Raiden's arms felt like they'd been turned into noodles.
Each swing of his wooden sword sent dull pain rippling through his shoulders and wrists. Sweat clung to his face and neck, dripping into his eyes as he tried — and failed — to keep his form steady.
He was panting hard, chest heaving, but Sir Leonard stood across from him, perfectly straight, perfectly calm, as though he hadn't been moving at all.
"Again," Leonard said simply.
Raiden gritted his teeth and swung. The wooden blade whooshed through the air, stopped halfway, then dipped as his arms gave out.
"I said again," Leonard repeated.
Raiden groaned. "If I swing again, my arms are going to pop off!"
"Then you'll have to learn to fight without them."
Raiden squinted up at him. "That's… not encouraging."
"Neither is your form," Leonard replied evenly.
Raiden stared, breathing hard. "I'm convinced you were born with no sense of mercy."
