The training hall was not what Creed expected.
He'd shown up yawning, shirt half-tucked, still brushing sleep from his eyes and mentally preparing himself for high-speed combat drills, soul pressure endurance training, maybe even sparring against some feral beast the old monk had locked in the basement for "motivation."
Instead…
He was sitting cross-legged in front of a basket of fluffy blue yarn.
"…Are we… making pillows?" Creed asked, blinking.
The old monk loomed over him like a vulture with arthritis. His face was as serious as a death sentence.
"No, boy. You're learning the most powerful and superior art in existence."
Creed stared at the two wooden knitting needles the monk slapped into his hands.
"…Knitting?" he asked slowly, like the word itself might explode if spoken too loud.
The monk nodded, single strand of beard swaying like it was also disappointed in Creed. "Knitting."
Creed glanced at the yarn. Then back at the needles. Then back at the yarn.
