Chapter 76 — That Is Exactly Why

  Garrick tested them one at a time.

  No armor adjustments.

  No encouragement.

  No speeches meant to sound wise.

  Just the field. The wind. And a man who had buried enough people to know what mattered.

  “Come at me,” he said, standing alone in the grass. His sword remained sheathed, hand resting loosely near the hilt. “Intent only. I’ll stop before anyone gets hurt.”

  Hennel went first.

  The boy barely waited for the signal.

  He charged—fast and loud, spear driving straight for Garrick’s centerline. There was strength in it. Real strength. Courage, too. Garrick stepped aside, caught the shaft with the rim of his shield, and twisted.

  Hennel lurched past him, boots skidding, nearly tripping over his own momentum.

  “Again,” Garrick said.

  Hennel growled and came back harder.

  Thrust. Bash. Thrust again.

  Each strike carried more anger than the last, frustration leaking into every movement. Garrick turned them aside with minimal effort—redirecting, disarming angles, never once counterattacking.

  Finally, he raised a hand.

  “Stop.”

  Hennel bent forward, panting, sweat dripping from his brow.

  “You fight like you’re alone,” Garrick said. “And like you’re terrified someone will take your moment if you hesitate.”

  Hennel clenched his teeth. “I was trying to—”

  “Close it,” Garrick cut in, voice calm and final. “You have strength. That’s good. You also have a death wish.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He tapped the boy’s shield.

  “Fix one before it fixes you.”

  Hennel said nothing.

  Next—Ayra.

  She stepped forward slowly, fingers tight around the sling’s handle. Garrick advanced this time, not attacking, just pressing. His presence filled the space, forcing a response.

  Ayra retreated.

  Her steps were light. Careful. Always angled. When Garrick shifted suddenly, she reacted on instinct—thwap—the sling snapped forward, rubber striking his shoulder guard cleanly.

  He stopped at once.

  “…Good aim,” he said.

  Ayra froze.

  “I—I didn’t mean to—”

  “You meant to stop me,” Garrick corrected. “That’s enough.”

  He straightened.

  “You observe. You calculate. You survive.” His gaze softened slightly. “But you wait too long for permission. One day, no one will be there to give it.”

  Ayra nodded, relief and embarrassment mixing in her eyes.

  Then—

  Ivaline.

  She didn’t draw her sword.

  She stepped forward with only the wooden training stick in her hand.

  Garrick raised an eyebrow.

  “…You sure?”

  Ivaline nodded once.

  “Very well.”

  This time, Garrick attacked.

  Not fast.

  Not slow.

  Just enough to be real.

  Ivaline moved—not back, but sideways. Her stick snapped up, striking his wrist. Not hard. Precise. She flowed inside his reach, foot hooking behind his step, shoulder turning—

  Garrick slid back.

  Once.

  Twice.

  His heel caught uneven grass.

  For half a breath—just half—his balance shifted.

  “—STOP.”

  The word left Garrick sharper than intended.

  They froze.

  The field went still.

  Garrick straightened slowly, staring at the girl in front of him. Then he laughed—low and unguarded.

  “…You nearly had me.”

  Ivaline lowered the stick.

  “Not enough,” she said flatly.

  Garrick shook his head.

  “No. More than enough.”

  He turned to the others.

  “Remember this,” he said. “Weapons don’t decide fights. People do.”

  After that, he instructed.

  Ayra learned how to step forward without panic.

  Hennel learned when not to move.

  Ivaline—learned nothing new.

  But she learned how to teach.

  Finally, Garrick stepped back.

  “Together,” he said. “All of you.”

  Hennel charged immediately.

  Ayra followed, sling snapping toward Garrick’s flank. Garrick adjusted, already reading the pattern.

  Too simple.

  Then—

  “Left. Now.”

  Ivaline’s voice cut clean through the chaos.

  She emerged from Hennel’s shadow, stick striking low, forcing Garrick to shift. Ayra fired again—not at him, but at his foot. Hennel corrected mid-charge, shield angling instead of thrusting.

  It was messy.

  Late.

  Unpolished.

  But it worked.

  Enough.

  Garrick raised his hand.

  “Stop.”

  They froze, breathing hard.

  He looked at them—really looked this time.

  “If I’m occupied,” Garrick said, “injured, or taken out—”

  His gaze settled on Ivaline.

  “She leads.”

  Hennel spun on her.

  “What!? Why her!?”

  Ayra nodded quietly, as if the answer were obvious.

  Ivaline stood still.

  No pride.

  No surprise.

  No denial.

  As if leadership were just another task.

  Garrick smiled.

  “That,” he said,

  “is exactly why.”