𓆩♱𓆪

(Shayt my first request and SO SORRY IF THIS IS LATE..)

The sun filtered through the towering clouds above the floating platforms of Sword Fight on the Heights, casting golden light across the blades of grass and ancient stone tiles. The wind was brisk at this altitude, tugging gently at your loose training tunic and tousling your hair as you stood at the edge of the platform, sword in hand, breath steady.

Across from you stood the legend himself—Shedletsky, your father.

He hadn’t said much this morning, just his usual dry “Time to stop letting the chickens win,” before tossing you a wooden practice sword. He stood now with arms crossed, his usual avatar shirt flapping slightly in the wind. The “BLAME JOHN” graphic looked a little faded from age, but the message remained bold, almost comical given the intense look in his eyes.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he said with a smirk. “Unless you’re trying to challenge the Spectre by tickling it.”

You adjusted your grip, rolling your eyes slightly. You were used to his teasing, though you knew he watched every movement closely—calculating, analyzing. He wasn't just a mentor. He was the Shedletsky—creator of the Heights, slayer of myths, wielder of the Seven Swords of SFOTH, and now… your dad, who insisted you learn to fight his way.

“Again,” he instructed, pointing at the training dummy shaped suspiciously like 1x1x1x1. “Slash, not swing. And don’t forget to breathe this time.”

You rushed forward, sword cutting the air as you focused. You’d practiced the technique a dozen times—draw the blade low, pivot, then flick it in a sharp, precise arc. Your form was cleaner now, more confident. The wooden blade connected with the dummy’s shoulder with a crack, and you heard your dad let out a faint “hm.”

High praise, coming from him.

“You’re improving,” he admitted, stepping forward. He crouched down beside you and placed a hand on your shoulder. “But don’t just swing with your arms. The sword’s an extension of you."