For the next few days, Eamon's training took a new shape. Arvin no longer smiled during sessions. He stopped making jokes. He only spoke when needed. Each morning started before the sun could peek through the hills. Eamon would wake up, his body sore, arms heavy, but he never complained. He knew what was coming.
Arvin pushed him harder than ever before. The training ground had become a battlefield. Wooden dummies shaped like monstrous beasts stood everywhere. These were the torkes-level puppets, dangerous in both strength and speed. Arvin made Eamon fight hundreds of them every single day.
Eamon would swing his sword, the Vixterium blade, again and again until his hands bled. Arvin did not stop the session when Eamon fell. He ordered him to rise. When he dropped the sword, Arvin shouted at him to pick it up.
"You won't get to rest when the real night comes," Arvin said one day. "They will come for you. They won't pity you. So I won't either."
Eamon nodded and wiped the sweat off his face. "I know. I want this. I want to go beyond my limits."
And so he did. Along with the swordplay, Arvin trained him in magic. At first, Eamon could only cast basic tier 2 spells. But within days, he was using the most powerful ones without strain. Fire walls, fire bursts, fire spears—he summoned them with just a wave of his hand.
He tried tier 3 spells. He could form them, but not fully control them. A storm spell once blew off half the training yard. Arvin was not angry. He simply said, "Good. Now try to do it without burning us both."
By the end of the week, Eamon could hold his own against a whole day of puppet fights. He would slice them down, get knocked back, get up again, and keep fighting. His endurance had reached a point where even Arvin raised an eyebrow one evening.
"You lasted the whole day without getting much hurt," Arvin said as the last puppet fell. "You're getting close."
Then midnight training sessions followed. Arvin would wake him up when the world was quiet, and they would sneak into the forest. There, they fought under the moonlight. It was to train Eamon's reflexes in darkness. To make his body remember the enemy even when his eyes failed. He prepared Eamon for the actual battles that would happen on the new moon night.
On the last night of training, Arvin stood in front of him as the sun began to disappear.
"That's it, Eamon," Arvin said with a soft voice. "I have taught you all I could. Swordplay, magic, movement, survival. Everything I know, I have passed on. Today, this night will show whether any of it was enough. Whether you are actually prepared for your journey to lift your curse."
Eamon looked at the sky, then back at Arvin. "You have trained me well, Grandpa. I will give my best to survive this night, to live."
Arvin nodded slowly. "Good. But remember. I won't help you tonight. No matter what. I will enchant the house and stay inside. Even if I hear you scream, even if you beg, I won't come."
Eamon blinked. "You won't help me at all?"
"No. Because if I help you, all this training means nothing. This isn't just about tonight, Eamon. These nights will come again and again. You must fight them alone. That's the point."
Eamon sighed but then smiled. "I understand, Grandpa. You should stay inside. Hopefully, I will meet you in the morning."
Arvin gave him a long look. "Hopefully? You should definitely meet me in the morning, son. Or else, I won't be able to show my face to your grandfather when I meet him above."
Eamon laughed. "Yes, Grandpa Arvin. I'll definitely meet you in the morning."
As the evening rolled in, Arvin started placing enchantments around the house. Glowing blue symbols appeared on the walls and doors. The air shimmered around the house. No dark creature would be able to cross it.
He handed Eamon a gauntlet. It was a dark metal arm guard with leather straps. Eamon slid it on and felt it click into place.
"This will hold your sword and dagger," Arvin explained. "But I won't give you anything to eat. Part of your challenge is to survive. That means finding food. Hunting. Staying hidden when needed. And make it till sunrise."
Eamon nodded, tightening the gauntlet. "Got it."
Arvin grew serious. "Contain the entire fight inside the forest. Do not step outside. If even one of them gets past you and heads to the village, innocent people will die. Do you understand me?"
"Yes. I will stay in the forest", nodded Eamon.
"Good", said Arvin.
As the last rays of sunlight vanished behind the hills, Eamon walked toward the woods. He felt the cold breeze brush against his face. The gauntlet clicked with every step. The sword rested firmly inside it.
He went deeper and deeper, leaves crunching under his boots. The trees grew denser, taller. Shadows stretched longer. The forest became quiet, as if holding its breath.
After walking for what felt like an hour, he reached a clearing. It was a wide, flat ground, surrounded by forest on one side. A mountain rose silently on the second side. A river flowed gently on the third. It was the perfect place.
He walked to the center of the clearing and sat down. He laid the gauntlet beside him. His eyes watched the forest. His ears listened.
Time passed slowly. The sky turned darker. The moon disappeared. The wind stopped. The crickets fell silent. Everything around him seemed to go still.
Then he heard it. A faint rustle behind the bushes.
He stood up slowly, his heart thudding. He wore his gauntlet.
The bush behind him shook. Leaves scattered. A low growl echoed. Then came a hiss. And finally, they appeared.
The Torkes. Their skin was dark, almost shadow-like. Their eyes glowed with faint green light. They had long limbs and sharp claws. Their bodies were thin but powerful.
Eamon took a deep breath.
"Finally," he whispered.
He reached to his gauntlet and pulled his sword out. The metal gleamed under the faint light. He gripped it with both hands.
And he stood ready for the fight.
He exclaimed, "Bring it on you bloody Torkes...".