The Cursed Extra-Chapter 74: [2.22] The Borderland’s Spear

"Nobles learn to fight for glory. Commoners learn to fight because the alternative is dying."

***

The training grounds lay empty in the grey light before dawn.

Worn dirt. Weathered stone. Not a soul in sight. The only sounds were distant servants starting their duties in the kitchens and the occasional cry of a crow against the slate sky. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

Rhys Blackwood stood alone at the center of the largest sparring circle. His breath formed small clouds that hung in the frigid air for a heartbeat before vanishing. The cold bit at his exposed skin. Numbed his fingers. Made his joints ache with a familiar stiffness he’d learned to ignore years ago on the frozen borderlands.

His calloused hands worked at the leather wrapping around his spear’s shaft. Each strip came away slowly. The ritual demanded patience. Demanded respect.

His father had taught him that much on winter nights so cold the water in their well froze solid.

The wood beneath revealed itself inch by inch. Ash, darkened by years of sweat and grime until it looked like aged oak. Hairline cracks scored its surface like the lines on an old man’s face. Each one told a story. Violence survived. Battles fought against things that crawled from the darkness between the trees.

Rhys ran his thumb along one of the deeper fractures. He remembered where the wood had splintered. A goblin chieftain, three summers past. Massive for its kind. Nearly as tall as a man. Wielding a rusted cleaver that it swung with more strength than cunning.

His father’s spear had caught the blow meant for Rhys’s skull. Absorbed an impact that should have shattered it entirely.

But it hadn’t shattered. It had cracked. Splintered. Bent. But held.

Afterwards, his father’s steady hands had worked through the night by firelight. Binding the damaged wood back together with strips of leather and pine resin until the weapon was whole again.

Not as strong as before. But whole.

This wasn’t merely a weapon.

This was his father’s legacy. Carried from the borderlands where nightmarish creatures stalked the shadows between ancient trees. Where children learned to hold a spear before they learned to read. Where the only thing standing between civilization and the endless dark was a wall of sharpened stakes and men too stubborn to die.

Every dent and scratch had been earned protecting hearth and home from things that noble children only read about in dusty tomes.

He lifted the spear with both hands. Gauged its weight with the intimacy of long familiarity. The balance felt like an extension of himself. The weapon knew him as surely as he knew it. Every imperfection. Every weak point. Every place where the grain had been stressed beyond what it should bear.

He could feel the slight warp in the shaft where moisture had seeped in during a rainy campaign. The subtle roughness where varnish had worn away. The almost imperceptible give where glue had begun to fail.

Yet he couldn’t ignore its increasing fragility.

Every training session pushed the weapon closer to breaking. Every clash against practice dummies and sparring partners added new stress to wood that had already given everything.

Much like everything else in his world.

Much like himself.

Rhys settled into his starting position. Not the textbook stance Professor Blackthorne had demonstrated yesterday. Not the elegant guard designed for dueling between honorable opponents who followed rules.

His father’s stance. The low, defensive posture hammered into him during endless winter nights when goblin war parties threatened their village walls.

Left foot forward. Weight distributed between both legs with a bias toward the rear for rapid retreat. Knees bent just enough to lower his center without sacrificing mobility. Spear angled at forty-five degrees. Back straight but not rigid. Shoulders relaxed but ready to coil with explosive force.

It was an ugly stance by academy standards.

Born of necessity rather than elegance. Designed for fighting outnumbered against enemies who didn’t care about honor or fair combat. The goblins hadn’t attacked in neat formations. They had swarmed from the darkness in howling masses, climbing over each other to reach human flesh.

The only thing that kept you alive was a stance that let you move in any direction at any instant.

The first form emerged from deep muscle memory. Movements so ingrained they required no conscious thought.

A wide lateral sweep meant to clear multiple attackers. The spear cut through the air in a horizontal arc that would have disemboweled anything standing within reach. The motion flowed into a lightning-fast thrust aimed at center mass, then immediately retracted to guard position before any enemy could grab the extended shaft.

No unnecessary flourishes. No wasted energy. No showmanship designed to impress observers.

Each movement served a purpose. Crafted by men who understood that real combat wasn’t about looking impressive. It was about staying alive long enough to see your family again.

His father had drilled that lesson into him with repetition. And occasional sharp blows when his attention wandered. A pretty strike that left you open was worse than no strike at all.

Sweat began to trickle down his temples despite the morning chill. His body generated heat faster than the cold air could steal it away.

The forms demanded everything. Perfect balance through rapid transitions. Timing impeccable enough to thread a thrust through an enemy’s guard. Body awareness so complete that he could feel exactly where every part of himself occupied space at any moment.

These skills weren’t optional. These skills were the price of continued existence.

When goblins swarmed the village perimeter in the dead of night, screaming their high-pitched war cries and hurling torches at thatched roofs, there were no second chances. No healers standing by to mend your wounds. No referees to call a halt when things went wrong.

There was only your weapon, your training, and the desperate hope that your father’s harsh lessons would keep your heart beating long enough to witness another daybreak.

He had been thirteen the first time he killed something that wasn’t livestock.

A goblin scout that had slipped past the outer perimeter. Drawn by the smell of cooking meat. It had burst into his family’s cottage while his father was manning the walls.

Rhys had been standing in the doorway between the creature and his sister’s sickbed.

He remembered the goblin’s yellow eyes. Bright with hunger and malice. He remembered how his hands had shaken on the spear his father had given him that very morning.

"You’re old enough now to help defend what’s ours."

He remembered the sound the spear made when it punched through the goblin’s chest. The way the creature’s eyes went wide with surprise. As if it had never considered that prey might fight back.

Yet here within the academy, these same movements that had saved his life appeared crude. Primitive compared to the elegant swordplay favored by noble students.

What kept you alive against monsters looked like savagery in these civilized halls. Just another mark against him in a world that already viewed him as inferior.

The nobles practiced their pretty forms against padded dummies that didn’t fight back. Against compliant partners who pulled their blows.

They had never understood what it meant to fight something that wanted to tear your throat out with its teeth.

Something that wouldn’t stop until either it was dead or you were.