Chapter Four: Training, Part Two: Axe Murder Edition

By the time we stumble back into the house, I’m a walking puddle of sweat. My body feels like it’s been run over by a car, then reassembled by someone with no medical license. Every muscle aches. Even my eyelids hurt.

Uncle Max doesn’t say much—just hands me a towel and points toward the hallway. “Shower. Then food.”

I don’t argue. Each step up the stairs sends a fresh wave of protest through my muscles. My legs shake. My hoodie clings to me like it’s trying to merge with my skin. Honestly, if I collapse halfway up and become a staircase ghost, that’s fine with me.

The shower is pure heaven. Hot water hisses against sore muscles and brings me back to life, layer by layer. I stand there longer than I should, letting the steam fill up the bathroom like a cloud. My thoughts drift—back to the training, the way Uncle Max had jogged beside me without a word, the weirdly steady feeling of being watched… not judged. Just seen.

When I finally make it downstairs again—damp hair, clean clothes, and marginally less dead—Uncle Max is already in the kitchen, cracking eggs into a skillet like it’s his morning meditation. The air smells amazing. Garlic. Onion. Something sizzling in oil. Real food.

I pause in the doorway, watching him. He moves with this calm precision, like every motion has been practiced a hundred times. That’s when I notice it—a faded scar slicing across the back of his right hand, pale against his tanned skin. Old. Clean. The kind you get from something sharp and serious.

My stomach growls so loudly I think I hear it echo.

He glances at me but doesn’t comment. Doesn’t ask how I’m doing or if I’ve recovered. Just slides a plate onto the table: scrambled eggs, toast, and… fried rice?

I blink. “This is not what I expected.”

He finally looks at me. “Eat before it gets cold.”

I sit and take a tentative bite. It’s good. Really good. The eggs are fluffy, the toast crisp, the rice perfectly salty with little bits of vegetables mixed in.

I glance at him, confused. “You can cook?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I live alone in the middle of nowhere. What did you think I ate—raw squirrels?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. MREs or protein bars or something dramatic.”

He doesn't answer.

As I eat, the silence stretches—not awkward, just... still. Peaceful, in a weird way. Like maybe words aren’t necessary when both of you are exhausted and halfway impressed that you made it through the morning.

By the time I scrape my plate clean, I feel… not good, exactly, but alive. Warm. Stable.

Uncle Max stands, rinses his plate, then nods toward the back door. “Outside when you’re done. We’ve got firewood to split.”

I blink. “Wait. There’s more?”

He shrugs. “Welcome to the countryside.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ten minutes later, I’m outside again—this time without the fog, without the whistle, but somehow still suffering.

Uncle Max stands by a log stump with an axe in hand. He demonstrates once—clean, sharp, precise—then hands it to me.

The axe is heavier than it looks. Much heavier. I stare at the block of wood like it personally wronged me.

“Is this like character building or something?” I mutter, adjusting my grip.

“It’s work,” he says. “That’s all.”

But there’s something in his voice—calm, steady, the tiniest trace of something gentler than before.

As I raise the axe, I wonder if this is his version of bonding.

The axe feels like a lead weight in my hands. Uncle Max’s demonstration made it look effortless—like slicing through butter—but my first swing barely dents the wood.

“Try again,” he says, voice low but steady.

I plant my feet, tighten my grip, and bring the axe down with everything I’ve got. The blade bites deeper this time, splitting the log with a satisfying crack. I almost smile.

Uncle Max watches without a word, then nods once.

“Not bad.”

I wipe sweat from my forehead and eye the next log warily. “How long do we have to do this?”

He shrugs. “Until you can split enough firewood to keep us warm for the night.”

Great. I glance at the sky. It’s barely afternoon.

Hours blur into rhythm—the chop, the crack, the steady thud as I drop each split piece into a growing pile. My arms ache, but the steady work quiets my mind. It’s the opposite of hacking: no screens, no code, just muscle and wood.

The sun shifts, inching lower, but we keep going.

My arms burn with every swing, muscles trembling and sticky with sweat. My skin scratches against the rough bark and splinters fly like tiny missiles. The world narrows down to the feel of the axe handle in my hands, the satisfying crack as the wood splits, and Uncle Max’s steady presence nearby.

He doesn’t rush me or bark orders. He just watches — quiet, patient — like he’s waiting for me to figure it out on my own.

After what feels like forever, I drop the axe and lean against the stump, chest heaving.

Uncle Max comes over and claps a hand on my shoulder. It’s a rare gesture — firm but not harsh. “You did good today.”

I glance up at him, surprised. “Really?”

He shrugs, eyes unreadable. “Better than most people would.”

The sky is streaked with orange now. I realize I’m not just tired — I’m... calm. There’s a strange peace in the ache, a comfort in the routine.

“Tomorrow, we do it again,” he says, turning back toward the house.

I follow him inside, feeling a little less like the stubborn kid who showed up at his door. Maybe this is how we start — not with words, but with work.

UPDATED VERSION OF THE CHAPTER:

By the time we stumble back into the house, I’m a walking puddle of sweat. My body feels like it’s been run over by a car, then reassembled by someone with no medical license. Every muscle aches. Even my eyelids hurt.

Uncle Max doesn’t say much—just hands me a towel and points toward the hallway. “Shower. Then food.”

No sympathy. No encouragement. Just instructions.

I don’t argue. Each step up the stairs sends a fresh wave of protest through my legs. Sweat drips down the small scar on my left eyebrow—the one from a childhood accident I barely remember. My hoodie clings to me like it’s trying to merge with my skin. Honestly, it’ll be a miracle If I don’t collapse halfway up the stairs.

The shower is pure heaven. Hot water hisses against sore muscles and brings me back to life, layer by layer. I stand there longer than I should, letting the steam fill up the bathroom like a cloud. My thoughts drift—back to the training, the way Uncle Max had jogged beside me without a word, the weirdly steady feeling of being watched… not judged. Just seen.

When I finally make it downstairs again—damp dark brown hair, clean clothes, and marginally less dead —the kitchen smells different than it did last night.

Warmer.

Uncle Max stands at the stove, back straight, movements precise. He cracks eggs into a skillet without looking at them, like he’s done this exact motion a thousand times. No music. No humming. Just the steady rhythm of cooking. Not that I would expect anything else.

I pause in the doorway, watching him. That’s when I notice it—a faded scar slicing across the back of his right hand, pale against his tanned skin. Old. Clean. The kind you get from something sharp and serious.

My stomach growls so loudly I think I hear it echo.

He glances at me but doesn’t comment. Doesn’t ask how I’m doing or if I’ve recovered. Just slides a plate onto the table: scrambled eggs, toast

He finally looks at me. “Eat before it gets cold.”

I sit and take a tentative bite. It’s good. Really good. The eggs are fluffy, the toast crisp.

As I eat, the silence stretches—not awkward, just... still. Peaceful, in a weird way. Like maybe words aren’t necessary when both of you are exhausted and halfway impressed that you made it through the morning.

By the time I scrape my plate clean, I feel… not good, exactly, but alive. Warm. Stable.

Uncle Max stands, rinses his plate, then nods toward the back door. “Outside when you’re done. We’ve got firewood to split.”

I blink. “Wait. There’s more?”

He shrugs. “Welcome to the countryside.”

***

Ten minutes later, I’m outside again—this time without the fog, without the whistle, but somehow still suffering.

Uncle Max stands by a log stump with an axe in hand. He demonstrates once—clean, sharp, precise—then hands it to me.

The axe is heavier than it looks. Much heavier. I stare at the block of wood like it personally wronged me.

“Is this like character building or something?” I mutter, adjusting my grip.

“It’s work,” he says. “That’s all.”

But there’s something in his voice—calm, steady, the tiniest trace of something gentler than before.

As I raise the axe, I wonder if this is his twisted version of bonding.

The axe feels like a lead weight in my hands. Uncle Max’s demonstration made it look effortless—like slicing through butter—but my first swing barely dents the wood.

“Try again,” he says, voice low but steady.

I plant my feet, tighten my grip, and bring the axe down with everything I’ve got. The blade bites deeper this time, splitting the log with a satisfying crack. I almost smile.

Uncle Max watches without a word, then nods once.

“Not bad.”

I wipe sweat from my forehead and eye the next log warily. “How long do we have to do this?”

He shrugs. “Until you can split enough firewood to keep us warm for the night.”

Great. I glance at the sky. It’s barely afternoon.

Hours blur into rhythm—the chop, the crack, the steady thud as I drop each split piece into a growing pile. My arms ache, but the steady work quiets my mind. It’s the opposite of hacking: no screens, no code, just muscle and wood.

The sun shifts, inching lower, but we keep going.

My arms burn with every swing, muscles trembling and sticky with sweat. My skin scratches against the rough bark and splinters fly like tiny missiles. The world narrows down to the feel of the axe handle in my hands, the satisfying crack as the wood splits, and Uncle Max’s steady presence nearby.

He doesn’t rush me or bark orders. He just watches — quiet, patient — like he’s waiting for me to figure it out on my own.

After what feels like forever, I drop the axe and lean against the stump, chest heaving.

Uncle Max comes over and claps a hand on my shoulder. It’s a rare gesture — firm but not harsh. “You did good today.”

I glance up at him, surprised. “Really?”

He shrugs, eyes unreadable. “Better than most people would.”

The sky is streaked with orange now. I realize I’m not just tired — I’m... calm. There’s a strange peace in the ache, a comfort in the routine.

“Tomorrow, we do it again,” he says, turning back toward the house.

I follow him inside, feeling a little less like the stubborn kid who showed up at his door. Maybe this is how we start — not with words, but with work.