“Strike, strike, strike, sweep”, the words were drilled into
his head, ingrained in his being. “Strike, strike, strike, sweep”, all day,
every day, thousands of Breland's cadets were taught this simple drill
like it would save their lives in battle, and Mook was the recipient of these
blows. “Strike, strike, strike, sweep”, Mook was a fast learner, he was told he
could block the attacks but never strike back. This seemed unfair to him, not because
the blows pained him, but because in battle the enemy would retaliate without
mercy. He was training the recruits to be killed, a never-ending stream of
bodies sent out to the meat grinder with nothing to defend them in close combat
but a simple technique, “strike, strike, strike, sweep”. As he blocked and parried,
he studied the humans, watching the way their muscles moved, anticipating the
next attack so he could counter it. He learned to read the humans body language,
knowing where the opponent was aiming and positioning himself to avoid it all
together, or throwing the cadet off balance completely, but never hitting back.
“Strike, strike, strike, sweep”, it was rare that anyone managed to actually
strike Mook but if they did, he learned from it and spotted the next one before
it landed.
The nights were different, Mook was free to do what he
wished. Most were spent repairing the damage he had taken in the day. As time
went on though the repairs were less frequent, and he took to wandering the compound
trying to learn more about his creators and his purpose.
It was on one such night he heard shouting and cheering
coming from a tent at the edge of the compound. As he entered, he saw a crowd
of soldiers gathered in a circle around two men that were engaged in combat.
The crowd seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, the violence whipping them into
a frenzy, Mook supposed this was the only relief they had from the toll the war
was taking on them all. He stood and watched their techniques, the basics he
had taught were there but there were other strikes he was unfamiliar with.
Punches, kicks, even elbows, knees and foreheads used as weapons. The spectacle
ended as one man was knocked to the ground by a blow to the stomach. His opponent
helped him up again and they shook hands, no longer enemies but comrades again.
The victor scanned the crowd for his next opponent and easily spotted Mook towering over the other soldiers. “Oi, that’s
the dummy from the Dojo, he’s come to teach us how to fight proper!” he
exclaimed. This was met with a howl of laughter and shouting, and the crowd
began to shove Mook into the circle eager for the spectacle to unfold. “Bet ya
10 silver you can’t knock it down” shouted one voice, “20 silver say’s the dummy
wins” cried another.
Mook stood still, studying the man that had so easily beaten
his last opponent. He was large for a human but not as tall as Mook, muscular
but not too heavyset. He had some small cuts and bruises on his face from the
last bout but was otherwise relatively unscathed. There were scars on his arms
indicating he was experienced and had clearly seen some battle, Mook lowered
his stance and prepared for the assault.
The man was fast and attacked without hesitation, the first
blow struck Mook square in the face and he staggered back struggling to parry
the torrent of blows coming at his head and body. He dodged a low kick but took
a hook to the ribs as he circled the aggressor, watching, learning, adapting.
He blocked, parried, blocked, dodged, ducked blocked again. His opponent was
clearly becoming frustrated as he was now struggling to land a single hit on
Mook, the warforged learning to read the next move before it landed. The crowd
were beginning to laugh at the soldiers’ frustrations, even hurling abuse at
him, then a voice boomed out from the entrance to the tent, silencing the crowd
and snapping them to attention.
“What in the bloody hells is going on in here? Private
Gannon, are you damaging military property?”. “E’s tryin’ to Sarge but he can’t
even land a punch on the thing” came a voice from the crowd, this was met by a
roar of laughter and catcalls. “Well come on then, show me what that dummy’s
taught you Private” said the drill sergeant. The soldier saluted and turned to
face Mook, then immediately attacked once more. Mook could now read the man
like a book, easily blocking and dodging everything that was thrown at him. “Interesting,”
said the drill Sergeant, “why isn’t the thing fighting back?”. “It’s just a
training dummy sarge, it’s not allowed to hit us” said one of the soldiers. “Well
let’s do something about that” replied the sergeant. “Oi, you, Dummy. You are
now permitted to retaliate. Let’s see what you’ve learned”. It was like a door
opened in Mooks mind, all of the techniques he had studied he could now put into
practice. He started with the basic “Strike, strike, strike, sweep”, catching
his opponent completely off guard and easily taking him down. The crowd cheered
and applauded, the embarrassed soldier picking himself up and skulking off to
hide his shame.
“Well this is an interesting development” said the sergeant
as he twirled the end of his moustache in deep contemplation. “Looks like the
dummy has been holding back on us and you lot need a proper education. From
tomorrow, advanced lessons will begin, none of this strike sweep nonsense anymore.
Dummy, teach the cadets how to fight properly, everything you learned you will
share. You’re not permitted to use any weapons mind, but you will teach this
shameful bunch how to properly look after themselves in a scrap. We’ll make proper
soldiers of them yet! Right you lot, back to the barracks. Lessons start at
dawn tomorrow. Dismissed!”. With that the crowd dispersed, some patting Mook on
the shoulder and congratulating him on their way out. Mook returned to the dojo
ready to start the new lessons. He knew his purpose now, teacher, mentor, he would
learn all he could about fighting techniques and give these soldiers the best
chance possible to survive in the great war.
This seemed like forever ago, Mook had learned a lot in the few years since the great war ended. Travelling from dojo to dojo
learning new fighting styles. Paying his way by repairing whatever he could. He
had chosen the name “Mook Yan Jong” after a simple wooden training post he had
used in one of the fighting temples. The instrument reminded him of what he
once was, nothing but a dummy to be struck. He was different now though, educated
and with purpose. When the next war came he would be ready and the soldiers he
will train will be a formidable force.
