“Alrighty… so how do I use a cane?”

  The question left my mouth with genuine confusion—and a tiny hint of dread. I expected Alric to laugh, or at least chuckle, but the animated armor simply turned its helmet toward me with the gravitas of a cathedral statue.

  “You learn, Morgan,” he said, as if that explained everything. “But let’s be specific.”

  Alric motioned for me to follow, his heavy boots leaving steady indentations in the dirt of the training yard. We stopped near a rack of practice weapons—short spears, wooden swords, padded clubs… and a bundle of simple canes leaning in a barrel like discarded shepherd’s crooks.

  He reached in and pulled one free.

  The cane was unremarkable. Smooth pale wood, a curved handle, no metal caps or inscriptions. Something a grandmother might use to walk down a cobblestone street. Something you’d find in a dusty corner of a thrift store.

  “This,” Alric said, holding it out to me, “is one of the most underestimated weapons in Aeterna.”

  I took it, unsure how to hold it. “It just feels… light.”

  “That’s because you’re thinking of it as a stick,” Alric replied. “Not as a tool.”

  The armor tapped his own helm. “Let’s start with fundamentals. Three truths for cane work—this applies to Sabres, Saints, and Shikigami alike. Listen carefully.”

  I nodded. The cane felt awkward in my hands, like it was judging me.

  “Truth the first,” Alric continued, “a cane is a lever. It amplifies force through angles. The strikes are not about strength—they’re about geometry, timing, and intent. Even a weak swing becomes strong if the angle is correct.”

  He made a cutting gesture in the air, demonstrating a twist that sent the tip whistling.

  “Truth the second: a cane is a conduit. Spellcasters channel through staves, Saints through relics, Shikigami through effigies. A cane can serve as your focal point. It helps guide mana, emotion, or whatever force your path demands.”

  He paused. “Yours will be… interesting.”

  That didn’t reassure me.

  “And truth the third: a cane is a deceiver. It hides reach, masks angles, and misdirects eyes. People don’t expect danger from something so plain.”

  He stepped back. “Now you try.”

  I adjusted my grip, trying to mimic how he’d held it. My hands felt stiff. My stance felt wrong.

  “No,” Alric said immediately. “You’re gripping it like you expect it to fly away.”

  “It might,” I muttered.

  “If it does, that’s your fault,” he said without missing a beat. “Relax your shoulders. Bend your knees slightly. Let your weight sink.”

  I tried. Slowly, my posture lowered.

  “There. Better. Now—swing.”

  I raised the cane and swung it in a wide, clumsy arc.

  Alric caught it mid-swing between two fingers of his gauntlet.

  “That was not a swing,” he said. “That was… well, it wasn’t a swing.”

  He pushed the cane back toward me.

  “Try again. Think of drawing a half-circle with the tip.”

  I attempted again, this time focusing on the arc. The cane sliced through the air and struck nothing—but at least it didn’t get caught.

  “Good. Keep going. Three more.”

  I repeated the motion. Each swing felt a little less awkward, though the wooden cane vibrated unpleasantly every time I moved too fast.

  Alric watched silently, hands behind his back like a strict professor.

  “Your reach is excellent,” he finally said. “Your leverage is excellent. Your balance is… not excellent. But workable.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly.

  He ignored my tone. “Now let’s test your reflexes. Stand still.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “Always,” Alric said.

  He lifted a hand. Mana flickered between his fingers—a soft blue spark—and a small training target, shaped like a padded ball, shot into the air behind me.

  I barely had time to notice before he snapped his fingers.

  FWIP.

  The ball launched toward me.

  I flinched and swung wildly. The cane connected with a muted thud—and the target bounced harmlessly to the ground.

  “Huh,” I breathed.

  “Exactly.” Alric nodded. “You have instinct. Your reaction time is sharp. The form is abysmal, but instinct can be shaped.”

  He snapped again.

  Another target shot toward me.

  This time, instead of panicking, I tried to guide the arc the way he taught. My swing was sloppy, but the cane caught the target’s edge and sent it spinning sideways.

  Alric made a thoughtful rumble inside his armor. “Very good. You’re learning faster than expected.”

  I exhaled. “So what’s next? More swings?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but let’s complicate things.”

  He walked to the center of the yard and planted himself firmly.

  “Morgan, the true purpose of a cane is not just striking. It’s control. Of your enemy. Of their perception. And—if you choose the haunted path—of the unseen.”

  A chill crawled down my spine.

  “Come,” Alric said, beckoning with one metal finger. The gesture was simple, but somehow it carried the weight of a commandment. “Show me how you move. Let’s see whether a Shikigami’s gait fits you… or if the Saints claim you instead.”

  I swallowed and stepped forward.

  For a stupid half-second, I imagined myself as every towering end-game boss from those brutally unfair action games I played back home—slow, deliberate, intimidating. A confident giant. A lumbering menace. The kind of presence that made players sweat bullets.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  I took one heavy, deliberate step.

  Then another.

  Thock.

  A sharp pain exploded in the center of my forehead.

  “AGH—!”

  I staggered back, grabbing at my head. “What the—?!”

  Alric stood exactly where he had been, but a small pouch dangled now from his gauntlet. One marble-sized pellet bounced on the stone at my feet.

  “My reflex test,” the armor said flatly. “You failed.”

  “How was I supposed to react to that?!” I hissed, rubbing my forehead. “You didn’t even move!”

  “You moved like you were auditioning to be a stalking tiger in a children’s play,” Alric replied without a hint of sympathy. “Heavy. Predictable. Telegraphed. The only thing you should intimidate with your gait is the ground, not an opponent.”

  He raised the pouch again, letting the pellets inside clatter menacingly.

  “Try again.”

  I adjusted my grip on the cane, feeling abruptly small under his blank metal helm.

  “But this time,” Alric continued, lowering his arm, “move as if you intend to kill me.”

  My pulse spiked.

  “I—wait, what?”

  “Not literally, obviously,” he said. “But your intent must be sharp. Shikigami need will. Saints need conviction. Sabres need resolve. I need to see what resides at your core.”

  He stepped back, spreading his arms in invitation.

  “Come,” he said. “Strike. Thrust. Move as if your life depends on it.”

  A chill crept down my spine at the phrasing.

  I set my feet. My breath steadied. No more lumbering giant. No more awkward strides. I let my body move more naturally—weight forward, knees bent just enough.

  Soft steps.

  Less noise.

  Alric nodded. “Better. Now attack. Do not think, just do.”

  I lunged, thrusting the cane forward like a spear.

  CLACK.

  He caught it effortlessly between two fingers, just as before.

  “That was thought,” Alric said. “Thought is slow. Again.”

  I yanked the cane back and swung sideways. Sloppy, but faster.

  He tilted his head a fraction—and the swing cut only empty air.

  “Too wide.”

  Another thrust.

  He tapped it aside with a single metal knuckle.

  “Too linear.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Is anything not wrong?”

  “Yes,” Alric said. “Your intent has improved. Your body is listening. Your fear is present, but not in control. Continue.”

  I struck again, this time dropping low, sweeping the cane near his knee joint. He stepped back smoothly—but only just.

  A small nod followed.

  “Good,” Alric said. “You are adapting.”

  I exhaled sharply, heat rising in my cheeks. My heart hammered. This was less training and more being dissected by a very polite guillotine.

  “You see,” Alric continued, stepping in a slow circle around me, “a Shikigami’s movement is deceptive. Quiet. They drift between lines of intent, never fully where the enemy expects them. Their gait is a whisper.”

  He paused behind me.

  “A Saint’s gait, however… is purpose. Direct. Unyielding. It carries the weight of their conviction.”

  I spun, cane raised defensively.

  Alric didn’t attack.

  He simply watched.

  “This exercise,” he said, “tells me what your body chooses when pressed. Which path it leans toward. Which role will grow for you.”

  I swallowed, gripping the cane a little tighter.

  “So… which am I leaning toward?”

  Alric lifted a hand, tapping the side of his helm in thought.

  “We will see,” he said. “But your steps are already revealing more than you realize. Now—again. This time, commit.”

  I lunged again.

  Alric deflected with the smallest turn of his cane, guiding my strike past his ribs as though flicking lint off his coat. I stumbled forward, caught myself, pivoted, and snapped the cane upward in a rising arc meant to graze his chin.

  He slid back a half-step. Just half. That was all it took.

  “You hesitate between each breath,” he said, voice cool. “Don’t.”

  “I’m trying not to,” I muttered, circling.

  “Trying,” he echoed, “is the language of apprentices. Again.”

  So I did. I thrust forward with the tip of the cane, then pulled back sharply, feinting low for his leg. He didn’t even bother to parry. He just shifted his weight and let the strike whistle past empty air.

  Right. Fine.

  I inhaled, fast. Exhaled, controlled.

  Then attacked with everything I had.

  This time I didn’t go for clean strikes. Instead I moved like a cat startled into violence—erratic footwork, sudden changes of direction, fast bursts of motion. I jabbed for his shoulder, then twisted around with the cane reversed to try smacking the back of his knee. He stepped out of reach, turned slightly, and watched my footwork like he was reading a book.

  “Your feet speak before your cane does,” Alric said, almost disappointed. “Fix that.”

  I gritted my teeth, spun around, and came at him again more aggressively. I pushed forward with my shoulder, using momentum to force him into a block. He accepted the collision… then gently tapped his cane on the back of my neck, the implication painfully obvious.

  Dead again.

  I flinched and backed away, panting. “How do you keep doing that?”

  “By being better than you.”

  Fair.

  Before I could complain further, he snapped his fingers. “Move.”

  I surged forward instinctively. This time I tried unpredictability—dropping low, sliding my back foot at an angle to twist my hips and bring the cane slashing upward. It whistled through air where his ribs had been half a heartbeat prior.

  Another miss.

  I pushed harder.

  I zig-zagged, letting myself fall into a pace that wasn't elegant or textbook—more feral, almost panicked. I let the cane drag, then snapped it up in a sweeping horizontal slash. I shifted from one target point to another without warning. A thrust at his chest became a jab at his shoulder became a whirling overhead strike meant to smash down on his forearm.

  I kept moving, kept adjusting, kept lunging even when it threw me off balance, because maybe—just maybe—wild pressure would close the gap.

  But Alric navigated my storm of blows as if he’d been choreographing them himself. He nudged my cane aside with the lightest deflections, stepping left when I pivoted right, stepping right when I jolted left. Every time I feinted, his eyes flicked—not to the weapon, but to my feet, my stance, the tension in my arms.

  “You think like prey,” he said, sidestepping another overcommitted thrust.

  “Prey?” I snapped, breath short.

  “Inexperienced prey.” He parried a wild swing and tapped my knee with the butt of his cane. My leg buckled.

  I staggered, caught myself, then twisted into a desperate mid-air strike that would’ve impressed me if I wasn’t the one failing to land it.

  Alric raised an eyebrow and simply leaned back.

  My strike whiffed inches from his nose.

  “Better,” he said calmly, “but still wrong.”

  “Then tell me what’s right!” I shouted.

  He answered by flicking my cane upward with his own, sending it flying out of my grip. It spun once in the air before clattering across the stones.

  I froze.

  Alric didn’t look triumphant or smug. He looked… perceptive. Like he’d stopped testing my combat and started evaluating something deeper.

  “Retrieve it,” he said.

  I jogged over, grabbed the cane, returned, still catching my breath.

  The moment I took my stance again, he murmured, “You’re thinking too loudly.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  Alric stepped within striking distance before I could react and pressed the tip of his cane against my sternum—hard enough to make me feel the warning, gentle enough not to bruise.

  “This,” he said, “is not how a Saint walks.”

  “I never said I was a Saint.”

  “No.” He pulled back. “But you’re not a Shikigami either.”

  I blinked, thrown. “Then what am I?”

  Alric studied me for a long moment. His gaze was sharp—not judging, but revealing. Like he saw something I didn’t.

  “Again,” he ordered. “One more exchange.”

  I obeyed, stepping forward—and this time letting instinct shape the first strike rather than intent. My arm swept out in a diagonal slash, fast, unbalanced, unpredictable. It wasn’t trained. It wasn’t refined. It wasn’t anything that belonged in a formal style.

  A scrappy, cornered-stray kind of attack—half instinct, half improvisation, all desperation polished into something bolder by adrenaline.

  Alric blocked it with a sharp twist of his wrist.

  Then he smiled.

  “That,” he said quietly, “is what I needed to see.”

  I stopped, lowering the cane slightly.

  He stepped back, folding his hands over the top of his own cane with an almost ceremonial air.

  His eyes were bright with recognition.

  “You fight like someone who refuses to die on anyone else’s terms.”

  A beat.

  “A survivor. A fox-spirit in a corner. Not elegant. Not holy. Not bound.”

  He tapped his cane lightly on the stone.

  “I know what you will be.”