Days bled into weeks of bruises and frustration. My arms ached constantly, my shoulders burned like someone had set up campfires inside them, and my palms were rubbed raw from gripping the sword so much I was convinced they were slowly turning into leather. Every morning, I woke up stiff as a board, and every night, I fell into bed feeling like a sack of mashed potatoes that had been stepped on by a very angry cow.
Progress? If there was any, I couldn't see it. I swung, I blocked, I tripped, I cursed, repeat. Grandpa always said I was improving, but he also said things like "your stance looks less like a dying chicken today," so the bar wasn't exactly Olympic level.
But still, I pressed on. Because I needed this. I needed to be strong. I wasn't just training for myself; I was training for the family I didn't yet have but wanted so badly. A promise I'd made to myself back on that deathbed in my past life. No matter how many blisters or bruises, I wasn't going to quit.
One evening, as I was rubbing at a fresh bruise on my forearm (it looked like a lopsided grape), Grandpa's voice rumbled across the table.
"Alright, let's rest early tonight." He spooned another bite of stew into his mouth as if he were announcing the weather. "We've got a beast subjugation tomorrow."
I nearly choked on my stew. "W-wait, seriously?!"
Grandpa raised a brow, completely calm. "Why wouldn't I be serious?"
My heart started hammering against my ribs like it was trying to file an escape request. My first real mission. My first taste of actual battle. I wanted this… I had trained for this… but suddenly, all the doubts I had shoved into the corners of my brain crawled back out. What if I froze? What if my arms locked up? What if I slowed him down and got us both killed?
That night, I barely slept. I tossed, I turned, I imagined every possible way a goblin could stab me, trip me, or use my skull as a dinner bowl. Spoiler: none of those helped.
The next morning, as we made our way down a dirt path toward the fields, I guess my nerves were written all over my face. Grandpa gave me one of his signature back-claps, the kind that almost knocked the air out of me.
"Don't worry, kid. I'm here. You're not expected to slay a dragon on day one. You're just here to learn."
"Easy for you to say," I muttered, rubbing my shoulder. His hands were basically tree trunks.
We didn't have to search long. The goblins found us first.
A dozen of them lingered near the edge of a wheat field, their hunched green bodies twitching with ugly energy. They were smaller than me in height but carried jagged, rusty weapons that looked like they'd been stolen from a junkyard. Their beady yellow eyes gleamed with feral hunger.
When they noticed us, the shrieking began. High-pitched, grating cries that sounded like someone was strangling a flock of geese. The kind of noise that made your eardrums file a complaint.
They charged as one, a tide of green limbs, teeth, and very bad breath.
Grandpa stepped forward, drawing his sword with a smooth, unhurried motion. He looked like a man heading out for a morning stroll rather than someone about to fight twelve murderous monsters.
"Stay calm," he said, his tone maddeningly steady. "Breathe. Don't think about killing, think about surviving."
I wanted to reply with something brave, but my throat had closed up. My hands were clammy on the hilt of my blade, and my knees were shaking like I'd swallowed a whole pot of coffee.
Then one goblin broke from the pack, sprinting straight at me with a rusty knife raised high.
My body moved before my mind did. I twisted out of the way, clumsy but just enough, and swung with every ounce of desperation I had.
The blade connected... cleaner than I thought possible. The goblin's head toppled off, its body collapsing in a heap at my feet.
I froze, staring at what I had done. My first kill.
"Not bad for a first swing," Grandpa called out, his tone almost casual. "See? You can do it."
Something cracked open inside me then. Not confidence exactly, but enough to shove the fear to the side. I swallowed hard, steadied my shaking hands, and stepped forward.
The fight turned into chaos. Goblins snarled and clawed, swarming in twos and threes. Grandpa cut through them like he was parting tall grass, every motion efficient and sure. He wasn't flashy, he didn't need to be. He was water carving stone, one strike flowing seamlessly into the next.
Me? I was… well, a mess. My swings were stiff, my feet clumsy, and I gasped for air after every exchange. But somehow, I was surviving. I parried one strike, dodged another, and when a goblin left itself open, I cut it down. My body remembered the drills, the stances, the parries. They weren't pretty, but they worked.
Halfway through the fight, one goblin lunged at me from the side. I squeaked (yes, squeaked) and ducked, tripping over my own foot. My fall ended with my sword accidentally stabbing it straight through the stomach. It collapsed on top of me.
"Ugh, gross!" I shoved the limp body off, gagging at the smell. "That doesn't count as skill, right?"
Grandpa barked a laugh, even while slicing another goblin clean in half. "A dead goblin is a dead goblin. Doesn't matter how."
By the time the last goblin fell, my arms shook so badly I could barely hold my sword. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and my chest burned like fire. But I was alive.
Grandpa planted his sword into the ground and leaned on it, giving me a grin. "Told you, kid. You're better than you think. You just needed the experience."
I couldn't even reply. I just laughed, breathless and giddy. He was right. I'd done it.
We found and dispatched two more packs of goblins before the day was over. Each time was a little less terrifying. My body remembered what to do quicker, my hands steadied, and I began to find a rhythm… an awkward, stumbling rhythm, but mine all the same.
Of course, I also discovered goblins scream louder when they're in groups of fifteen. And that they smell worse the longer you fight them. At one point, I was pretty sure one tried to bite my boot off. Another threw dirt in my face, which was just plain rude.
By the time we sold the goblin crystals and trudged into town, I felt like a pile of bruises wearing boy-shaped skin. My legs wobbled, my shoulders screamed, and I wanted nothing more than to collapse face-first on a bed for three days straight.
Instead, Grandpa steered me into a tavern. A sign above the door read: The Ripple Grill. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread wrapped around us like a warm blanket.
The place was bustling. Farmers, hunters, passing adventurers..., they all crowded the wooden tables, laughing, drinking, slamming mugs. A bard strummed a lute badly in the corner, and someone was arm-wrestling two guys at once.
We collapsed into a booth. A serving girl plopped down two mugs of ale for Grandpa and water for me (probably because I looked like I was twelve and about to keel over), followed quickly by steaming plates of roast chicken, potatoes, and thick bread.
"So," Grandpa said after his first gulp of ale, "how was it?"
I chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. "Terrifying. My legs still feel like jelly. But…" I smiled, unable to hide it. "Also exciting. Thrilling, even. I'm just… glad. Glad all that training wasn't for nothing. I actually did it."
Grandpa's eyes softened, pride hidden beneath his usual gruffness. He raised his mug. "That's right. Doesn't matter if you've got talent or not. Perseverance, kid, that's what makes a swordsman. That's what makes a man."
I clinked my water cup against his ale mug with a grin. "Guess I'll just have to persevere harder, then."
"Good. Because tomorrow, you'll wake up sore, and the day after, you'll think you can't swing another blade. But if you keep showing up, one day you'll realize you're stronger than you ever thought possible."
I leaned back, full and exhausted, letting his words sink in. For the first time, the dream of protecting my family didn't feel so far away.
And for the first time, I believed I might actually reach it.