The Last Nightmare

A dull ache ran through Nate's arms as he stood alone in the dimly lit cavern. The battle was over, but its echoes still lingered. His heart had stopped pounding, his breath had steadied, but his hands… they still trembled.

His fingers curled around the katana hilt, knuckles white. He stared at it, the blade faintly reflecting the glow of the dungeon's strange luminescent stones.

"I could've died."

The thought was unsettling, but it didn't bring fear—not in the way he expected. Instead, it left behind something else. A realization. A quiet fire.

"I don't want to be weak."

The battle replayed in his mind, every movement dissected in painful clarity. The way he had stumbled. The way he had barely dodged, barely reacted in time. The wild swings of his sword—more out of desperation than skill.

His victory hadn't been his own. It had been luck. And luck wouldn't last forever.

He exhaled sharply.

If he wanted to survive, he had to change.

Nate forced his breathing to steady, his racing mind to slow. Fear wouldn't help him. Overconfidence was just another way to die.

Determination. That was what he needed.

"I didn't choose this. But I won't let it break me."

He took a stance. His training began.

The Weight of the Sword

At first, it felt unnatural. He had used the katana before, but only in brief moments of combat—when survival demanded it. Now, with no immediate threat, the blade felt heavier in his grip.

His first swing was rough, stiff. Too much tension in his arms.

He reset.

Another swing. A little smoother, but still awkward.

Again.

The sound of steel slicing through air echoed faintly in the cavern.

He kept going.

Again. Again. Again.

Each swing tested his endurance. Each strike forced him to confront his own limitations. His muscles ached, his wrists burned, but he refused to stop.

One more.

One more.

One more.

His body screamed at him to rest, but he ignored it. He had no time to be weak.

Up on a ledge, unseen in the shadows, a pair of sharp eyes watched.

The girl leaned against the rocky wall, arms crossed, gaze never leaving him.

She had witnessed his fight. She had seen his fear, his desperation. And now, she watched as he struggled against his own weakness.

Her expression was unreadable.

Most people, after their first real battle, would have collapsed in exhaustion. Some would have broken. Others would have let their victory make them complacent.

But him?

He was different.

She tilted her head slightly, intrigued.

"Interesting."

Down below, Nate continued.

His movements were still rough, still far from refined, but something had changed. The more he swung, the less rigid he became. His body was learning. Adjusting.

He remembered the way the girl had fought—fluid, precise. Every movement had purpose. She hadn't wasted energy, hadn't let her emotions dictate her strikes.

Compared to that, his own fighting was clumsy, reckless.

"I need to be better."

His swings were growing smoother now. Less forced. He was beginning to feel the weight of the blade, rather than fighting against it.

Still, it wasn't enough.

Sweat dripped down his forehead. His breaths grew heavy. But he didn't stop.

The girl remained silent, watching.

She could tell—he wasn't just training his body. He was training his mind.

She had seen many fighters in her time. Some trained because they had to. Others trained because they sought power.

But him?

There was something else.

Something deeper.

She turned, disappearing into the shadows.

Nate didn't notice. He was too focused, too lost in the rhythm of training.

Time blurred. His arms felt like lead, his legs unsteady. But he kept going.

And then—finally—he stopped.

He let out a slow breath, lowering his blade. His entire body ached, but beneath the pain, there was something else.

Progress.

Not much.

But enough.

He looked at his hands. They were steadier now. The trembling had stopped.

The weight of the sword no longer felt foreign. It felt… right.

He wasn't strong yet.

But he was stronger than before.

And that was a start.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, taking a deep breath.

"What if I'm not strong enough?"

"What if I can't survive the next fight?"

But he shut those thoughts down. Doubt wouldn't help him.

He tightened his grip on the katana.

"I'll survive. I'll get stronger. No matter what it takes."

Because the next time he fought…

It wouldn't be luck that saved him.