke?"

His jaw dropped, a retort readying itself on his tongue, before he thought better of it and rolled to his hands and feet.

The weights shifted with him, threatening to drag his chest into the mat. He held firm, gritting his teeth, then began.

’One! Two! Three!’

His elbows screamed by the seventh. His breath stuttered by the tenth. Every fiber of his being wanted him to relent and give up, but he refused it, daring himself to stop when he was so far ahead.

At fifteen, he collapsed.

Wallflower stood above him, unfazed.

"This is how we learn. Not through ease, but through exhaustion and pain."

Charon rolled onto his back, panting.

"Do... do all your lessons involve torture?"

She shook her head.

"No."

She paused before tilting her head and nodding as if coming to a conclusion.

"Some involve shame, or fear."

She knelt beside him and placed the scythe back into his hands.

"Try again."

He staggered to his feet, body aching, bones protesting. And yet, when he took his first step of the next lap, something was different. Not easier, but clearer. He leaned into the weight rather than against it. He shifted his hips as he turned. He let the scythe lead when it needed to, and forced it to follow when he could.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was smoother.

Wallflower watched it all in silence, refusing to comment.

By the time the next lap ended, he was drenched, trembling, and almost numb. He lowered the weapon to the floor as delicately as he could.

Wallflower snapped her fingers.

"You are not finished."

Charon blinked.

"What? That’s got to be enough!"

She tutted under her breath.

"If you feel bored with the current training, then we may try something else. Combat."

His eyes widened.

"Combat?"

She gestured to the center of the mats where he had fought her before. It was empty, the dummies pushed far off to the side to give them some room.

"Stand there."

Still swaying, he obeyed. Wallflower retrieved a short rod that glowed at the tip before joining him.

"You are going to defend yourself. You may not strike. You may not dodge far. Your stance must hold, or I reset the round."

"What does reset mean?"

She smiled softly, the expression not reaching her eyes..

"It means push-ups. With the weights."

He frowned, unsure how much more punishment his body could take, but she continued without asking his opinion.

"Begin."

She was faster than he was anticipating, faster than she had been before.

The rod struck out toward his knee. Charon dropped his scythe’s end, letting the curve catch the blow. It bounced awkwardly and nearly spun from his hand. He recovered as the next strike came at his temple.

He twisted the pole, catching the rod against the lower shaft.

It slammed into him with enough force to jolt his teeth. He hissed from the impact, his body shaking.

Wallflower spoke as she reset her stance.

"Good, now again."

Over and over, she struck. Sometimes fast. Sometimes slow. Sometimes feinting high before hitting low. Charon’s forearms turned red from deflected hits. His ribs felt bruised.

But his legs? He felt nothing from them at all. They had long since turned into little more than rods for him to command, all feeling lost to the exercises.

His stance began to shift less, and his scythe felt like less of a burden. It wasn’t noticeable at first, but as time went on, it was harder to ignore.

The final blow came high and wide. He caught it on the blade’s curve, rotated the pole, and redirected her force away from his centerline.

Wallflower stepped back.

"You’re adapting."

Panting heavily, he spread his arms out wide and half-gasped his response.

"I’m dying! I feel like I’ll keel over at any minute."

She flashed him a disappointed look.

"You’re learning."

She tapped the rod against the floor.

"You have progressed enough for defense. Now attack me."

Charon gaped.

"What?"

"I said attack. You’ve held your stance. Now learn to break someone else’s."

He didn’t wait for clarification, increasingly excited at the opportunity for vengeance.

With a growl, he surged forward, the weapon sweeping low. Wallflower stepped backward, turned to the side, and parried it with the rod.

It clanged against the metal.

He followed up with an uppercut swing, which she sidestepped with minimal effort. Reaching out, she caught the pole with hand hand, attempting to rip it from his grasp.

He yanked it back just in time, the weapon slipping through his fingers but not out of them.

"You are too eager."

She punctuated her lesson by spinning away from his next strike, his blade harmlessly flying between them.

"What the gods does that mean?"

"Let your weapon breathe. You are strangling it. If it can not do its job, you will die."

Charon gritted his teeth and stepped in again, this time faking a downward slash before turning it into a horizontal sweep.

Wallflower didn’t dodge.

She stepped forward, closer than comfort, and jabbed him in the chest with her palm. A wave of pure strength flowed from her hand and into his torso.

He flew backward and landed hard.

Groaning, he stayed down for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Unable to stop himself, he let a quip fly.

"Was that a technique or an insult?"

He laughed at his own joke, Wallflower ignoring it.

She walked over and offered him a hand. He took it, her grip firm, something he tried to match with his own.

"You’re improving quickly. It takes most people years to learn a new art, and yet you are advancing at a blinding speed."

Charon’s fingers twitched. He looked at the scythe lying next to him.

"How long does it take to become good with one of these?"

She looked down at it with a forlorn expression, something that shouldn’t have surprised him, given her perpetual sadness.

"Years. Decades. Centuries. It varies from user to user, and from scythe to scythe. They are one of the most emotional weapons out there. Many find it difficult to tame the blade."

Charon sighed.

’Great. Now I don’t need to just worry about my robes and mask being moody, but my future scythe as well.’

He deflated.

’It will fit right in.’