#argos.copy

The sound of clashing metal rang through the training hall, sharp, rhythmic, relentless. Training was in full swing. At its center, General Argos and an ensign exchanged blows at a breakneck pace. To an onlooker, it might have seemed brutal, but every movement was measured, deliberate, and entirely by design. The ensign had practiced on training dummies and stationary opponents countless times, but one could only learn so much without a proper fight. Now, it was time to put those lessons to the test.

Their breath came quick and shallow as they recalled every drill, every correction, parrying the general’s strike. The force still knocked the air from their lungs, boots sliding back slightly in the dirt. A near imperceptible mistake, yet General Argos’ sharp gaze caught it instantly. As expected. Gritting their teeth, the ensign lunged forward, seizing what looked like an opening.

It was a trap.

Argos sidestepped with ease, already sensing the desperation behind the haphazard strike. Using their momentum against them, he sent the ensign stumbling forward, and in the next instant, a heavy kick of an armored boot sent them flying across the training ground. They rolled a few meters through the dirt before landing flat on their back, the world spinning, trying to regain their focus.

They barely had time to think of getting back into the fight before the general’s boot pressed firmly against their chest, the cold edge of his halberd poised just beneath their throat. A fraction more, and it would have drawn blood. A little further, and it would have taken their head clean off. The ensign froze breath hitching in their throat. The fight was over and they had lost.

“This,” Argos said, voice steady and unimpressed, “is where you’d die.”

For a moment, the ensign almost believed him. Their failures had been many, perhaps the general had finally grown tired of their incompetence, deciding their training a waste of his time. But instead, he withdrew the weapon, resting it against his shoulder, and stepped back. He didn’t offer a hand to help them up, something the ensign had not even dared to expect..

“Though you lasted longer this time,” he said.

‘Maybe by a second.’ they thought, disappointed in their own failure.

The ensign coughed and pushed themselves upright, dirt clinging to their simple armor, chest still heaving. It was a small improvement, but it was something. At least not all their effort had been in vain, like they had first thought. Still, they couldn’t shake the thought that if this had been a real fight, they’d already be dead before they even realized it had begun. They needed to be better.

“Your skills have improved,” he said, his tone unreadable, neither harsh nor encouraging, simply stating a fact. There was no joy, no pride. “However,” he continued, “I am still going easy on you.”

There it is.

“I am nowhere near going all out yet.”

The ensign pushed themselves upright, brushing off the dust and dirt that clung to their scraped armor. Argos’s gaze followed, sharp and assessing. “If you want to hold your own in combat, you’ll need to last much longer than that.”

Without another word, he held out a small vial of shimmering liquid, a healing potion. Not enough to restore them fully, but enough to mend the worst of the bruises and cuts. The ensign took it, muttering thanks, while the general stood as immaculate as ever. His armor bore old scars and dents, none of them the ensign’s doing. They were relics of countless battles fought and won.

The ensign often wondered why he never replaced it. Surely, a man of his rank could afford armor in perfect condition. But perhaps he didn’t need to. Few could even land a strike on him, let alone pierce that steel. And even if his armor shattered, it was easy to imagine Argos cutting down his foes with the same effortless, unrelenting precision.

Armor almost seemed ornamental on him anyway. The ensign hadn’t seen it personally, but the stories were plenty, whispers of scars too numerous to count, carved across a body forged by countless battles. They said that despite his years, his form still looked as though it were carved from marble, untouched by age.

For a fleeting moment, the ensign wondered what it might be like to see the truth behind those rumors, then immediately cursed themselves for even thinking it. That was absolutely not the line of thought they should be having right now.

As the ensign swallowed the potion, Argos began speaking again, dissecting their stance. “Your footing is too wide. It leaves you open and makes it easier for an opponent to unbalance you. And when you strike,” he said, voice even, “always consider what happens if you miss. Every swing reveals an opening.”

To the ensign, his critique felt like a postmortem of their failure, but they still appreciated his patience. Few soldiers were ever granted this much attention from General Argos himself.

He turned, moving back to his starting position with deliberate, unhurried steps. The ensign watched him, something burning in their chest, a question that slipped free before they could stop it.

“Why me?”

Argos stopped mid-step and turned his head slightly, the faint glint of his eyes visible through the shadowed helm. The weight of his gaze was enough to make the ensign’s throat tighten. But it was too late to take the words back.

They straightened their posture, forcing their voice not to waver. “Why am I the one chosen for this, sir? What makes me worthy of such an honor, to be trained by you?”

“When I first enlisted,” they began, the words slipping out before they could stop them, “I had no accomplishments to set me apart. My results were average at best, and my peers,” they hesitated, catching their breath, “My peers were faster, stronger. Some had noble ties. Others had already seen combat. I had none of that.”

They were a commoner, born to a family with no history in the Bronze Legion. To stand here, training under General Argos himself, it didn’t make sense. They wanted to be better, yes, but wanting alone hardly warranted such an honor. Desire was easy, achievement was not. Anyone could want greatness, few ever reached it.

For a moment, the general said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy and absolute, until the ensign began to regret speaking at all. Their mind raced through every possible misstep, every word that might have overstepped the line, every way they might have just thrown away the rare honor Lady Luck had granted them.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“Yet you enlisted,” Argos said simply. “Despite the disadvantages, you stand here now, serving the Ravenna realm as a soldier of the Bronze Legion.”

His voice was even, unreadable as ever, and yet, somehow, the ensign thought they heard a flicker of something else beneath it. Not pride. Not warmth. But perhaps… recognition.

“In your eyes,” he continued, “I see the will to become more.” His tone did not waver. “Those born into power, nobility, magic, privilege, they lack that will. They were born into greatness and will never strive beyond it.”

The ensign felt his gaze on them, piercing, deliberate, yet not cruel. It wasn’t the sharp eye that corrected their stance or measured their technique. It was different. It was as if he saw something beyond them, something that could be.

“Unlike them,” he said, the final words landing like the edge of a blade, “you may yet reach your true potential.”

“Your will to endure hardship and strive for betterment is an admirable trait,” the general said, his tone a touch lighter now. It was still matter-of-fact, but there was something almost human beneath the iron of his voice, how one might imagine he’d sound in more casual company.

“Reminds me of myself in my youth,” he continued. “You’ve come far, and you haven’t given up, no matter how slow the process. But you are still a long way from standing as my equal.”

The words weren’t harsh. There was no accusation, no disappointment, only expectation. A promise that one day, perhaps, the ensign might stand where he stood now.

That thought alone was enough to reignite the spark in their chest. Straightening their posture, the ensign readied their stance once more. They had endured much, and they would endure more. There would be setbacks, many of them, but their resolve would not waver. They owed it to their family, their comrades, their general… and, most of all, to themselves.

Satisfied, General Argos lowered his halberd from his shoulder, taking position opposite them once more. His stance was poised, commanding.

“Now,” he said, voice cutting through the still air like steel through silk, “again. Give it everything you have.”

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ ❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。