It was another peaceful day at the Mercenaries of Mayhem's mansion, which meant it was time for someone to get punched.
Out in the courtyard, Jim and Derek were sparring while the others watched.
Bob leaned against a rock. "Alright, place your bets! I got one gold on Derek winning in under a minute."
Marcus smirked. "Too generous. Thirty seconds."
Bam shrugged. "Fifteen."
Jim, stretching his arms, scoffed. "Wow. No faith in me at all?"
Derek rolled his shoulders, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. "You've never won."
Jim cracked his knuckles, adjusting the iron gauntlets on his hands. "Today could be the day."
Derek sighed. "It won't be."
And then it began.
Jim rushed forward, throwing a powerful right hook—
Derek stepped back, avoiding it effortlessly.
Jim followed with a quick jab aimed at Derek's chest—
Derek sidestepped and flicked Jim's forehead.
Jim stumbled, rubbing his head. "Are you serious?!"
Derek shrugged. "You leave too many openings."
Jim gritted his teeth and lunged again, this time throwing a fake-out punch before spinning into a backhanded strike.
Derek ducked, tapped Jim's wrist just right, and sent him crashing onto his back.
Jim lay there, staring at the sky. "...That was embarrassing."
Bob sighed. "Wow. Twelve seconds."
Marcus tossed Bam a gold coin. "You win."
Jim groaned, still on the ground. "Derek, I hate you."
Derek held out a hand. "You always lose because you don't train properly."
Jim grabbed his hand and pulled himself up. "It's not just that! You're just too good."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
Jim dusted himself off. "I mean, look at you. You never lose. Your swordsmanship is insane! Are you, like, from a noble knight bloodline or something?"
Derek went completely silent.
Jim, still rubbing his sore ribs, chuckled. "Or maybe you're just a natural-born genius."
Derek turned away. "No."
Jim blinked. "Huh?"
Derek crossed his arms. "You lost because you fight drunk and never train seriously."
Jim scoffed. "Oh, so now we're changing the subject?"
Derek picked up a practice sword and gestured at Jim's gauntlets. "We're training now."
Jim sighed dramatically. "Ugh, fine."
Jim, still sore, raised his fists. "So, what, we just spar again?"
Derek nodded. "Yes. But this time, you'll actually learn."
Jim smirked. "You sound like some wise old mentor."
Derek sighed. "I'm thirty two."
Jim grinned. "And yet, you fight like you were born with a sword in your hand."
Derek shook his head. "No. I fight like someone who had to fail over and over until he finally got it right."
Jim raised an eyebrow. "...That's kinda deep."
Derek got into stance. "Failure is the start of success. The sooner you learn that, the better you'll get."
Jim, despite himself, smiled. "Alright. One more round."
Derek smirked. "Let's see if you last longer than twelve seconds this time."
Jim rolled his shoulders. "I make no promises."
And with that, training continued—with Jim getting beaten repeatedly, but this time, maybe learning something.