Chapter 37: Training the Weapon - Part 1
Six months had changed Darek.
The feral child who'd fought two older boys in a temple shelter had become something else—still sharp-edged, still watchful, but no longer starving. Regular meals had filled out his frame. Clean clothes and a bed of his own had softened some of the desperate tension in his posture. Helena's reading lessons had given him words for thoughts that had previously expressed only through violence.
But the hunger remained. Not for food anymore—for capability. For the strength he'd lacked when soldiers in black armor had destroyed everything he loved.
I found him in the training yard at dawn, watching Viktor drill the combat-ready members through morning exercises. His eyes tracked every movement, cataloguing techniques, evaluating weaknesses. A predator studying prey.
"You've been patient," I said, settling onto the bench beside him.
"You said to wait. I waited."
"And now you want to know if the waiting is over."
He didn't answer. Didn't need to. The question burned in every line of his body.
"Training isn't exercise," I said. "It's not games, not play-fighting. What I'm going to teach you is real. Dangerous. It will hurt, and not just physically."
"I know."
"Do you? You've seen violence. You've survived violence. But becoming someone who wields violence professionally—that changes you. Makes you into something different than what you were."
Darek's jaw tightened. "I'm already different. I've been different since they came."
"Since Nilfgaardian scouts murdered his family. Since a ten-year-old learned that the world contains horrors he couldn't prevent."
"What do you want, Darek? Not what you think I want to hear. What do you actually want?"
The silence stretched. Viktor's commands echoed across the yard—"Reset! Again! Sloppy footwork!"—while Darek assembled his thoughts into words.
"I want to be strong enough that it never happens again. Not to me. Not to anyone I care about." His voice was steady, older than his years. "You said you could help with that. Were you lying?"
"No."
"Then train me. Please."
The 'please' cost him something. This was a boy who'd learned that asking for help meant weakness, that dependence meant vulnerability. To ask anyway showed how much he wanted this.
"There are conditions," I said. "First: you follow instructions exactly. Not because I'm cruel or arbitrary, but because the things I teach can hurt you if used wrong. Discipline first, power second."
"I understand."
"Second: you continue Helena's lessons. Reading, writing, mathematics. Combat skills without education create weapons. I'm building people, not weapons."
His expression flickered—frustration at the delay, recognition of the logic. "Fine."
"Third: if I ever tell you to stop, you stop. No questions, no hesitation. Some of the techniques I'll share have limits that aren't obvious. Trust me when I say you've reached them."
"And if I break these rules?"
"Then training stops until I'm convinced you can follow them again." I stood, extending my hand. "Do we have an agreement?"
Darek took my hand. His grip was firmer than a ten-year-old's should be—those months of basic exercise had developed muscle beneath the lingering thinness.
"We have an agreement."
I waited until we were alone in the third-floor planning room before producing the book.
It materialized from inventory with the usual subtle shimmer—visible only to me, appearing to Darek as though I'd simply pulled it from a concealed pocket. A slim volume bound in leather the color of dried blood, pages filled with diagrams and instructions that would make no sense to anyone who tried to read them normally.
[SKILL BOOK: POWER STRIKE (COMMON)]
[Effect: Transfers knowledge of enhanced striking technique]
[Ability Granted: +50% damage on charged melee attacks]
[Cost to User: None (one-time knowledge transfer)]
[Requirement: Physical capability to execute technique]
[Note: Recipient experiences temporary disorientation during absorption]
"What is that?" Darek's eyes fixed on the book with immediate intensity.
"A gift. And a test." I set it on the table between us. "When you open this and read, you'll gain knowledge you didn't have before. Techniques that take years to develop will become part of you in moments."
"That's not possible."
"It's magic. A very specific kind of magic that I have access to." The half-truth came easily now—I'd had plenty of practice explaining my capabilities without revealing their source. "The knowledge will feel strange at first. Wrong, like memories that don't belong to you. That's normal."
Darek's hand hovered over the book, trembling slightly. "Why are you giving me this?"
"Because you have potential worth developing. And because the world is full of threats that ordinary training can't prepare you to face." I met his eyes directly. "This is what I meant when I said I could help you become strong. Not in years. In moments."
He took the book.
The absorption happened instantly—light flaring from the pages, symbols flowing upward like smoke and sinking into Darek's skin. His body went rigid. His eyes rolled back. For three seconds that felt much longer, he stood frozen while knowledge older than either of us poured into his mind.
Then he collapsed.
I caught him before he hit the floor, lowering him to the wooden planks while the disorientation passed. His breathing was rapid but steady. No signs of rejection or complications.
[SKILL BOOK: ABSORBED]
[Recipient: Darek (Non-member, Dependent)]
[Ability Granted: Power Strike (Active)]
[Note: Recipient requires training to properly utilize technique]
Darek's eyes snapped open. He scrambled backward, pressing against the wall, hands raised in defensive posture—
And then he stopped. Stared at his own fists. Flexed fingers that suddenly knew things they hadn't known before.
"What... what did you do to me?"
"I gave you a technique. Power Strike—the ability to channel your full body's force into a single blow." I crouched to his level, keeping my voice calm. "The knowledge is there now. But knowledge without practice is dangerous. You need to learn control before you use it."
"I can feel it." Wonder mixed with fear in his voice. "Like there's something coiled in my arms, waiting to—"
"That's exactly right. And if you release it wrong, you'll break your own bones before you hurt anyone else." I extended my hand again. "Which is why we train. Slowly. Carefully. Until you understand when to use power and when not to."
He took my hand and let me pull him upright. The fear was fading, replaced by something more focused.
"Show me."
Two weeks of daily training produced visible results.
Darek's forms were rough—he lacked the years of practice that created smooth technique—but the underlying capability was undeniable. When he struck the training dummy with a proper Power Strike, the impact echoed across the yard. When he forgot discipline and swung wild, his wrist nearly snapped from improperly channeled force.
Viktor watched the morning session with professional evaluation, arms crossed, expression unreadable. I'd asked him to assess progress during his visit from Novigrad—his military experience provided perspective I lacked.
"Again," I called to Darek. "Controlled this time. Feel the technique engage before you swing."
The boy reset his stance. Breathed. Focused.
The strike landed clean. The dummy rocked on its mounting, leather surface dented from the impact.
"Enough for today. Cool down exercises, then breakfast."
Darek nodded and began the stretching routine I'd assigned—still breathing hard, but with satisfaction rather than frustration. Progress was visible, and he could feel it.
Viktor waited until the boy was out of earshot before speaking.
"He hits harder than some of my trained fighters."
"The technique amplifies natural capability. His baseline is good; the amplification makes it exceptional."
"How?" The question was direct, demanding. "You don't have magic in the traditional sense. What you do isn't sorcery—I've seen sorcery. This is something else."
"Trade secrets."
"Finn." Viktor stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're creating something dangerous. A ten-year-old with the striking power of an adult soldier. Without the emotional maturity, without the training to know when not to use it."
"Which is why we're teaching control first."
"Control can fail. Discipline can break. What happens when that boy gets angry—really angry, the way children do—and someone ends up dead?"
The question cut because it was valid. I'd had the same concerns, had argued myself through them repeatedly during the planning stages. The answer I'd reached wasn't comforting, but it was honest.
"Then we deal with the consequences. Like we would with any member who lost control." I met Viktor's gaze steadily. "I'm not creating a weapon without conscience. I'm raising a damaged child who has extraordinary potential. The training gives him capability. The education gives him judgment. The belonging gives him reason to use both wisely."
"And if it fails?"
"Then I've failed. And I'll take responsibility for that failure personally." I watched Darek finish his stretches and head toward the dining hall. "But I don't think it will fail. He wants to be strong, yes—but he also wants to matter. To be part of something. The violence is a response to helplessness; give him genuine capability and genuine connection, and the violence becomes a tool rather than a compulsion."
Viktor was quiet for a long moment. His own past included training young soldiers, watching some of them break under pressure that others absorbed.
"You're gambling."
"Everything I do is gambling. This is just a longer bet than most."
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