Arvin folded his arms and watched the boy with an amused glint in his eye.
"Wipe off that smug look, boy. You're going to be doing this all day."
Eamon's expression faltered. "All day?"
Before he could process the horror of that statement, Arvin clapped his hands together. The soil around them trembled, shifted, and rose in twisting formations. Within seconds, fifteen puppets emerged from the ground, each one thicker and broader than the ones before. These were no longer just figures made for training — they had armor-like clumps of compacted earth around their limbs and sturdier, better swords. Their stances looked more stable, their movements more calculated.
Each puppet moved with an uncanny coordination, their hollow eyes glowing faintly with a subtle green energy — Arvin's earth magic at work.
Eamon raised his wooden sword, gripping it with renewed determination. He braced himself as the puppets began their slow but steady advance.
"I'll need more space," he muttered, then sprinted to the open patch of land near the pine trees, away from the uneven terrain where he'd just fought the last batch.
The first puppet lunged, and Eamon ducked beneath its swing, pivoted, and landed a sharp strike to its side. The soil cracked, and the puppet stumbled backward, falling into a loose heap. But the others didn't hesitate. Another came at him from behind. Eamon twisted just in time to deflect a blow, then used the force of the spin to drive his heel into its midsection. It shattered with a dull thud.
The rest closed in.
Despite their individual weakness, their sheer number tested his reflexes. Every second, he had to block, dodge, counter, move — always moving. He couldn't afford to stay still. He slashed one, sidestepped two, then kicked another to the ground. As he dispatched the last puppet with an overhead swing, he dropped to one knee, panting.
Then came Arvin's voice again, completely unbothered.
"Good job. How about some more?"
Eamon looked up, breathing hard. "Wait, what?"
Arvin smiled and raised both hands this time. The ground responded like a living thing. From the soil burst thirty puppets, more uniform and in perfect formation — two lines of fifteen, swords gleaming in the sunlight, dust swirling around their feet.
"Thirty?" Eamon staggered up, wiping sweat off his brow. "You're not serious."
Arvin chuckled. "I'm very serious. Consider this… warm-up."
Eamon groaned. "I'm going to die before lunch."
Still, he gritted his teeth and charged. This batch wasn't as easily defeated. The coordination between them was more synchronized. They attacked in groups — one distracting him while two closed in from the sides. But Eamon adapted quickly. He leapt over one, elbowed another, and cracked the third's head with the wooden blade.
His body was beginning to ache. His swings were getting heavier, slower.
But he kept going.
Slashing, dodging, breaking them apart piece by piece. He had stopped counting how many he'd fought, only focusing on the next strike, the next dodge.
After another grueling thirty minutes, the field was littered with lumps of broken soil and crumbled puppets. Eamon leaned on his sword, chest heaving.
"Grandpa Arvin… any chance you're done tormenting me?"
Instead of answering, Arvin tossed something at him. Eamon caught it clumsily — a small, round capsule.
"Eat that," Arvin instructed. "You'll need it."
Eamon hesitated, eyeing the strange object. "What is this?"
"A food capsule. I designed it myself. Packed with nutrients — it'll fill your stomach and give your muscles a bit of life back."
"Are you saying you've had this the whole time?" Eamon gave him a tired glare.
Arvin raised a brow. "You didn't ask."
Grumbling under his breath, Eamon popped the capsule into his mouth. As soon as he bit into it, a warm flavor spread across his tongue. It tasted oddly like chicken stew, mixed with bread and a dash of spice. Within seconds, he could feel a strange warmth spreading through his limbs, dulling the ache in his shoulders and loosening the stiffness in his back.
"Okay… that's actually impressive."
Arvin gave him a smug grin. "Told you."
Before Eamon could rest too long, Arvin clapped again. This time, the earth trembled more violently. A shockwave rippled through the ground as cracks appeared on the soil's surface. From the depths, a legion rose — a full hundred puppets, towering and wide, their blades nearly the size of Eamon's entire body.
Each one had glowing green cracks running along their arms and torsos. Their faces were sculpted with war masks, and their weapons were reinforced with stone. These were no longer just training dummies. These were warriors.
Eamon's jaw dropped. "You're joking."
"Nope," said Arvin, crossing his arms as he watched the formation assemble. "These are my strongest ones for today, though not as strong as actual ones. Let's see what you're really made of."
"But… a hundred?", exclaimed Eamon.
"You'll be fine", said Arvin
Eamon exclaimed, "I'm gonna die today."
Eamon sighed and dragged himself into a ready stance. As the army of puppets began their advance, he narrowed his eyes. "Okay… one last round."
They came like a wave — coordinated, fast, and without mercy. The first puppet raised its massive blade, and Eamon barely managed to parry it. His arms shuddered under the impact. He countered by sweeping the puppet's legs and following with a downward strike that broke it apart.
But there were ninety-nine more.
He didn't have time to catch his breath. Two puppets struck from either side, and Eamon ducked between them, shoving one into the other, creating a small gap to breathe. He darted through it and moved quickly, targeting one puppet at a time, trying not to get surrounded.
Sweat poured down his face. His hands were blistered. His back screamed with every twist, but he pushed forward.
Ten down.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty-five.
He lost count as he kept slashing, dodging, ducking, and leaping. His footwork was messy now. His swings lacked their earlier sharpness. One puppet nearly clipped his shoulder, and he rolled aside just in time.
Thirty left.
He found a rhythm again, using the fallen puppets as obstacles. He darted between broken limbs and swords, using their numbers against them. If two closed in, he'd sidestep and let one strike the other.
But every blow he landed drained him further. Every second he kept standing was a battle in itself.
By the time only a dozen remained, Eamon was drenched in sweat. His arms felt like lead. His knees buckled with every step. His wooden sword had splinters in it, and his breaths came in shallow gasps.
Still, he fought.
He slammed the last puppet to the ground with a roar, the final bit of strength pushing through his aching muscles.
Dust filled the air. Silence followed.
Arvin finally walked over, clapping slowly. "Well, I guess that's it for the day."
Eamon collapsed on the grass with a loud thump. "Finally."
The sky above was turning amber as evening crept in. Birds flew overhead, casting long shadows. The air had cooled, and a breeze rustled the grass.
Eamon didn't move. He lay there, flat on his back, arms spread, chest rising and falling.
Too tired to even get up, he just stared at the clouds, his breath a steady.