Gamble King Chapter 15. New Challenge

There comes, in the life of every man, a moment when he must choose his path forward with unwavering resolve. When the weight of circumstance presses upon his shoulders, and he must decide whether to bend beneath it or stand firm against the tide of adversity. It is in these crucible moments that character is forged, that boys become men, that legends are born from the ashes of doubt and hesitation.

Such was the noble mindset with which Max presented himself for training earlier today, striding purposefully across the courtyard toward Sir Gregory with the quiet dignity of one who had found his calling. The sunlight caught the determined set of his jaw, the steadfast resolve in his eyes, the bearing of a man who had gazed into the abyss of his own limitations and emerged ready to transcend them.

...His mindset had changed considerably since then.

"FUCK!"

"Language."

"FUUUUUCK!"

Max was operating on his last functional brain cell and approximately zero functional lung cells. Harek's body had many admirable qualities—decent height, exceptional coordination, an apparent resistance to frostbite—but cardiovascular endurance was not among them. Every breath felt like trying to suck air through a cocktail straw. His lungs burned.

This was the cardio nightmare of every person who had ever looked at a gym membership and thought, "Maybe next month." The kind of suffering that made you question every life choice that had led to this particular moment of wanting to die while still technically being alive.

"Stop."

Max's legs gave out with the gratitude of a condemned man receiving a last-minute pardon. He wanted nothing more than to collapse face-first into the snow and become one with the frozen ground, but Gregory had warned him against that particular indignity. Something about maintaining what little dignity remained to him.

So he stood there, swaying slightly, while Gregory approached with his hands clasped behind his back in that infuriatingly composed way of his.

Max was sweating despite the minus-fifteen-degree morning, which seemed to violate several laws of physics. His heart hammered against his ribs. His vision had gone fuzzy around the edges, and there was enough saliva pooling in his mouth to suggest his body was seriously considering the possibility of imminent death.

"A knight," Gregory said amidst that chaos, "is held in the highest regard by common folk. They look to us as exemplars of virtue, discipline, and restraint." He paused, studying Max's heaving form. "When faced with adversity, a knight does not resort to the crude vernacular of tavern wenches and dock workers."

Max tried to respond but could only manage something that sounded like a dying walrus.

"Control, Harek, is the foundation upon which all knightly virtues are built. Control of one's sword, one's temper, one's tongue." Gregory continued. "If you cannot govern something so simple as your choice of words during physical exertion, how can you expect to govern yourself in battle? In court? In the moments when lives hang upon your decisions?"

Max finally managed to wheeze out something resembling words. "Right. Control. Got it."

"I think not." Gregory's expression remained perfectly neutral. "At present, you possess the constitution of a merchant's son who has spent his winters by the fire reading poetry. Your Fanga abilities require a vessel capable of containing them. A weak body breeds a weak mind, and both will fail you when you have need of them most."

Max had read enough about knights to know they lived like militant monks with better armor. Society placed them on pedestals somewhere between saints and demigods, which meant they spent most of their time trying to live up to impossible standards of virtue, honor, and emotional suppression.

Training under one as a squire was, by all accounts, a carefully orchestrated form of hell designed to forge character through systematic misery.

Today's particular contribution to his character development had been what felt like an hour of non-stop running. Not jogging. Not intervals with rest breaks. Running. For maybe sixty straight minutes around the castle courtyard while Gregory watched.

The stated purpose, according to Gregory's earlier lecture, was to train his mind to endure constant challenge. Physical resilience bred mental resilience, which would allow him to channel Fanga more efficiently when his body wasn't constantly sending distress signals to his brain.

Max didn't entirely disagree with the logic.

But these people had apparently never heard of concepts like "recovery time" or "overtraining." They treated suffering like a sacrament and rest like a character flaw. The whole knightly mentality was essentially Jedi philosophy minus the mystical wisdom—lots of emotional suppression and self-denial, but with more emphasis on hitting things with swords. Or any weapon you felt comfortable with, really.

"Yes, sir," Max managed, still breathing hard.

His relationship with Gregory operated on two fundamental principles.

First, Gregory was genuinely intimidating in the way that only competent people could be.

Second, and more importantly, Gregory had the quiet, controlled demeanor of someone who would absolutely lose his mind if pushed too far. Max had learned long ago that the calmest people were always the ones who went completely nuclear when they finally snapped.

The ultimate crash-outs.

"You have run sufficiently for today," Gregory announced, as if this were a great mercy he was bestowing. "Now we return to your primary challenge. Attempt to manifest your Fanga."

"Yes, sir."

Gregory folded his hands behind his back again, settling into what Max had come to recognize as his standard observation pose.

He spent several moments trying to convince his lungs that air was, in fact, still available in the atmosphere. When his breathing finally resembled something close to normal human function, he closed his eyes and reached for that sensation he'd felt yesterday.

The Fanga came easier this time.

It was still overwhelming, but manageable overwhelming.

"How do you feel?" Gregory asked.

Max opened his eyes and looked down at himself. His hands were steady despite the energy coursing through them. His breathing, while still elevated from the run, felt controlled. "Like I could probably punch through a wall. But also like I might explode if I sneeze wrong."

"Better than yesterday."

"Yes. Definitely better."

Gregory nodded once, as if this confirmed something he'd already suspected. "Yesterday, your body received the Fanga like a man drowning receives a wave—all panic and struggle. Today, you are learning to swim." He gestured toward Max's stance. "Your muscles know what to expect now. They prepare themselves instead of fighting the change."

Max could feel the truth of that. His body wasn't trying to reject the energy anymore, just... accommodate it.

"The mind adapts faster than the flesh," Gregory continued. "Each time you manifest Fanga, your spirit grows more accustomed to containing such power. Eventually, it will feel as natural as breathing."

"How long does that take?"

"For some, months. For others, years." Gregory's expression suggested he wasn't particularly optimistic about Max's timeline. "Follow me. Maintain the Fanga as you walk."

Max fell into step behind Gregory, concentrating on keeping the energy flowing through him.

They walked past the wooden practice dummies, past the archery targets, to a section of the training yard Max hadn't noticed before. Here, scattered across the packed earth, were various implements that looked designed for the specific purpose of making people suffer.

Gregory stopped next to what appeared to be a millstone—the massive, circular stone used for grinding grain. It was easily four feet across and thick as a man's torso. The center hole was just large enough for a person to get their hands through, though Max couldn't imagine why anyone would want to.

"Lift that," said Gregory.

Max stared at the stone. "Lift it?"

"Above your head. Hold it there for a count of ten."

The millstone had to weigh at least three hundred pounds. Probably more. Max had seen oxen struggle to move things that size.

"When you can lift this as easily as you would lift a sack of grain," Gregory said, "we will begin training you in the martial applications of Fanga. Swordwork, hand-to-hand combat, weapons mastery." He paused. "Until then, we focus on tempering your mind to accept what your body has become."

Max approached the stone, the Fanga still thrumming through his muscles. He'd lifted heavy things before—couches, appliances, the occasional drunk friend—but this was on an entirely different scale.

He crouched down, worked his fingers through the center hole, and tried to find a grip that wouldn't immediately destroy his hands.

Attempt number one.

"It's.. it's slippery." He said, staring Gregory.

Gregory looked at Max, then at the stone, then back at Max. He gave a single, economical nod.

For God's sake....

Max swallowed hard and repositioned his grip through the center hole.

He planted his feet, took a deep breath, and pulled.

The millstone moved. Actually moved. It rose off the ground perhaps six inches before Max's entire world became a symphony of protesting joints and the distinct realization that gravity was not, in fact, negotiable.

The stone was heavier than anything had a right to be. Not just heavy—dense, like it had been carved from concentrated suffering. Max's back screamed. His shoulders felt like they were being slowly separated from his torso. The Fanga coursing through him helped, but it was like trying to drain an ocean with a teacup.

He got it halfway up—maybe to his chest—before his grip started to slip and his legs began shaking with the effort.

"Come on," he grunted through gritted teeth.

The stone went exactly nowhere.

Max tried again, adjusting his stance, redistributing the weight. His arms burned. His entire core felt like it was being twisted in a giant's fist. The millstone rose another few inches, wavered there for a moment that felt like an eternity, then began its inexorable descent back toward the earth.

"Stop."

Max let the stone settle back onto the snow with a thud. He stood there panting, still maintaining the Fanga but feeling distinctly less superhuman than he had five minutes ago.

Gregory studied him. "Do you now see?"

"See what, exactly?"

"Garrett," Gregory called without raising his voice.

The younger man appeared almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting just out of sight. "Yes, sir?"

"Would you demonstrate the lift for Lord Vanheim?"

Garrett nodded and stepped forward. He didn't look particularly excited about being called over to show off, but he moved to the millstone without complaint.

Max watched as Garrett took the same grip he'd used, planted his feet in a stance that looked nearly identical to Max's own attempt, and manifested his Fanga with that same casual ease he'd displayed yesterday.

Then Garrett lifted the millstone over his head like it was a bag of grain.

"One," Gregory said, beginning to count. "Two. Three."

Garrett stood there, perfectly balanced, holding around three hundred pounds of carved stone above his head while breathing normally. No shaking. No visible strain. He looked like he could probably hold a conversation while doing it.

"Eight. Nine. Ten."

Garrett lowered the stone back to the ground and stepped back, barely even breathing hard.

"Thank you," Gregory said. "You may return to your duties."

Garrett nodded and walked away, leaving Max to contemplate the rather sobering gap between his performance and what had just been demonstrated.

"You possess roughly the same amount of raw Fanga as Garrett," Gregory said matter-of-factly. "Perhaps even slightly more, for some reason. The difference is not in power, but in foundation."

Max wiped sweat from his forehead. "Foundation?"

"Your body is weak. Your muscles lack the conditioning to properly channel the energy flowing through them." Gregory gestured toward the millstone. "Fanga enhances what exists. It does not create strength from nothing. If you give a man who can lift fifty pounds the ability to be twice as strong, he can lift one hundred pounds. If you give the same enhancement to a man who can already lift two hundred pounds..."

"He can lift four hundred," Max finished.

"Precisely. Garrett spent three years as a farmer's son before becoming a squire. He hauled water, stacked hay, worked a plow behind oxen. His body was already capable before Fanga made it exceptional." Gregory's gaze settled on Max with uncomfortable accuracy. "You have the soft hands of someone who has never done a day's hard labor in his life."

Max looked down at his hands. Gregory wasn't wrong.

"You will train your body," Gregory continued. "Push-ups to build the strength in your arms and chest. Running to develop your wind and endurance. Rope climbing for your grip. Carrying heavy stones to strengthen your back and legs." He paused. "When you can lift that millstone as easily as Garrett just demonstrated, we will begin training you in swordwork and the martial applications of Fanga."

"And until then?"

"Until then, you will do exactly what I have described. Every morning. Every evening. No exceptions, no excuses, no shortcuts." Gregory's tone brooked no argument. "I have other duties to attend to. I will not waste time teaching advanced techniques to someone whose body cannot support them."

Max felt his shoulders slump slightly. "So I just... train alone?"

"You train until you are no longer weak. When you can meet the standard I have set, you will call for me and we will proceed." Gregory straightened. "Dedication determines speed, Harek. Work harder, progress faster. Complain instead of training, and you will find yourself precisely where you are now next year."

"The millstone will remain here," Gregory added. "Test yourself against it anytime you reach a new milestone. When you succeed, you will know you are ready to advance."

Max nodded reluctantly. "Yes, sir."

Gregory turned to go, then paused. "One last thing. Do not mistake this for punishment. A knight's body is his primary weapon. Magic, Fanga, the finest sword ever forged—none of it matters if the man wielding it collapses from exhaustion after the first real challenge."

He walked away, leaving Max alone with the millstone and the uncomfortable realization that he had just been assigned what amounted to medieval CrossFit with a very specific, very heavy graduation requirement.

He stared at the stone for a long moment, then sighed and dropped down to start his first set of push-ups.

This was going to take a while.

Max dropped down into his first push-up without activating Fanga, and immediately understood why Gregory had been so specific about the physical conditioning requirement.

Push-up number one: manageable.

Push-up number seven: less manageable.

Push-up number fourteen: a fascinating exploration of exactly how many ways the human body could express its displeasure with poor life choices.

He collapsed face-first into the snow, arms trembling like leaves in a windstorm. The cold bit through his training clothes immediately, though not as severely as it should have.

The shirt was made from northern wolfwool—a thick, oiled fabric that trapped body heat even when damp with sweat. Without it, he'd probably be experiencing frostbite by now instead of mere discomfort. Northerners had learned long ago that staying alive through winter required more than just layering; it required fabrics that could handle moisture and still insulate. Even so, he could feel his body heat leaching away into the frozen ground beneath him.

"Ah," he gasped, rolling over onto his back. "Fuck."

A sneeze erupted from somewhere deep in his chest, followed immediately by another. His breath came out in white puffs that dissipated quickly in the winter air. The wolfwool might keep him from freezing to death, but it couldn't make lying in snow comfortable.

This was going well.

"Mind if I sit?"

Max looked up to find Garrett standing a few feet away, smiling. He was now wearing a heavy cloak that looked significantly warmer than Max's current situation.

"Sure," Max said, not bothering to get up from his undignified position in the snow. "Of course."

Garrett settled down beside him, tossing another his cloak at Max without a word.

"Thanks," said Max, gratefully wearing the cloak.

"Of course. Fourteen push-ups isn't terrible for a first attempt," Garrett said.

"Feels terrible."

"That's because you've never done real physical labor before." Garrett's tone carried no judgment, just an obvious truth. "When I first became Sir Bors's squire, I could barely lift his sword. Couldn't run more than a hundred yards without collapsing. He had me carrying buckets of water up and down the castle steps for three months before he'd let me near actual training."

Max turned his head to look at Garrett. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Three months of buckets. Then another two months of chopping firewood. Then mucking out stables." Garrett's smile broadened. "Sir Bors, just like sir Gregory, believes in building from the foundation up. Said there was no point teaching me swordwork if I couldn't swing the sword for more than five minutes."

"And you just... did it? For months?"

"What choice did I have? I wanted to be a knight." Garrett pulled the cloak tighter around him. "Besides, Gregory was right. By the time he finally let me start proper training, my body was ready for it. I could handle the strain."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching their breath fog in the cold air.

Max was waiting for the young man to say what he really came to say. It was always like that.

"I heard a lot about you before yesterday," Garrett said eventually.

"Ah."

There it was.

"The first time I saw you, you were drunk. Outside the Crooked Crown. You'd just gotten into a fight over some gambling debt, and there was a woman screaming at you to pay what you owed her." Garrett's voice remained carefully neutral. "You called her some... colorful names. Then you fell into a horse trough."

Max closed his eyes. "Damn it, Harek."

"People change," Garrett said quickly. "I mean, obviously they do. Look at you now."

"Yeah, well." Max opened his eyes and stared up at the cold, sunny sky. "I regret that. All of it. That whole... version of myself."

"To be honest," Garrett continued, "when you beat me yesterday, it hurt my pride a little."

Max turned to look at him again. "Way to bring down the mood."

"No, wait." Garrett held up a hand. "I don't mean it like that. I mean... I felt like I was being beaten by someone I thought was beneath me. Which was wrong of me. Completely wrong."

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of the castle and the wind whistling through the battlements.

"I've been training for four years," Garrett said. "Working every day to become worthy of knighthood. And you just... showed up. Manifested Fanga in six days. Beat me in front of half the fortress using techniques I'd never seen before." He shook his head. "My first thought wasn't admiration. It was resentment."

Max didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

"But that says more about me than it does about you," Garrett continued. "I was judging you based on rumors and past behavior instead of what I could see with my own eyes. That's not the kind of knight I want to be."

"Well," Max said finally, "at least you're honest about it."

"I wanted to apologize for how I acted after you won. The handshake, the forced politeness. I was being petty." Garrett looked genuinely uncomfortable. "It's been bothering me all night. I couldn't sleep."

Max studied Garrett's profile for a moment.

"Apology accepted," he finally said. "And for what it's worth, I didn't take it personally. You got thrown around by someone you thought was a drunk wastrel. I'd probably have been annoyed too."

"I feel better now that it's off my chest," Garrett admitted. "I respect you. This version of you, anyway. What you did at Eastwatch, how you've conducted yourself since becoming sir Gregory's squire. That's who you are now."

"Thanks." Max meant it.

They sat quietly for another moment, the warmth of the cloak making the cold bearable.

"If you want," Garrett said, "I could help you with your physical training."

Max looked at him. "How?"

"Well." Garrett grinned at him. "Have you ever been to a farm, my lord?"

***

The small little spider watched from his silent perch in the stone wall, his eight eyes glistening with wonder.

He is training again.

To the unworthy, it might appear as struggle—sweat, gasping breaths, trembling limbs. But I see it now. I understand.

This is not suffering.

This is discipline.

The Great Savior, whose voice halted death itself and whose mercy awakened my mind, does not train because He must. He trains because He chooses to. Because even one such as He does not consider Himself finished.

What wisdom. What restraint. To hold back His true strength. To disguise power in effort. To model growth so that lesser beings might comprehend its value.

The stone He could not lift? A metaphor. A reminder that even Him must labor.

The groaning muscles, the collapsing form? Not weakness—instruction. A demonstration to the watching world that toil is not shameful. That humility is the highest strength.

He is teaching.

Even now, even in the bitter cold, He teaches.

I see it now. The trial is not for Him. It is for me.

He knew I was watching.

He wanted me to see.

That thought landed in the spider’s mind like thunder. He turned it over, reverently, as though afraid it might vanish if looked at too directly.

Yes. He performs the ritual of growth to inspire growth in others. To remind even the smallest mind that transformation is not given—it is earned. Daily. Endlessly.

If He—who commands storms, who speaks and is obeyed by fate itself—still trains...

Then what excuse do I have?

What limits have I accepted as real, simply because I lacked His clarity?

The spider’s tiny limbs coiled inward, drawing close. Not in fear, but in focus.

I, too, must rise.

Not to mimic. Not to impress.

But to honor the example set before me.

He trains as a lesson.

Then let me learn.

The spider closed his eyes and turned inward, where the remnants of that first awakening still glowed faintly. He would find that spark again. He would nurture it, as his Master nurtured strength within himself.

This was not the end of his becoming.

It was the beginning of his training.