The morning sun cast long shadows over the open patch of land behind the ruined house. This was the official training ground of the Mercenaries of Mayhem—which mostly meant it was the only space not covered in broken furniture, empty flasks, or scorch marks.
Derek stood with his massive sword resting on his shoulder, his calm, focused eyes locked on Jim, who bounced on the balls of his feet, shaking out his arms. His iron gauntlets gleamed in the sunlight, the thick metal fitted perfectly to his knuckles.
Bob, Marcus, and Bam sat on a pile of old crates, watching with the kind of anticipation normally reserved for bar fights or bad decisions.
"This is gonna be good," Marcus muttered, tightening the strap on his crossbow, as if somehow expecting to need it.
Bam nodded. "Two warriors, clashing in the pursuit of excellence." He threw a fireball into the air dramatically, only for it to fizzle out and land as a puff of smoke. No one commented.
Bob crossed his arms, eyes gleaming. "Alright, boys! FIGHT!"
Jim dashed forward first, fast—too fast. His drunken, swaying movements were unpredictable, his iron-clad fists shooting out in sharp, precise jabs aimed at Derek's midsection.
Derek reacted instantly. He swung his massive sword in a controlled arc, forcing Jim to weave and duck. Each dodge was razor-thin, Jim slipping through the air like a man who had spent his entire life narrowly avoiding consequences.
"Not bad," Jim smirked, twisting his body to deliver a spinning backfist.
Derek barely raised his sword in time, the gauntlet slamming against the flat of the blade. The impact boomed, sending a shockwave through the ground.
Jim didn't stop. He twisted his hips, launching a brutal knee strike toward Derek's ribs.
Clang!
Derek shifted his stance, blocking the attack with the hilt of his sword before stepping back. His expression was as unreadable as ever.
"Your strikes are precise," he admitted. "But let's see how you handle this."
With a swift step forward, Derek swung. His greatsword carved through the air in a horizontal sweep that could have taken down a tree.
Jim dropped instantly, falling into a controlled roll. As the blade whistled just inches over his head, he came up with a punch aimed directly at Derek's jaw.
Derek tilted his head, just enough for the fist to graze past his ear.
Jim grinned. "Damn, you really don't blink, huh?"
Derek didn't answer. Instead, he shifted his grip and thrust his sword straight at Jim's chest.
Jim barely had time to cross his gauntlets in defense before—
BOOM!
The sheer force sent Jim skidding backward, feet digging trenches into the dirt. He finally came to a stop, shaking out his arms with a wince.
"Alright, I felt that one," he admitted, rolling his shoulders. "Guess I should take this seriously."
Derek adjusted his stance, lowering his blade. "You weren't already?"
Jim just grinned. "Nah, I was about thirty percent. Let's crank it up to fifty."
Without warning, he lunged again, faster than before. His gauntlets blurred as he unleashed a flurry of rapid punches, each one a precise strike aimed at vital points—jaw, ribs, solar plexus.
Derek matched him.
Each punch met the flat of his sword, sparks flying with every impact. He stepped back fluidly, controlling the distance, letting Jim's momentum work against him.
Then, in one sharp motion, Derek turned his blade and slammed the pommel straight into Jim's stomach.
Jim let out a strangled oof as he stumbled back, hands on his knees.
Bob, still watching from the sidelines, leaned forward. "Is Jim gonna puke?"
Marcus squinted. "If he does, let's bet on how far it goes."
"Three feet," Bam guessed.
Jim, hearing none of this, straightened up with a grin. "Alright. That was good." He cracked his neck. "But let's see if you can handle—"
Before Jim could finish, something came soaring through the air.
A goat.
It crashed into Jim's face with an undignified thud, knocking him flat on his back.
Silence.
Everyone turned to see where the goat had come from.
Bob, Marcus, and Bam slowly turned their heads.
On the rooftop of their ruined house stood a very smug-looking second goat.
Marcus blinked. "Did that goat just—"
Bam nodded. "It weaponized its friend."
Jim groaned, pushing the unconscious goat off him. "I hate this fking place."
Derek, lowering his sword, sighed. "That's enough training for today."
And with that, the sparring session ended—not with a final blow, but with the first recorded case of tactical goat warfare.