Burn the Beast: Eldritch God rehabilitated to a beast tamer

"But can I watch? Please?" El Ritch asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice carrying the perfect hint of mock innocence—a skill he had honed under Julian's tutelage and the witch's sly guidance. What he didn't realize was that his face, youthful and wide-eyed, didn't just mimic innocence; it radiated it, like the pleading look of a puppy.

The chubby boy hesitated, his resolve visibly wavering. With a sigh of defeat, he pointed to a shadowed beam supporting the ceiling, near the edges of the training ground. "Yes, alright. Sit or stand back over there. Just... stay out of the way."

"Thank you!" El Ritch beamed, practically skipping toward the spot, his excitement barely contained.

He leaned against the beam, his eyes fixed on the sparring matches unfolding before him. He watched as a skinny boy faced off against a moderately bulkier opponent, their movements precise and deliberate, though not without cracks.

The bulkier boy struck first, a downward swing of his wooden sword aimed at the skinny boy's left. The skinny boy evaded with a sharp sidestep, his left hand twitching as if to counter, though he held back. His opponent pressed on, swinging horizontally in an arc toward his head, forcing the skinny boy to leap backward just in time.

What followed was a torrent of attacks—a chaotic barrage of sword swings, quick kicks, and aggressive body movements. The bulkier boy pushed forward, closing the distance with determination. But the skinny boy mirrored his movements with remarkable agility, darting out of reach and countering at the last moment to keep the upper hand.

"Good defense!" boomed the tallest person in the training ground, clapping his hands. He was the instructor, El Ritch surmised.

"Defense? What defense?" the bulkier boy shot back, his voice loud and clear through the din of training. "All I see is a stick-bug running for his life!"

The skinny boy, unfazed, wagged his finger at his opponent with a mocking smirk. "A good defense is one where I don't get hit. It's a you problem if you're fat and can't keep up."

The bulkier boy's face flushed with indignation. "Better believe it then—"

Before he could finish, he lunged forward, grabbing his wooden stick and charging at the skinny boy. The two began an impromptu chase around the training ground, weaving between other sparring pairs. Their shouts and laughter rang through the air, an oddly playful interruption to the otherwise focused atmosphere.

Meanwhile, another duel caught El Ritch's attention. The chubby boy who had stopped him earlier was now facing off against a girl of similar height but far leaner. She moved with an intensity that belied her slight frame, her arms appearing too slender for the weight of the weapon she carried.

How does she even lift that? El Ritch wondered, his curiosity piqued as their battle began.

The girl's grip on her spear tightened, her eyes narrowing as she faced the chubby boy. Her spear gleamed in the faint light of the hall, its polished wooden shaft a stark contrast to the seemingly unimpressive sword the chubby boy held. His weapon, though carved for combat, seemed almost comical in his oversized grip, a dagger in the hands of a bear. Yet there was nothing amusing about the tension crackling between them. The air grew still, save for the muffled shouts of the skinny boy and his bulkier pursuer tumbling in the dirt outside.

"No excuses, yeah?" the girl said, her tone sharp, almost playful, though her stance betrayed her playfulness. 

The chubby boy chuckled, the sound low and warm. "A shame for you, then," he replied with a shrug. 

But she didn't wait for him to finish. Her spear shot forward in a flash, her right hand thrusting from its end while her left hand guided its direction, her palm steadying the shaft against the friction of the air. The spear moved with precision, aiming straight for the boy's side. 

He didn't dodge. Instead, he angled his sword just enough to deflect the strike, redirecting it wide. The spear glanced off harmlessly, and before it could fully extend, the girl caught it again with her left hand, maintaining control as the boy stepped into her zone. His steps were quicker than expected—not fast, but not as lumbering as one might assume from his frame. 

She pulled the spear back in a smooth motion, shifting it to her right hand. But as the wooden head of the spear came down toward him, the chubby boy ducked low, narrowly avoiding the strike. 

"A shame indeed," she said, a grin tugging at her lips as she twisted her body and swung the spear horizontally with both her hands, aiming directly for his face. 

But she had misjudged her strike. 

The chubby boy moved unexpectedly, hurling himself forward and absorbing the blow with his body, the spear slamming against his stomach with a dull thud. The force toppled him backward, and he fell heavily to the ground, his weight working against him as he struggled to land properly. 

The impact wrenched the spear from her grip, ripping against her palm and peeling the skin as it flew out of her hands. But neither wasted a moment. 

The chubby boy rolled onto all fours, his sword still gripped tightly in one hand, and lunged forward like a wild beast, his movements surprisingly agile for his size. The girl dashed for her fallen spear, grabbing it and spinning just as he closed the distance. 

She swung the spear in a wide arc as he came down on her with a vertical strike, his wooden sword poised to end the bout. She raised the spear to block him, but the recoil of his strength was too much. The impact echoed through the hall as the spear snapped in two, her hands trembling from the force. 

The chubby boy stood over her, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "A shame," he said, his gruff laugh carrying across the room. 

He extended a hand toward her, and after a moment's hesitation, she took it. He pulled her up with ease, her eyes glaring at him though her lips betrayed a faint, begrudging smile.

______________

The snapped-off dummy sword clattered near El Ritch, the sound jolting him from his reverie. His heart leaped as he quickly scanned his surroundings before crouching to pick it up. It was the skinny boy's sword, dropped in his chaotic scuffle with the bulkier boy, both of whom were now sprawled in the dirt, worn out but still tussling half-heartedly. 

El Ritch's chest pounded with excitement as he slipped behind the beam, clutching the broken weapon. His fingers tightened around the hilt as he adjusted his stance—left foot forward, right foot back—mirroring what he had seen moments ago. He swung the sword forward in a puncturing motion, imagining an invisible foe striking back. In his mind's eye, his enemy retaliated, a phantom blade slicing toward his ribs. 

With a sharp breath, El Ritch swiped upward, breaking the imaginary stab, his movements stiff but deliberate. His illusionary opponent responded, slicing through the air as if testing his defenses. El Ritch twisted his body, attempting to dodge, but his imagination outpaced him. In his mind, the sword cleaved through his skull, ending his little duel. 

Not perfect—but close. 

The thrill of it made his pulse quicken. He adjusted his grip and tried again, each movement sharper, more deliberate than the last. He could feel the rhythm of the fight taking hold, his breath aligning with the imagined strikes. 

"What do we have here?" a voice snapped him out of his trance. 

El Ritch squeaked, turning quickly to see the skinny boy standing behind him, his clothes smeared with dirt. Beside him stood the bulkier boy, in no better condition, his chest heaving as if they'd just been through a real battle. 

"Who taught you such crude movements?" the skinny boy asked, crossing his arms. "They look like you're trying to paint badly—on purpose." 

El Ritch's face flushed. "I-I-I just tried to copy what I saw," he mumbled, staring down at the broken sword in embarrassment. 

For a moment, the air went still. Confused by their silence, El Ritch glanced up to see both boys staring at him with wide eyes. 

"How old are you?" the skinny boy asked, his tone quieter now. 

"Eleven, sir," El Ritch answered hesitantly. 

The two boys exchanged a look, one that El Ritch couldn't quite read. Then the skinny boy gestured for him to follow. "Come out here. We want to show you something." 

Obediently, El Ritch stepped out from behind the beam, gripping the broken sword tightly. The training grounds were still alive with sparring pairs, but some of the students turned their heads as the bulkier boy cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Everyone! Look what I've got for you!" 

A ripple of interest spread through the group, a few breaking from their duels to gather closer. One of the onlookers, the chubby boy who had stopped El Ritch earlier, twisted around where he sat. "Bullying right in front of the teachers? Such audacity!" he called out with mock indignation. 

"Shut up," the bulkier boy shot back. "We haven't even touched him." 

"Why'd you call us over, then?" the chubby boy asked, the girl beside him casting a curious glance at El Ritch. 

The skinny boy stepped forward, pointing to El Ritch. "Will you try one more time?" 

El Ritch hesitated, wanting to decline, but their expectant gazes left him with no choice. He nodded reluctantly, stepping into the center of the group. 

Closing his eyes for a moment, he imagined the techniques he had observed—the chubby boy's way of shielding, the girl's precision strikes. With the broken sword in hand, he began to move, mimicking the movements he had watched so closely. His feet shifted, his strikes were cautious but precise, and his imagined opponent loomed large in his mind. 

When he finished, the silence was deafening. 

"So…?" someone finally broke the quiet, their tone unimpressed. "He's good for his age, sure. But why should we care? He's just practicing—" 

"But he didn't practice," the skinny boy interrupted, "He copied it, step by step, now. his voice firm. 

"And how would you know that?" 

"He told me," the skinny boy replied, his arms crossed. 

"Oh, fantastic," the other scoffed. "So now you believe every word out of a stranger's mouth?" 

"He's a child. Why would he lie?" 

"I was a child, and I lied!" another voice called out, sparking a ripple of laughter. 

"Then maybe you weren't a good child," the skinny boy shot back without missing a beat, earning a few chuckles from the crowd. 

But the laughter faded when someone at the back spoke up, their tone tinged with recognition. "Wait... I know his face. I thought it looked familiar." 

The students turned their attention to the speaker, who stepped closer, their eyes narrowing as they studied El Ritch. "He's the son of the witch!"