Ezio deeply chuckled, settling himself on top of the other's chest, as he leaned forward and flattened his hands on the floor. "Aye, you have the worst stamina in the whole world, geezer. Perhaps, it would be wise to taste youth while you can."


Wryly, Altair quirked his lips and leaned his head back in his hands, his brow arching higher when the younger male stole them from their previous position and pinned his wrists onto the dirt—the resonance of the day's training rang throughout the ring, his exertion minimal except for the sudden quickening of his pulse, and gradually, he craned his neck to the side in expectancy. Silently, the assertive assassin made no further move to taunt, instead digging his fingers slightly into calloused palms while he peered down with all the resolve in the world. If it were not for the fact that his curiosity caused him to see the proposition, it would have been more than possible that he would show what real 'stamina' meant in the battlefield.

And amongst other things.

He continued, "I feel as if …" A smirk. "The strokes of your sword are too … slow."

"I see," the Grand Master replied, "that you are getting quite cocky, my pupil."

Once more, Ezio licked his lips. "I agree—my 'cockiness' inflates, in terms of your presence, insegnante."

God, he would be the death of him: this creation he had molded with his bare hands, much like the fashion in which said being proposed the entirety with a mere pull of his scar. "Dare you take this to such an extremity?" Breath. "Experience dictates the skill of a man."

"But age withers the potency of man—in terms of … ah, I do not mean to offend." Ezio subtly laughed, smirking as the revelation was received through narrowed eyes. "Yet, I still hold onto that particular piece of sages' wisdom."

"Unless, maestro, you mean to prove to me that such a claim is blasphemy."