26.12.312 (CR)
Osric woke before dawn.
Not because his body hurt.
But because his thoughts wouldn't let him sleep.
The cave.
The prisoners.
The "people" that weren't fully human.
He had joined something bigger than he originally intended.
—
Franklin was already waiting when Osric entered the training grounds.
No greeting this time.
No warm-up exchange.
He simply pointed at the rack.
"Pick up the sword."
Osric did.
Franklin didn't take his own immediately. Instead, he folded his arms.
"Yesterday we fixed your survival instinct," he said. "Today we fix your killing instinct."
Osric's grip tightened slightly.
"You don't know how to attack," Franklin continued. "You know how to lash out. There's a difference."
"Attack me," Franklin said.
Osric stepped forward and cut diagonally toward Franklin's shoulder.
Franklin didn't even raise his sword.
He stepped half a foot to the side.
Osric's blade cut empty air.
Franklin tapped his wrist with two fingers.
"You're swinging like someone who learned to fight in alleys."
Osric's jaw tightened.
Again.
This time Osric thrust forward.
Franklin parried lightly and struck Osric's forearm.
"Too much shoulder."
Again.
Osric cut low.
Franklin's wooden blade knocked his sword aside with minimal effort.
"You commit before you read."
Osric exhaled slowly.
'I thought I was improving.'
"You are," Franklin said as if reading his expression. "Defensively."
He finally picked up his own wooden sword.
"But your attacks are loud."
"Loud?" Osric asked.
"You tell me what you're about to do with your entire body."
Franklin stepped into position.
"Watch."
He made a simple downward cut.
Nothing exaggerated.
No wasted motion.
His body barely shifted.
The blade stopped exactly where it needed to.
"And I can do it again immediately," Franklin added, resetting without effort.
Osric attacked once more.
This time he focused on minimizing movement.
Shorter step.
Less shoulder.
More wrist.
Franklin parried, but slower than before.
"Better," he said.
Not praise.
Correction acknowledged.
Osric attacked again.
And again.
Each time Franklin interrupted.
"Your elbow is flaring."
"Don't chase the blade."
"Strike through a line, not at a person."
Slowly, Osric's attacks grew tighter.
More direct.
Less desperate.
Franklin drew a line in the dirt with his sword.
"Stand there."
Osric did.
"You will not leave that line."
Franklin stepped just outside his range.
"Strike."
Osric cut diagonally.
"Recover."
Osric pulled back into guard.
"Again."
This time a thrust.
"Recover."
"Again."
Cut.
Recover.
Thrust.
Recover.
"Every attack," Franklin said, "must end in structure."
He stepped closer.
"If you miss, you are not exposed. If you hit, you are still balanced. That is how soldiers survive battlefields."
Osric repeated the sequence.
At first it felt mechanical.
Rigid.
But after a dozen repetitions—
He began to feel the rhythm.
Strike.
Return.
Strike.
Return.
His breathing aligned with it.
His feet stopped sliding unnecessarily.
Franklin began circling him.
"Now move with me."
Osric adjusted.
Step.
Cut.
Recover.
Franklin increased the speed.
Osric almost overextended—
But caught himself.
"Good," Franklin said.
Osric realized something.
He wasn't trying to overpower Franklin.
He wasn't trying to prove himself.
He was trying to execute cleanly.
The cave resurfaced in his mind briefly.
Chained humans.
Hybrid creatures.
'Humans are worse than monsters.'
He had always believed that.
Now he simply had confirmation.
If the world contained people capable of creating such things—
Then he would need more than raw survival.
He would need precision.
Franklin changed stance without warning.
"Now," he said, "you attack only when you see it."
"See what?"
"An opening."
Franklin stepped forward lazily, guard slightly lowered.
His left shoulder was exposed.
Osric cut toward it immediately.
Franklin's sword snapped up and struck his ribs.
"Greedy."
Again.
This time Franklin's knee turned slightly inward.
Osric lunged.
Franklin twisted and tapped his thigh.
"Too eager."
Osric inhaled slowly.
He forced himself to watch instead of hunt.
Franklin shifted weight to his back foot.
A real imbalance.
Small.
Subtle.
Osric stepped in with a controlled thrust toward the centerline.
Franklin parried—
But had to step back.
He nodded once.
"Better."
Again.
Franklin deliberately revealed his side.
Osric didn't move.
It was a trap.
Franklin's eyes sharpened slightly.
"Good."
They continued.
Openings appeared and vanished within heartbeats.
Some real.
Some bait.
Osric began to understand:
An opening wasn't a gap.
It was a moment.
And moments had to be read, not forced.
By the end of the session, sweat soaked through his shirt. His arms trembled from repetition.
But his strikes were no longer wild.
They were deliberate.
Measured.
Franklin stepped back.
"That's enough."
Osric lowered his sword slowly.
His body was exhausted—
But his mind was sharper than it had ever been.
This training regimen was repeated for the next three days.
Same drills.
Same corrections.
Higher speed.
Less explanation.
By the end of it, Osric's attacks no longer resembled those of a street brawler.
They resembled those of someone being shaped for war.