He experimented with a hooking motion, imagining snagging an enemy's weapon or limb to pull them off-balance.
The blade's inner curve caught the wooden dummy he had planted, yanking it sideways with a force that satisfied him.
But the release was awkward. If it was a real opponent, it would have left him open to a counter he wouldn't see coming.
Yet, Percival persevered.
Hours passed under the rising sun, sweat soaking his Ironwolf armor as he failed and failed again.
A vertical chop buried the blade too deep in the ground, forcing him to wrench it free with a grunt of effort.
A spinning flourish looked impressive but spun him dizzy, nearly toppling him into the dust.
"I'm getting better but… why does it fight me?" he growled, slamming the butt into the earth.
Mercius watched, still silent.
Percival turned to him, saying nothing, then looked at the scythe.
