Weeks bled into months, and my life with Grandpa Max settled into a rhythm that was both quiet and strangely comforting. We weren't living some epic saga, but for me, someone who used to eat microwaved leftovers alone in a silent apartment, it was nothing short of miraculous.
Our days played out like a simple song: chores, meals, the occasional grumble from Grandpa, and the steady hum of two lonely people finally finding a home together.
I cleaned, cooked, and wrestled with our stubborn little garden. The vegetables fought me at every turn, but eventually, green sprouts started poking through the dirt as if to say, Fine, we'll grow for you, but don't get cocky.
Grandpa Max had his own rhythm. He'd vanish into the forest for hours at a time, always returning with something... or at least with the kind of silence that weighed more than firewood. Sometimes it was game, sometimes wood, and sometimes nothing but a tired sigh and a scrape on his knuckles. I didn't pry. I'd learned that some silences belonged to him alone.
It wasn't a life of adventure. It wasn't exciting. But it was a life I'd never thought I'd have.
It was family.
But of course, I had to ruin the moment by thinking ahead.
That annoying, practical voice from my past life... the one that knew spreadsheets, deadlines, and corporate politics... kept whispering:
What happens when Grandpa Max is gone? What happens when he can't fight for you anymore?
I hated that voice. But I couldn't ignore it.
And one lazy afternoon, when Grandpa was away, I found myself staring at his sword.
It leaned casually against the wall, like it had every right to be there.
Not a shiny, gem-studded fantasy blade, either. Nope. This one was plain steel, nicked and scarred, the leather grip worn smooth by calloused hands. It wasn't the sword of a hero; it was the sword of a man who had worked for a living.
I hesitated, then reached out. My fingers, more familiar with keyboards and calculators than weapons, curled around the hilt.
And wow. It was heavy.
Like, "first day at the gym, picking up a dumbbell you thought was five pounds but is actually fifty" heavy. My arms dipped immediately, and I almost let out a squeak.
"Okay," I muttered, bracing with both hands. "Not that bad. Just… super bad."
I tried to mimic the basic stance I'd seen Grandpa use, legs apart, blade steady, shoulders firm. The result?
Picture a drunk duck trying to conduct an orchestra with a shovel.
My feet shuffled too close together, my knees wobbled, and every swing looked like I was swatting a fly the size of a horse with a lamppost. The blade trembled in my hands like it was laughing at me.
Back in my old world, I probably would've laughed too. But here, the laughter caught in my throat.
Because this mattered.
Because the only person who had ever called me "family" was out there somewhere in the woods, and I couldn't stand the thought of losing him.
Not this time. Not again.
I gritted my teeth, the sword quivering in my grip. No one's taking this from me. This time, I'll be strong enough to keep my family safe.
"Your form's all wrong, kid."
The voice came from behind me, and I swear my soul left my body.
I yelped, dropped the sword with a clatter loud enough to scare birds into orbit, and spun around.
There was Grandpa Max in the doorway, arms full of firewood, wearing the world's most unimpressed expression.
I braced for the scolding... That's not a toy, boy, or You'll chop your leg off, fool.
Instead, he stepped inside, set down the wood, picked up the sword with casual ease, and handed it back to me.
"Let me show you."
And just like that, my training began.
If you're imagining an epic montage with dramatic music, glowing swords, and me leveling up instantly… stop.
This wasn't that.
This was Grandpa Max's infinite patience versus my utter lack of talent.
"Hold it steady," he said, nudging my stance. "Not like you're balancing groceries."
"It feels exactly like groceries," I panted. "Heavy, awkward, and I regret picking it up."
"Then maybe you should've stuck to cooking," he smirked.
He demonstrated a simple strike... clean, efficient, beautiful. I copied him, or at least tried. The sword tilted, wobbled, and fell out of my hands with a sad thunk into the dirt.
Grandpa chuckled. "You're like a floppy fish trying to swat a mosquito with a tree branch."
"Harsh, Grandpa," I huffed, rubbing my sore wrists. "Floppy fish are highly underrated."
But he just raised an eyebrow and placed the sword back in my grip. "Again."
Day after day, the cycle repeated.
Grandpa would strike; I'd mimic and immediately embarrass myself. He'd block gracefully; I'd stumble backward and trip over a rock. He'd correct my footwork; I'd tangle my own legs and face-plant into the grass.
Once, I actually smacked myself in the shin with the blade's flat. That was fun.
But no matter how clumsy I was, Grandpa never gave up.
He'd adjust my grip with calloused but surprisingly gentle hands. "A sword isn't a hammer. It's an extension of you. Don't fight it..., move with it."
When my arms gave out, he'd switch to other drills. Falling safely. Rolling without breaking something. Dodging instead of blocking. Using my small size to outmaneuver bigger opponents.
"You don't have to be strong," he told me after one particularly pathetic tumble into the dirt. "You just have to be clever enough to stay alive."
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't fun. But it was real.
And slowly... so slowly I almost missed it... I began to improve.
One night, after a day of dropping the sword twenty times (my new personal best), I slumped on the porch, sweaty, sore, and thoroughly defeated.
"Maybe the sword isn't for me," I muttered. "I just don't have the talent."
Grandpa sat beside me, nursing a bottle of water, thankfully not ale this time. He let out a grunt.
"So what?"
I blinked. "So what? I just said I don't have talent."
He turned, firelight casting shadows across his scarred face. His gaze was steady, heavy.
"Maybe some people have talent. They'll pick it up first try. What takes them one try might take you a hundred. But does it matter? If it takes you a hundred, then do it a hundred. If it takes you a thousand, then do it a thousand."
I groaned. "That sounds exhausting."
"Kid," he said firmly, "talent is nice. But stubbornness? That'll never fail you. Keep swinging until it sticks."
I looked at him..., at this man who had lost everything but still woke up every morning to chop wood, hunt, and now train a hopeless kid like me.
Slowly, I nodded.
"Alright. But when I become Alden the Sword God, don't act surprised."
He snorted. "If you ever get that far, I'll build you a temple myself."
So I kept swinging.
Every day.
Through sore arms and wobbly legs. Through bruises, blisters, and endless mistakes. My strikes still weren't elegant, but eventually, they stopped looking like I was fighting a swarm of flies.
Meals became recovery sessions. I'd groan dramatically over sore muscles while Grandpa shoveled stew into his mouth with the calm of a man who'd done this a thousand times before.
"Everything hurts," I whined one evening, massaging my arms.
"Good," he grunted. "Means you're doing it right."
"Feels like I'm dying."
"Dying is quieter. Eat your soup."
By the time I turned twelve, things had changed.
Not much... my swings still had all the grace of a soggy baguette, but they were steady. My footing was firmer. My strikes, though plain, finally looked like strikes instead of flailing.
One crisp morning, after I finished a practice set, I glanced at Grandpa.
He was standing there, arms crossed, that ever-serious face watching me with sharp eyes.
And then, to my shock, he smiled.
"Not bad, boy. Not bad at all."
Coming from him, it was the highest praise in the world.
And for the first time, I dared to think...
Maybe I really could become strong enough to protect this family.