LITYERSES

The training grounds are quieter than usual.

Late afternoon light stretches across the arena, painting the dust in long, golden shadows. Most of the other campers have already finished their practice for the day. The clang of metal and the distant sound of laughter from the dining pavilion drift faintly across the valley, carried on the breeze.

But here, in the center of the arena, the world feels smaller.

Contained.

Focused.

You stand across from Lityerses.

The son of Midas towers over you slightly, broad shoulders relaxed but ready, his sword hanging loosely in one hand as though it weighs nothing. The blade catches the fading sunlight with every small movement, flashing silver against the dusty air.

Despite the casual way he holds it, there’s something unmistakably dangerous about him.

There always is.

Years of fighting have carved precision into his body. Every motion is efficient, controlled, instinctive in a way that comes from a lifetime spent with weapons in hand.

Once, that same skill had made him infamous.

The Reaper of Men.

The Cornhusker.

The man who turned battles into games and games into executions.

Now, he’s standing here hesitating.

“Are you sure?” Lityerses asks again.

His voice carries across the empty arena, low and uncertain in a way that still feels strange coming from someone like him.

This isn’t the first time he’s asked.

Not the second.

Not even the fifth.

You’ve honestly lost count.

His eyes search your face carefully, looking for any sign that you might be joking, reconsidering, or perhaps underestimating what you’re asking for.

Normally, Lityerses never hesitates when someone challenges him.

Fighting used to be the only language he truly understood. Violence was simple. Clear. Honest in a way conversation never seemed to be.

But things are different now.

Life at the Waystation changed him.

The friendships he built there changed him.

And somehow, you became the closest one of them all.

That’s exactly why he’s hesitating.

Because sparring with strangers is one thing.

Sparring with you is another.

The last thing he wants is to hurt you.

He exhales slowly, shifting his grip on the sword.

The weapon tilts slightly as he rolls his wrist, adjusting the balance with practiced ease.

“Okay,” he says at last.

His voice still carries a trace of reluctance, but he nods firmly as if committing to the decision.

“You can timeout at any time,” he adds again.

It’s the same instruction he’s repeated every few minutes since you convinced him to step into the arena.

“Seriously.”

His expression hardens slightly, gaze steady.

“Any time.”

You don’t even respond.

Instead, you move.

The instant the words leave his mouth, you step forward and swing.

Your weapon slices through the air toward him in a clean, direct strike.

Lityerses reacts instantly.

Muscle memory takes over.

The sharp ring of metal echoes through the arena as his blade snaps upward, intercepting yours with effortless precision.

The impact vibrates through both weapons.

With a twist of his wrist, he deflects your strike to the side, the motion smooth and controlled.

“Fix your footing,” he says immediately, almost automatically.

Even mid-defense, his instincts as a fighter—and now, reluctantly, a teacher—take over.

“You’re leaning too far forward.”

You barely have time to adjust before he shifts his stance and presses forward slightly, testing your balance.

Your boots scrape against the packed dirt as you correct yourself.

Lityerses notices instantly.

“Better.”

The compliment is brief but genuine.

He circles slowly, sword raised but not aggressive, watching your movements carefully.

Unlike many fighters, he doesn’t rush.

Every step he takes is deliberate.

Measured.

“Again,” he says.

You attack.

This time your swing comes faster, angled lower.

Lityerses pivots smoothly, the edge of his blade catching yours just before it connects.

The weapons slide against each other with a sharp hiss of steel.

He pushes your blade aside again—but this time he counters.

Not with a strike.

Just a gentle tap against your shoulder with the flat of his sword.

“Dead,” he says calmly.

You roll your eyes.

He smirks faintly.

“Reset.”

The two of you separate again, circling across the arena floor.

Dust kicks up beneath your boots.

For a moment, neither of you attack.

Lityerses studies you.

Really studies you.

He’s analyzing everything—the way you hold your weapon, the way your weight shifts between steps, the small adjustments you’ve already started making since the first exchange.

“You’ve been practicing,” he observes.

You shrug.

“Maybe.”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

“Good.”

Then, without warning, he moves.

His attack is fast but controlled, the blade cutting toward you in a diagonal arc meant to test your reaction.

You manage to block.

Barely.

The impact rattles your arms, but you hold your ground.

Lityerses immediately steps back again, giving you space instead of pressing the advantage.

“You’re still gripping too tight,” he says.

“Relax your hands.”

You adjust your grip slightly.

“Like this?”

He nods once.

“Yeah.”

Then he raises his sword again.

“Now try hitting me.”

You swing.

This time the exchange lasts longer.

Steel clashes repeatedly as the two of you trade strikes and blocks across the dusty arena floor.

Lityerses moves with incredible control, never striking full force, always adjusting his strength and speed to match yours.

But even restrained, he’s formidable.

A lifetime of combat makes him difficult to surprise.

Still, every so often you manage to slip past his defenses just enough to make him step back.

Each time it happens, his grin grows a little wider.

Eventually the two of you pause again, breathing slightly heavier now.

Lityerses rests the tip of his sword against the ground.

“You’re improving,” he admits.

There’s real pride in his voice.

But then his expression softens slightly.

“Just… don’t forget what I said earlier.”

You tilt your head.

“About what?”

He gestures vaguely with the sword.

“The timeout.”

His eyes meet yours, serious again.

“I mean it.”

The wind stirs the dust around your feet.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there in the quiet arena.

Then you raise your weapon again.

Lityerses sighs softly.

But there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lifts his sword once more.

“Alright,” he mutters.

“Your move.”