Part 1 : Training
Days became weeks.
Weeks blurred into months.
And the man who once begged for death… began to move again.
Each dawn brought new bruises.
Each dusk, a little more clarity.
The weakness faded slowly—like dead skin peeling away.
He no longer stumbled.
He struck.
One morning.
The old man stood at the edge of the clearing.
Eyes cold. Silence stretched.
Then—
thunk
A blade landed at Null's feet. Point down. Still vibrating in the dirt.
Old Man:
"You remembered how to kill?"
Null didn't flinch.
He looked down at it.
No questions. No words.
Just reached down and picked it up — slow, deliberate.
The old man
He raised one finger.
Curled it.
A taunt. A command.
Old Man (mocking, casual):
"Let's see if those hands remember what they were made for."
Null grips the blade.
It's not balanced. Not his kind of weapon. But it'll do.
He doesn't rush.
Just circles. Quiet. Watching.
The old man doesn't move.
Hands behind his back. That same finger still raised.
Old Man:
"You're hesitating."
Null lunges.
Steel slashes through the air —
But it hits nothing.
The old man sidesteps like a shadow.
Old Man (mocking):
"Too slow. Too clean. You're still fighting like you're afraid to get dirty."
Null swings again — wild this time.
The old man grabs his wrist, twists it, and Null crashes to the ground.
Old Man (calmly):
"You're too predictable. Get up. Try again."
Null rose, jaw clenched. He retrieved his sword and reset his stance.
He circled, patient this time… trying to read the old man.
But the longer he waited, the more certain he became—
There was no opening.
Hours passed. His breath steamed in the cold. Muscles ached.
Then—suddenly—he lunged forward.
A flurry of strikes. Fast. Wild. Thrusts from angles no man should reach.
It should've overwhelmed anyone.
But it didn't land.
Not even once.
And before he could recover, the old man's palm was already in his face.
Old Man (dryly):
"Impressive. But still predictable."
SLAM — he smashed Null into the snow again.
Null lay there, stunned, blinking up at him.
Null (hoarse):
"...How?"
The old man crouched, not out of breath, not even sweating.
Old Man:
"You've mastered technique. You're a prodigy—
You could defeat most enemies with what you know.
But defeat isn't the same as kill."
He looked down at Null.
Old Man (sharper):
"This isn't a tournament. You made it a duel. That's your mistake."
He stood again, motioned to the terrain.
Old Man:
"You fought me with a sword. That told me everything.
It narrowed your options—let me predict, calculate.
I kept my distance, used the snow to slow your footing,
waited for your rhythm… and broke it."
Null stared, still on the ground, trying to piece it all together.
Old Man:
"You think fighting is about being better?
It's not. It's about understanding."
He tapped his head.
Old Man:
"I'm not gifted like you. But if I have a gun, and you have a sword—
who wins?"
Null didn't answer.
Old Man (firm):
"Forget what you've learned.
Forget the forms.
Learn the opponent."
The days bled together.
Sunrise to sunset — no words, no comforts, no shortcuts.
Each morning, Null rose with aching joints and frozen breath. The old man was always waiting. Never late. Never tired.
First, it was discipline.
He carried buckets of water up the hill only to pour them out and return. Chopped wood that would never burn. Dug trenches that were filled the next day. Useless work — or so it seemed.
But Null noticed: his hands steadier, his breath more controlled. His body leaner, hardened. He could hear the snowfall. Smell the shift in wind. Track the old man by scent alone.
Still, every spar ended the same — with Null on the ground.
Every time he attacked, the old man countered with less. A finger. A step. A glance.
Null screamed, frustrated.
The body was recovering, but the mind—still stuck in old patterns. So the old man stopped fighting him with fists… and started fighting his instincts instead.
Old Man:
"You're not fighting me, you're fighting an idea of me."
That week, Null trained blindfolded.
He was tasked with navigating a maze of bells strung between trees. If even one rang — start over.
He failed. Again. Again. For five days.
Then he made it through.
Next: a sword with a dull edge and a bell tied to the handle. His task: steal the old man's sake cup without making it ring.
He didn't.
The old man tossed the sake in his face.
Old Man: "Too loud."
The snow thawed. Spring cracked its knuckles.
The old man led Null into a clearing.
Laid out five sets of footprints in the mud. All different.
"One of them belongs to a man who's here to kill you," he said. "Find him. No second guess."
It was a test in observation, pressure. One mistake meant a blow to the ribs.
Null stared at the muddy tracks, sweat mixing with the cold spring wind. One print was deeper, heel-dragging—nervous. Another leaned forward—confident. Which was the killer?
Null failed. He learned.
Later…
He faced a field of dummies—
Some armed.
Some not.
The old man stood by, arms folded.
Old Man:
"React without hesitation. Choose who to kill."
Null moved like instinct.
He cut down every dummy that held a weapon.
Then stopped.
The unarmed ones stood untouched.
The old man walked past the shattered remains. He pointed to the untouched dummies.
Old Man:
"Why did you spare these?"
Null:
"Because they weren't armed."
The old man's voice turned sharp.
Old Man:
"So? Does that mean they weren't dangerous?
What now—you've grown a conscience?"
Null froze.
A strange weight sank into his gut.
Why didn't he strike?
He had led a life soaked in blood.
Killed without blinking.
Civilians. Targets. Witnesses.
Some corrupt, some just caught in the crossfire. Collateral damage? Casualties?
Back then, it never mattered.
A contract was a contract.
A life was just a number.
But now…
Now he hesitated.
Why?
Null (quietly):
"...I don't know.
I can't."
Null knew why. But he couldn't speak it. Saying it would make it real. Make him a hypocrite.
The old man smirked.
Old Man:
"Good."
Null looked at him, surprised.
Old Man:
"No need for unnecessary blood.
You're not a dog anymore. You don't kill for coin.
You kill when it's necessary."
He paused. Looked up at the trees.
Old Man (softly):
"It won't wash away the blood...
But maybe... maybe you'll sleep better.
Not thinking about the innocent ones you left in pools of blood."
The old man turned away, walking into the trees. He glanced back one last time.
Old Man:
" Don't get cocky, boy.
You're still a dog here anyway."
He left.
The wind shifted.
Null stood alone among the broken pieces of woods.