Chapter 20: The Disgraced Knight - Part 2
Viktor arrived at the warehouse four days later.
I'd expected him sooner—the curiosity in his eyes during our conversation had been genuine—but I'd underestimated how deep his self-destruction ran. Four days of internal debate before he could bring himself to seek out potential redemption.
But he came. That was what mattered.
"You actually cleared a wraith." He stood in the main hall, taking in the renovations. The contract board with its posted jobs. The training area where Marcus was practicing forms (poorly). The Heart Crystal's invisible pulse that he couldn't see but might feel. "The stories said it killed everyone who tried."
"The stories were accurate. Until us."
"How?"
"Silver weapons and magical support. My partner channeled light magic that forced it solid long enough to finish." I gestured toward the training area. "You're watching the results of self-taught combat instruction. Not impressive."
Viktor's professional eye tracked Marcus's movements. The wince came quick—a trainer seeing potential wasted through ignorance.
"His footwork is backwards. Grip too tight. He's fighting the sword instead of using it."
"I know. That's why we need you."
Mira appeared from the administrative corner, papers in hand. She'd been monitoring Viktor's arrival, waiting for the right moment to assess.
"Viktor Crane," she said. "The tournament champion."
"Former."
"Skills don't expire from shame. Just atrophy from neglect." She handed the papers to me. "Five new applicants this week. Civilians wanting to be adventurers. All enthusiastic, all untrained."
"Perfect." I spread the papers on the nearest table. "Here's my proposal, Viktor. Five novices. Complete beginners. Your job: train them to pass combat certification within one month."
"What certification?"
"They survive three minutes against the guild's best fighter without dying. Which is me." I met his eyes. "I won't go easy on them. If they can't defend themselves against a serious opponent, they're not ready for the field."
Viktor's expression shifted—something calculating replacing the habitual self-loathing. "One month isn't enough for proper training."
"Then teach them survival instead of mastery. Defensive forms, threat recognition, when to run versus when to fight. The basics that keep people alive."
"And if I fail?"
"Twenty crowns. Enough to drink for months. We part as acquaintances with no hard feelings."
"And if I succeed?"
"Guild membership. Stable income. Purpose." I let that word hang in the air. "The option to matter again."
He stared at the five names on the papers. Ordinary people who wanted to become something more. The kind of raw material a trainer could shape—or the kind of raw material that got people killed when shaped poorly.
"Full authority during training," he said finally. "No interference from you or anyone else. My methods, my schedule, my discipline."
"Agreed."
"And if you undermine me—if you question my decisions in front of trainees—the deal's off."
"Fair."
We shook hands. Not an oath—not yet. But a commitment that meant something to both of us.
Viktor's Perspective
They were worse than I'd expected.
Five civilians: two farmers' sons, a merchant's daughter, a former dockworker, and a retired miner. Ages ranged from seventeen to thirty-four. None had held a real weapon before last week. All had romantic notions about adventure that would get them killed within a month of actual field work.
"This is what I'm working with. Gods help us all."
"Laps," I said on the first morning. "Around the training yard. Until I tell you to stop."
"How many?" the merchant's daughter asked.
"Until I tell you to stop."
They ran. Poorly, of course—no stamina, no pacing, no understanding of how to conserve energy over distance. The dockworker was the first to vomit. The others followed within twenty minutes.
"Again."
"We can't—"
"AGAIN."
They ran again. And again. By midday, all five were collapsed on the training yard floor, unable to move. Good. That was the point.
"Combat isn't about swords," I told their prone forms. "Swords are tools. Combat is about bodies—your body working for you instead of against you. You can't swing a blade if your arms are exhausted. Can't dodge if your legs won't move. Can't think if your lungs are screaming for air."
The merchant's daughter—Helena, I learned later, though I didn't use names in training—raised her head. "Then what are we supposed to do?"
"Build bodies before learning forms. Endurance before technique. Survival before glory." I crouched beside them. "In one month, you're going to face someone who wants to hurt you. If you're still these soft, slow, fragile things you are today, you'll die. Not figuratively. Actually die."
"The test is against Finn," one of the farmers' sons said. "He won't actually kill us."
"Won't he?" I stood. "The boy cleared a drowner nest solo before he was sixteen. He's killed monsters that would give veteran soldiers nightmares. If you think he'll show mercy because you're tired or scared or not ready..." I shook my head. "You don't know him at all."
"Neither do I, really. But I've seen how he looks at problems. Like they're puzzles to solve, not obstacles to overcome. A person that calculating doesn't show mercy unless mercy serves a purpose."
"Rest for an hour," I said. "Then we start actual training."
The groans that followed were music to my ears.
Finn's Perspective
Three days into Viktor's training program, and the novices looked like they'd survived a war.
Bruises covered every visible inch of skin. Their movements had the stiff quality of muscles pushed beyond limits. Two of them—the farmers' sons—had developed the hollow-eyed look of soldiers after extended combat.
"Is this normal?" Mira asked, watching Viktor run them through basic defensive forms. "They look... broken."
"Breakdown precedes rebuilding. Viktor's stripping away their illusions before giving them something real." I tracked the training with professional interest. "Notice how they're moving now versus three days ago. More efficient. Less wasted motion."
"They're barely moving at all."
"Because they've learned that wasted motion costs energy they don't have. That's the first lesson—conservation. The fancy techniques come later, if they survive."
Viktor caught my eye across the training yard. His expression held challenge—are you going to interfere?
I shook my head slightly. No interference. He had full authority.
He returned to drilling the novices, and something in his posture had changed. Straighter. More purposeful. The trainer was remembering what it felt like to shape people into something better.
"Worth the investment. Even if the novices break under the pressure, Viktor's already becoming useful."
Author's Note / Support the Story
Your Reviews and Power Stones help the story grow! They are the best way to support the series and help new readers find us.
Want to read ahead? Get instant access to more chapters by supporting me on Patreon. Choose your tier to skip the wait:
⚔️ Noble ($7): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public.
👑 Royal ($11): Read 17 chapters ahead of the public.
🏛️ Emperor ($17): Read 24 chapters ahead of the public.
Weekly Updates: New chapters are added every week. See the pinned "Schedule" post on Patreon for the full update calendar.
👉 Join here: patreon.com/Kingdom1Building