"Though I do not consider it a mark of weakness, I understand," he chuckles. And truly, he does. Life in Castlevania was a game, a perilous game of forcing down your competition by any means necessary, cheating or bluffing your way to the top if need be. Showing any sign of softness was madness. Four years had passed behind those blackened walls before Hector had risen to power. Four long, dreadful years before he could so much as think about making himself a pair of gloves.

Seeing as Firo declined, Hector gladly wriggles his fingers into the leathers and ties the cords at his wrists. It was good to be free of that wretched place.

Once more, he offers Firo the sword, hilt first this time. "Find your balance with it," he says, gesturing to the dummy. "'Tis double edged, and the impacts will feel slightly different than the wooden one."