Day Two
Azit arrived at first light.
No words. Barely a touch of light caught the corners of the old stone chamber. Mr. Mahmoud stood as if he had stood all night, unmoving and unchanged.
Azit bowed, not deeply, but deliberately.
Then he attacked.
No fury. No desperation. Thoughtful.
Mahmoud deflected comfortably, but Azit did not retreat. He stood firm, learning.
This time, he was not trying to overcome.
He was trying to see.
Every blow was a question. Every parry, a lesson.
The sword whispered past Mahmoud's shoulder, just millimeters short of skin.
Mahmoud riposted with anger. Azit staggered and parried too late. He was struck in the ribs.
Windless.
But still on his feet.
"Today," Mahmoud said quietly, "you learned to stand after pain. Remember that."
Day Three
Azit's wrists were sore. His legs felt like lead. His eyes, though, burned all the more fiercely.
Mahmoud never ceased. He was never cruel, but always precise.
Every mistake came with a cost.
But that day, Azit did something different. He did not force the opening. He waited.
He let Mahmoud strike first.
And when he did, Azit absorbed the movement, sidestepping and letting the energy flow around him like water around a rock. He did not resist. He flowed.
It worked once.
The second time, Mahmoud spun and reversed the move, catching Azit off balance.
He fell to the ground.
Mahmoud stood over him.
"Restraint is not hesitation. It is readiness."
Azit nodded from the ground.
Day Four
He came limping, but said nothing.
That day was different.
There were no swords.
Mahmoud handed him a blindfold.
"You want to know what's inside you?" he asked. "Then remove your eyes."
Azit did as he was told.
Every sound grew louder. Each step. Each breath. The sword felt light. Dangerous.
They attacked Azit while he was blindfolded.
At first, it was humiliation. He flailed wildly, missed, and staggered.
But then he heard it.
The brief catch of breath before a blow. The slight shift in Mahmoud's stance before a move. The soft scuff of heel on stone.
He began to respond. Not flawlessly, but with accuracy.
And for the first time, Mahmoud did not lash back. He stopped.
"Your adversary will not always offer themselves up with metal," Mahmoud said. "But they always carry intent. Listen to discover it."
Day Five
Azit dreamed again.
But not a nightmare this time. A memory, or maybe a message. A younger version of himself, running barefoot through fields of charcoal. The sun scorched above. A voice called behind him, not with anger but with warning.
He jerked upright and remained motionless.
The black had not left him.
But the threat was gone.
It was a presence. A current. Waiting to be guided.
That morning, he went into the cellar with new stillness.
Mahmoud said nothing. He simply raised his blade.
They fought.
Not savagely, but with rhythm.
Azit moved. He struck low, came in close, feinted left, then turned right.
For the first time, his blade made contact.
Only the flat of it. On purpose. Controlled.
Mahmoud stepped back.
"You touched me."
Azit nodded.
"I didn't try to win," he said.
Mahmoud gave the flash of a smile.
"Because of that, you came closest."
Day Six
Today was the hardest.
Mahmoud said nothing. Azit arrived, expecting sparring.
Instead, he was given chores.
He carried stones.
He polished swords.
He sat in silence for three hours straight.
When he asked what this was, Mahmoud simply said, "Discipline."
Azit fumed. His body screamed for movement. His sword arm ached.
But he obeyed.
And when, finally, he was allowed to spar, he lasted longer than ever.
There was stillness in his movements. Patience. He no longer needed to strike at every chance.
And when he fell, he did not curse.
He stood.
Mahmoud nodded once.
Day Seven
Azit stood at the center of the stone floor, alone.
Mr. Mahmoud stood behind him, arms folded.
"Today," he said, "you fight not me, but what is within you."
He nodded.
Out of the shadows, a figure emerged.
Azit.
Or something that looked like him.
A dark, misty mirror. Familiar but not right. Too fluid. Too sharp. The version of himself that attacked with fury, that struck first and thought later. The one who chased power without control.
Azit took a breath.
The mirror version attacked first. Fast. Brutal.
Azit barely parried.
It was like fighting all his worst instincts. Fast. Angry. Reactive.
He staggered. Got hit. Bled.
But he did not return the fight the same way.
He did not answer rage with rage.
He breathed.
He listened.
And when the final strike came, he did not meet it with his blade.
He let the momentum pass.
And stepped through it.
His sword touched the mirror version's chest.
A warning.
The figure faded into shadow.
Silence followed.
Mr. Mahmoud finally spoke.
"You are not cured. The darkness remains."
Azit nodded. "But I'm not afraid of it now."
Mahmoud stepped forward and looked him in the eyes.
"You're ready for the next step."
Azit sheathed the sword at the small of his back, more deliberate than ever.
"Then let's take it."
What Follows
The days blurred together. Time was no longer something to measure, only something to survive.
Azit trained. He fought. He bled.
He fought not just Mahmoud, but the thoughts that followed him when he was alone.
What started as physical became something else.
It started with silence.
Mahmoud said nothing during matches. No instruction. No encouragement. No judgment. Only the clash of steel, the burst of motion, and the rhythm of breath.
At first, Azit thought it was a test of technique.
It wasn't.
It was a test of self.
And Azit was failing.
He swung too early. Waited too long. His body moved well, better than ever. But something inside was unbalanced. The blade felt light in his hand. But his heart was heavy. His mind, even heavier.
That night, he sat cross-legged on the training floor. Sweat dried on his body. Eyes half-closed. His sword rested beside him.
What's wrong with me?
The question did not seek an answer. It just wanted to be spoken.
"You're still fighting ghosts," Mahmoud had said after a match, breaking his silence. Just that. Then he left Azit to sit with it.
Ghosts.
Azit did not sleep well. Not from fear, but from memory. From faces he had long forgotten. From moments he buried beneath strength.
He remembered being small and helpless, shouting for help, met only with silence. He remembered the first time rage had protected him, how empowering it was to be feared when no one offered safety. How, somewhere along the way, he made anger his armor and his identity.
The next day, he trained.
But his strikes faltered.
Not from exhaustion.
He was stronger than ever.
But his mind was louder than his discipline. His thoughts were louder than the steel.
You are not enough.You are pretending.You are afraid they'll see what's really inside.
He stumbled mid-swing. Took a hit to the ribs.
Mahmoud did not scold. He stepped back and said nothing.
Azit stayed down longer than ever before.
He was not tired.
He was breaking.
That night, Mahmoud made him sit. In silence. Blindfolded. No sword. No movement.
"Ask better questions," was all he said.
And so Azit sat.
Stiff.
Breathing.
At first, the silence mocked him. Each thought louder. The voice in his head more bitter. He wanted something to fight. Something to strike. Something to conquer.
But there was nothing.
Only himself.
Only the questions.
What am I truly fighting for?Who am I trying to defeat?Is it him?
Or is it me?