Raen stepped on the training grounds and dropped his belongings in the soft mud. He stood still for a moment, then closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. He reached inward, past muscle and bone, searching for something his mind knew should be there.

  Nothing.

  He exhaled and tried again, deeper this time. He cast his awareness through every fiber of his being, like a man looking for embers in ash.

  ‘Zero infernal energy, as expected.’

  He shifted his focus, probing for something else, a different sensation in his body.

  ‘Inner strength, none present. Or perhaps too low to even register.’

  He opened his eyes and stared at his hands, turning them over slowly.

  ‘Nothing unexpected, I will have to work on my body first. Everything else comes after.’

  His thoughts churned as he turned toward the weapons rack at the edge of the grounds. A row of battered practice swords and dulled blades was arranged in no particular order. Reaching out, he wrapped his right hand around the grip of the nearest one.

  It felt wrong.

  His fingers curled around the grip naturally – muscle memory from his body kicking in, but his mind screamed wrong, demanding his left. Fifteen years of fighting left-handed, compensating for the missing right arm, and now …

  Raen swung. The blade wobbled mid-air, nearly slipping from his grip.

  ‘Pathetic.’

  He switched hands.

  Better. The weight settled into place, the balance familiar. His left hand knew what to do; it knew the angles, the rhythm, but it shouldn’t.

  Not yet. Not at seventeen.

  This hand wasn’t supposed to become dominant for another decade and a half, after he lost his right hand in battle.

  Raen stared at his right hand. Whole, healthy.

  ‘I lived fifteen years without you, and now I can’t hold a sword properly because you’re back.’

  The irony wasn’t lost on him. He had suffered, bled, killed, and sacrificed everything to reach the Altar. And his reward was a body that didn’t know how to fight properly.

  He then stared at the practice dummy. It was rough, scarred from countless strikes, with small cracks visible on its wooden body. He needed to understand what had changed, how his body would respond to a mind that remembered thirty years of struggle.

  Raen stood straight and shifted the blade back to his right hand. He planted his feet and dropped into a stance. He held the sword in front of him, the tip aimed at the dummy’s head. His left leg stepped forward, weight settled low.

  Then, he moved.

  He lunged forward and stabbed at the head, only to pull his sword back, his elbow constricting. The handle of the sword nearly reached his chest before he flipped his wrist and delivered a backhanded slash aimed at the neck. The strike was meant to take the head clean off.

  It hit the shoulder. Half a foot too low, and with far less force than he’d intended.

  He then pulled his arm back, spun, and drove a downward slash aimed at the left side of the torso. It was a cut that should have split the dummy in two, shoulder to waist.

  He missed.

  The sword passed a hair’s width from the dummy without making contact.

  Raen clicked his tongue in frustration. He switched hands and stepped back. With his sword in his left hand, he repeated the two strikes, exactly as before.

  The first strike hit the neck, but not cleanly. The blade bit into the wood at an awkward angle, barely damaging the surface. He then spun again and hit the dummy with the downward slash, only for the blow to land on the upper chest, too low by several inches.

  His seventeen-year-old body didn’t remember the techniques he’d learn over thirty years. The footwork felt wrong, too stiff. His balance was off, and his muscles screamed, protesting each movement as though he were using them for the first time.

  ‘Everything I have learned … I’ll have to relearn. All of it.’ Raen realized.

  ‘My body needs time to adapt to my mind. And my mind needs to learn to work with this body.’

  Frustration boiled in his body as he dropped the sword and merely stood there with hands clenched into fists.

  ‘Think, Raen, think,’ he told himself, pressing his eyes shut. ‘Thirty years of knowledge and experience. Use it. How can I fight in my current state?’

  He stood there for a long moment, the sounds of the camp drifting from beyond the training grounds. Distant voices, the clang of metal, the creak of the supply carts.

  His mind turned, sorting through decades of memory, discarding technique after technique, searching for something his body could actually use.

  And then he found it.

  Not the refined forms he’d spent years perfecting. The brutal, compensatory style he’d forged after losing his arm. It was something older, simpler. The basic guard stance they taught recruits on their first day.

  It had been so long that he nearly forgot it existed, even with him reliving the memories again.

  He opened his eyes and picked the sword again. This time, he used his right hand and drew a breath before letting it out.

  Then, he struck.

  The blade hit the dummy cleanly. It wasn’t perfect – the angle was slightly off and the force uneven – but it was solid. It was a real hit, one that a recruit could land.

  Raen stared at his right hand, and for the first time since waking up, a grin spread across his face.

  ‘Start from the beginning,’ he thought. ‘Let the body catch up on its own.’

  “You’re holding it wrong,” Adam said from behind.

  Raen spun, nearly dropping the sword. He hadn’t noticed Adam’s arrival.

  “Your grip’s too tight.” Adam stepped onto the grounds. “And you keep switching hands, like you can’t decide which one works.”

  “I’m fine,” Raen said, setting the sword down. “Just getting used to moving again.”

  “After two days in a coma, you should be resting, not –“ Adam gestured to the training grounds “-whatever this is.”

  “I needed to figure out what my body could do.”

  “You nearly died!” Adam's voice rose, the words coming out harder than he probably intended.

  “You were struck on the back of your head! They said your skull cracked open … and now this?

  “How can you be swinging a sword as if nothing happened?”

  Raen met his eyes. “The injury wasn’t that serious. You checked my head yourself.”

  That stopped Adam cold. His mouth opened, then closed.

  “I already got discharged by the doctor. Nothing is physically wrong with me.”

  “After what I just saw, I beg to differ.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “You looked like a toddler who grabbed a sword for the very first time,” Adam said, a cold look on his face. “The way you moved right now, that fighting style, it’s the first time I see you move like that.”

  He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Just what the hell is going on, Raen?”

  “Nothing, my body is just … not responding the way I want it to,” Raen said.

  “That’s because you need to rest. You can’t be doing these things right after waking up.”

  “I’m fine, just need to get my body warmed up a bit.”

  Adam’s patience broke.

  “Hey, what the hell is your problem, huh?!” Adam said, suddenly stepping forward and standing right in front of Raen, close enough that Raen had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. “You’re behaving strangely. Differently.”

  “Leaving the medical tent right away, coming here after being discharged. Acting like you can’t rest, like you don’t have time for that. What the hell is going on?”

  ‘Perceptive.’ Raen thought, meeting Adam’s gaze calmly. ‘I guess I was a bit too eager.’

  “We’re at war, Adam, and I’m the leader of the squad. I can’t just rest, I have things to deal with.”

  Raen moved past Adam without waiting for a response, bending to pick up his belongings. He straightened, flung them over his shoulder, and started walking back to their tent.

  “Four days,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What?” Adam called after him.

  Raen, however, didn’t answer; he just kept walking to the tent.

  ***

  Raen pushed through the tent flap and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior. The tent was larger than most, with six cots arranged along the walls. A weapons rack was near the entrance, and a low table cluttered with maps and half-eaten rations.

  “I’m telling you, we should be using a rotating schedule.” A man with a bandana wrapped around his head said, gesturing at the map spread across the table. Dral sat across from him on a low stool, sharpening his axe with long, unhurried strokes. He wasn’t paying attention.

  “Cap’s way leaves gaps in –“ He stopped mid-sentence as Raen entered. His scarred face studied him for a moment before splitting into a grin.

  “Well, well, the dead walk, incredible.” He leaned back, one arm draped over the back of his cot. “Heard you got your skull cracked open.”

  “Disappointed?” Raen asked, moving to his cot.

  “Nah, just wondering if you’re still fit to lead.” The man said, studying his face. “You look … the same. Pah. And here I thought you were seriously hurt.”

  “No matter how injured, my face will always look better than yours, Mark.” Mark scoffed, but the grin stayed firmly in place.

  “Cap’n!” A white-haired teenager materialized at Raen’s side, grinning like a cat. He was grinning with the kind of boundless, restless energy that only the young could manage.

  “Thatch.” Raen smiled at the youngest in the squad.

  “Heard you came back from the dead. That true?”

  “Feels like it,” Raen muttered, sitting down.

  “Cool.” Thatch’s grin widened. “You won me three silvers, want a cut?”

  “For what?”

  “Bet on when you’d wake up.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the entrance. “I said less than three days, Jason said five. Mark bet that you wouldn’t wake up at all.”

  A larger boy near the entrance flushed red. He was barely old enough to shave, broad-shouldered but somehow looking small.

  “I-I didn’t mean –“He stammered, looking at Raen with wide, anxious eyes.

  “I just thought, I mean, they said you –“

  “Relax, Jason. Had I known you’d make money off my coma, I’d have stayed asleep for a couple of more days.” Raen said with a wide smile.

  His words were met by a low chuckle from a far corner of the tent. Raen’s gaze moved there, to the older man sitting with his back against the support post. A greatsword was laid across his lap, hands resting on the flat of the blade, eyes glinting.

  The moment their gazes met, Raen felt it. It was subtle, but unmistakable. A weight pressing against his awareness. Not physical pressure, exactly, but something deeper. It was the kind of presence that made a room quieter simply by existing.

  “Welcome back,” The man said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.

  “Thank you, Marcus.”

  “Your injuries?”

  “Healed.”

  Marcus observed him for a moment, then nodded his head and returned his attention to his sword, his black hair falling to his eyes, gray lines streaking through at the temples.

  The pressure disappeared, as though a door had quietly closed.

  Raen’s gaze drifted across all of them – alive, whole, loud. Something he had never expected to see again.

  That made what he had to do next both easier and harder.

  “I’m rejoining the team,” Raen said. “As leader.“

  The tent went silent.

  “Are you insane?!” Adam shouted, breaking the silence as he suddenly stood in front of Raen. Before Raen could react, Adam’s hand closed around the front of his shirt and lifted him clean off the ground.

  One-handed, effortless.

  “You can’t rejoin right away! I will definitely not allow it! You just woke up from a damn coma!”

  "I understand how you feel,” Raen said, meeting Adam’s eyes with a calm, steady look that gave him pause. “But Adam, don't make a mistake here. I’m not saying this as your friend, but as your squad leader."

  A tense silence fell over the tent. Mark raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched the confrontation. Thatch had stopped fiddling with his dagger, his gaze flicking between Raen and Adam, observing their sudden argument. Even Marcus, usually detached in the corner, seemed to be paying closer attention, his sharp eyes fixed on Raen.

  “I have received my discharge from the doctor.” Raen continued, his tone unchanged. “And a direct order from the captain to resume command. It’s already been decided.”

  Adam held him for another moment, gritting his teeth. He then set him back down, slowly.

  “You stubborn … you just woke up from a coma!”

  “His eyes are clear. He knows what he is doing.” Marcus said from the corner, not looking up. “He won’t budge in his decision.”

  “Or maybe he just lost his mind from that blow to his head,” Mark added playfully, though he did sound more thoughtful than dismissive.

  Thatch merely smiled as he resumed balancing his dagger, a faint, unreadable smile on his youthful face.

  “How do you have no injuries?” Dral suddenly asked, standing up. He crossed the tent toward Raen with an unhurried stride before stopping directly in front of him.

  He then reached out, grabbed Raen’s head, and examined it.

  “The flesh regrew, even the hair is back, how?” Dral asked as his fingers probed the scalp with clinical efficiency. They pressed, turned, searched for the damage he had seen two days prior. The cracked bone, shredded flesh, none was there.

  “Even the Mages couldn’t do anything about the wound.” He muttered, his words meant more for himself than anyone else.

  “Captain, do you possess magic by any chance, self-healing powers beyond common sense?”

  “You should already know the answer to that question.” Raen pulled his head away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Would someone with such ability be stuck in a place like this?”

  Dral considered it, then nodded.

  “True, impossible.” He paused. “Besides that sharp eyesight of yours, the rest isn’t really anything remarkable.”

  “Well, thanks very much for the vote of confidence,” Raen said, a smirk on his face as he glanced at his two teammates.

  “So, any more complaints?”

  “No, your current state is acceptable,” Dral said as he stepped back and went to grab his axe again, while Adam still continued his grumblings.

  “I still disagree. You should at least visit the doctor for further examination. You’re not fully healed, I know that much from watching you practice earlier.”

  “Maybe,” Dral said calmly, but something in his tone made Raen’s attention snap.

  It was a subtle shift, one most wouldn’t even notice.

  ”But maybe we can do the same.”

  He began walking toward Raen, and the instant he did so, Raen’s eyes constricted. A sharp pain in the side of his neck froze him for a moment. His vision fractured, and he saw Dral closing the distance in a single, fluid motion. His right arm was a blur as he swung.

  He caught the blade for an instant before it sheared through the side of his neck, separating his head from the body.

  Then the vision was gone, and Dral was still moving.

  Still, even with what was a premonition of danger coming from Dral, Raen was powerless to stop it. The axe arrived from the side, curving along the edges. It was impossibly fast. He wasn’t able to respond before a fierce wind from the swing hit his face. A moment later, the edge did the same.

  Cold steel touched the side of his neck.

  And stopped.

  The axe rested against his skin, drawing a thin line of blood.

  “DRAL!” Adam’s voice exploded. He had his hammer in hand and had positioned himself right next to them, every muscle constricted, eyes wide.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

  Dral did not look at him; his eyes were fixed on Raen, on his face, his chest, his hands, everything.

  “Blood pressure elevated,” Dral said, his voice calm. “Heart rate increased significantly. The look in his eyes … correct.”

  He withdrew the axe from Raen’s neck and stepped back.

  “I have confirmed it. He is the captain.”

  “You have confirmed I am … myself?” Raen asked, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.

  “Yes, the injuries you had were impossible to have healed so quickly,” he continued, sitting down and reaching for the whetstone. “A spy might have disguised himself as you after eliminating you. I had to rule that out.”

  “One can copy a man’s appearance. His voice. Even his mannerisms, with enough time.” Dral’s eyes moved to his axe. “But not his body’s response to danger, not his heart. Those cannot be faked.”

  “You’re insane,” Adam said, hammer still in hand.

  “I am thorough.” Dral corrected, not looking up. After a moment of silence, he spoke again.

  “I have heard a Wizard has recently joined the army. Perhaps he has graced the captain and some wounded with a spell. That would be the only explanation for such a recovery.” Dral said before grabbing his axe and running his finger along the edge.

  “Still a bit dull.” He grumbled, grabbing the wet stone beside the small stool before once again starting to sharpen it.

  “With the way you swing it, I’m surprised it is still able to even cut,” Adam said, the tension in his voice loosening a bit. He glanced at Raen before turning back to Dral.

  Dral said nothing, focusing on his axe. But Raen, watching from the side, noticed something. Dral’s eyes had never truly left him. Even as the whetstone moved, even as his gaze appeared fixed on the blade, he was still observing him, cataloguing every detail.

  “Yo, Adam.” Mark’s voice broke through. “What was that you said earlier?

  “Something about the Cap not being fully healed, and you watching him practice?”

  Adam’s jaw tightened as he glanced at Mark, then looked away. He sat down without answering. Mark shook his head, grinning.

  “Hey, Cap.” Mark stood up, one hand resting on the curved blade at his hip, his scarred face splitting into a familiar, provocative smile.” How about a spar? Just to make sure everything’s working well?”

  “A spar?” Raen repeated slowly.

  “Yeah.” Mark rolled his shoulders lazily. “Nothing serious, just want to see if that head injury affected your coordination.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to spar right after waking up from a coma, Mark,” Adam said. “You could –“

  “I’ll do it.” Raen interrupted, causing Adam’s head to snap toward him.

  “What?”

  “Training grounds.” Raen met Mark’s eyes, causing his grin to widen.

  The two moved toward the tent’s exit, and the rest followed right after them. Raen walked, and his face was calm, his hands steady at his sides.

  But his mind was anything but calm.

  His body couldn’t keep up with his mind; that much was already proven. And Mark was sharp, sharper than his lazy manner suggested. He would find the gaps, expose every weakness, and there was nothing Raen could do to stop it.

  ‘I’m going to lose,’ he thought. ‘In front of everybody.’

  We also met the squad. I hope you like their introduction so far.

  Same as last time, how bad do you think he'll lose?

  Will he desparir, curse his body, or maybe grit his teeth and continue?