Franklin didn't let him rest.
"Again."
Osric's arms burned as he lifted the wooden sword for what felt like the hundredth time. Sweat ran down his spine despite the cold air of the training grounds, his breath steady only because he forced it to be.
His stance felt wrong.
Too narrow. Too closed. Too cautious.
Franklin circled him slowly, boots quiet against packed dirt, wooden sword hanging loose in one hand as if it weighed nothing.
"You're wasting strength," Franklin said calmly. "Reset."
Osric adjusted his footing, widened his base slightly, and raised the blade again.
Franklin struck.
The wooden sword cracked into Osric's ribs before he could fully react.
Pain bloomed sharp and immediate, knocking the breath from his lungs as he staggered back two steps. He clenched his teeth and forced himself upright.
Franklin was already back in position.
"Again."
Osric exhaled through his nose and stepped forward.
This time he watched Franklin's shoulders instead of the blade. The moment Franklin shifted his weight, Osric moved—parrying upward and angling his body to the side.
The block landed.
For half a second, Osric felt a flicker of satisfaction.
Then Franklin stepped inside his guard and tapped the wooden blade against Osric's throat.
"Dead," Franklin said.
Osric froze.
Franklin withdrew and stepped back. "Reset."
Osric swallowed and returned to his starting position, chest rising and falling faster now.
They went again.
And again.
Each time Osric tried something different—more force, less force, earlier movement, later commitment. Each time Franklin dismantled it with infuriating ease.
A low strike punished an overextended swing.
A shoulder check punished hesitation.
A sharp tap to the wrist punished gripping too hard.
Franklin never raised his voice.
He didn't need to.
"You overcommit," Franklin said after knocking Osric's sword aside for the fifth time in a row. "You swing like you're afraid the opening will vanish."
Osric tightened his grip, jaw set. "Because it will."
Franklin paused.
Then he struck again—fast, shallow, deliberately incomplete.
Osric reacted instantly, parrying hard, stepping back, heart spiking.
Franklin stopped mid-motion.
"You see?" Franklin said. "You treated that like a killing blow. It wasn't."
Osric frowned, breathing hard.
"In a real fight, everything can be lethal," Osric said.
Franklin nodded once. "Correct. And that's why you're exhausting yourself."
They reset.
This time Franklin limited Osric.
"No full swings," he said. "No stepping back more than half a pace. And if you block with strength instead of position, we start over."
Osric stared at him. "That's—"
"Again."
Franklin attacked.
Osric barely managed to parry, the constraint forcing him to keep his movements tight, economical. His instincts screamed at him to retreat, to create distance, to survive.
Franklin punished every instinct.
A clipped strike to the thigh when Osric leaned back too far.
A sharp tap to the ribs when he tried to muscle through a block.
A sudden shove that sent him stumbling when he froze mid-decision.
Osric hit the ground for the third time in under ten minutes.
He stayed there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Not because he was hurt.
Because he was frustrated.
Franklin waited.
Osric pushed himself up, dirt clinging to his palms, and raised the sword again.
This time, he didn't rush.
He watched.
Not the blade.
The hips.
The feet.
The balance.
Franklin's sword came in high. Osric didn't parry. He shifted just enough for it to pass, then angled his own blade toward Franklin's side.
For the first time—
Franklin blocked.
The sound of wood against wood echoed sharply.
They separated.
Franklin studied him, eyes narrowed just slightly.
"That," Franklin said, "was better."
Osric didn't smile.
They continued.
Minutes stretched into an hour.
Osric's muscles screamed. His movements grew slower, but cleaner. Franklin pushed him harder the moment he adapted—changing rhythm, shortening strikes, forcing Osric to think instead of react.
Eventually, Franklin stepped back and raised a hand.
"Stop."
Osric lowered the sword, chest heaving.
"You fight like every blow decides your life," Franklin said. "That's why you're sloppy. Survival is good. Panic is not."
Osric clenched his jaw. He knew Franklin was right.
"I survived because of that," Osric said quietly.
Franklin nodded. "Yes. And now it's dragging you down."
Osric met his gaze.
"What should I rely on instead?"
Franklin looked at the wooden sword in Osric's hands.
"Structure," he said. "Training that doesn't vanish under pressure. Movements you trust so much you don't have to think about them."
He turned away and walked toward the rack.
"We'll fix it," Franklin said over his shoulder. "But first, I need to break what you're clinging to."
Osric tightened his grip on the sword.
He was tired.
He was sore.
And for the first time since the System had appeared in his life—
He felt like he was truly starting from zero.
And strangely—
That didn't scare him at all.