On the 23rd of December in the Year 312 (CR), Osric had rested for three whole days.
He had finally recovered from the injuries he received in his last two missions from both Feral Dogs and Forest Creepers.
Yesterday he did some light training as well as this morning and now he was finally ready to take on a new mission.
Osric didn't have any particular mission in mind yet so he planned to decide after checking them all out on the mission board.
As he walked into the guild building after his light sword training in the morning, he was pondering about some things.
'Now that I have decided that I want to start my own party, I should start looking for people to recruit, but it isn't going to be easy.'
He already had someone in mind but was still unsure.
Osric looked to the front desk and was surprised by who he saw.
'Franklin is back?'
Franklin gestured at Osric to come to him.
Osric walked towards him.
"I heard you had a couple rough last missions. How are you?" Franklin said.
Osric replied.
"Yeah I'm fine now after some rest."
"You are really stubborn. Do you have urgent plans or can you make time for me today instead of doing a new mission?"
Osric wanted to take on a new mission but he wasn't in a rush and was curious about what Franklin wanted.
"Sure, I have time."
"Good. Follow me."
Osric followed him out back to the training grounds.
Franklin walked up to a wooden weapon rack and picked up two wooden swords. He threw one at Osric.
"I want to see your skills. Can you oblige me?"
Osric was caught off guard but stayed calm. He knew that Franklin was a knight that could kill him in one move, but he knew that nothing serious would happen and also saw this as an opportunity.
'I'm slightly nervous, but how often will I have the chance to see the skills of a knight up close?'
Osric got in a stance that felt comfortable and battle ready.
'When I investigated him I found out that he was deemed talentless and had no training..'
'Although his stance could be improved by a lot, it is still very impressive for some untrained.' Franklin thought as he looked at Osric.
He didn't ask Osric if he was ready or gave him a warning.
Franklin suddenly just charged at Osric and swung down his wooden sword in a clean arc towards Osric's head.
Even though Franklin used very little of his real strength and speed, he was surprised by Osric's reaction.
Osric reacted the moment that Franklin lifted his sword and changed the position of his sword.
Right when Franklin's sword was about to hit him, Osric shifted his body and parried the sword that held immense power.
Although his parry was successful, the attack still put him off balance.
Franklin swept his leg to trip Osric.
Osric couldn't react in time and fell on his back.
Osric hit the ground hard, breath tearing from his lungs.
Before he could roll, before he could even bring the wooden sword up—
Thud.
Franklin's foot came down beside his head.
Not on him.
Just close enough.
The wooden blade hovered an inch from Osric's throat.
"Up," Franklin said.
Osric didn't hesitate.
He rolled to the side, kicked himself backward, and scrambled to his feet, chest rising and falling hard. The numbness from days earlier was gone, but the memory of it lingered. He adjusted his grip, stance tightening this time—lower, more guarded.
Franklin stepped back and reset without ceremony.
No praise.
No correction.
Then he moved again.
Faster this time.
Franklin's sword cut in low, then reversed mid-swing into a diagonal strike that should have caught Osric off-guard. Osric reacted on instinct, not thought—he abandoned the parry halfway through and twisted his torso instead, letting the strike skim past his ribs.
Wood cracked against wood as Osric countered immediately, his blade snapping up toward Franklin's wrist.
Franklin didn't block.
He shifted.
The attack missed by a hair, but Osric pressed forward, momentum carrying him into a second strike, then a third. His movements weren't refined—edges rough, transitions imperfect—but there was no hesitation.
Franklin gave ground.
Just one step.
Then he stepped inside Osric's reach.
The wooden sword struck Osric's forearm—not hard enough to break, but hard enough to sting. Osric's grip faltered for half a heartbeat.
That was all Franklin needed.
A sharp shove to the shoulder.
A hooked sweep of the ankle.
Osric went down again.
This time he rolled immediately, wooden blade snapping up to guard his face as Franklin's sword stopped inches from his chest.
Franklin held it there.
Not pressing.
Not pulling back.
Osric lay on his side, breathing hard, sweat cooling against his skin.
He didn't look away.
Franklin studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp and unreadable.
Then he stepped back.
"Again," he said.
Osric pushed himself up without complaint, without protest, and raised his sword once more.
And for the first time since the spar began—
Franklin's expression wasn't neutral anymore.
It was focused.