"Your swordsmanship—where did you learn it?" Samuel asked, his voice cutting through the quiet of the forest clearing.
"I learned it from a book, Why do you ask." Krey replied, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Nothing. I was just wondering which instructor was careless enough to let a student walk out into the world with so little real experience. Your individual technique isn't terrible. The essence of all swordplay comes down to slashing, thrusting, sweeping, and controlling distance. You understand the motions."
"If my technique isn't bad, then what am I lacking?" Krey pressed, frustration edging his tone.
"What you lack is experience. Combat boils down to three things: technique, experience, and sometimes, luck. You can win with superior technique, more experience, or just a sliver of luck. Victory often belongs to whoever holds the slightest upper hand." Samuel stated flatly.
"Luck? How can something as serious as combat come down to chance? Can't you just win by being stronger?" Krey scoffed at the ridiculousness of Samuel's words.
"You can. But the environment is always a player. You might be fighting in the rain, and a single drop lands in your eye, blinding you for a critical second. Or you might lose your footing on uneven ground. The world doesn't care about fairness." He raised the wooden practice sword and executed a sharp, downward slash.
"Look. A downward slash, no matter how many flourishes you add, will always be a downward slash. All sword styles are just different philosophies on how to use the same basics. Imagine two students taught the same style. They go on separate journeys for a year. Do you think their styles remain identical?" Samuel conceded.
"I suppose not. They'd adapt it to what they face." Krey said slowly.
"Wrong." Samuel corrected.
"It's deeper than adaptation. One's entire mindset reshapes their art. One fighter might have a calm, analytical mind, making their swordsmanship fluid and precise. Another might be driven by fury, making their swings wild and relentless. You borrow techniques until you forge them into your own."
A spark of determination lit in Krey's eyes.
"...Is this what I'm learning?"
"It's the reason we're here. But this style requires a sheath. It will be difficult without one."
"That's fine. I'll make it work."
Samuel sheathed the wooden sword with a soft *click*. "This sword art was taught to me by my father. It originates from the eastern kingdoms. Listen carefully." He bent his knees, lowering his center of gravity into a bladed, running stance, his feet planted wide. Then, he exploded forward.
Krey barely registered the movement before he was assaulted from all sides—a dizzying series of impacts that felt like being kicked in twelve different directions at once. He stumbled back, gritting his teeth.
"What was that?"
"The Sword Paths." Samuel said, returning to his starting position as if he'd never moved.
"A technique that relies on swift speed and precise accuracy. I could have aimed to break your neck twice over, but I pulled back at the last moment."
Eager to replicate it, Krey mimicked Samuel's stance and lunged forward, unleashing a flurry of slashes. Samuel, barely shifting his feet, dodged each one with infuriating ease.
"Sloppy. And slow." Samuel observed.
"Damn it! It's not my fault!" Krey snapped, gesturing to the jade bracelets on his wrists and ankles. "These things are heavy!"
"I know. That's precisely why I chose this technique for you." Samuel said, a hint of a plan in his voice.
"What? If you know how much they hold me back, why pick a style that demands speed?"
Taking a sip of water, Samuel continued to explained.
"Because it doesn't just demand speed, It requires immense leg strength to generate the initial lunge. You will be training to become fast enough to form a single, clean Sword Path. The burdens will make that speed, once earned, unstoppable."
A flicker of understanding crossed Krey's face.
"Yes, Master!"
Samuel's eye twitched.
"Don't call me that. It's strange to call your friend 'master'."
"Friends, huh..." Krey thought, a quiet warmth cutting through his fatigue.
"Quit thinking and get ready." Samuel ordered, his brief softness gone.
The training that followed was brutal. Samuel dragged Krey to the ground for push-ups, swiping a sharp blade beneath his palms to forcing him to push himself off the ground.
"Faster! Higher!"
"Shouldn't I be training my legs? Why this ridiculous routine?" Krey grunted, his arms burning.
"You dare question your master?" Samuel retorted, as he was sitting on Krey's back, forcing him to hold a plank under the extra weight.
***
The next day, they trained legs with endless jumping squats and lunges across the field, finishing with a frantic run through the forest—Samuel chasing him with a practice sword, the threat feeling all too real.
For two more days, Krey drilled the single technique with a wooden sword, step by painstaking step. During breaks, they ate simple banquets of dried meat and hard bread.
"Why am I only doing this one thing? Shouldn't I be training more? I feel like I could perform the Sword Path now." Krey asked during one rest, frustration simmering.
"You already are training." Samuel replied, taking a bite of bread.
"But this doesn't feel like it!"
"Do you know why you're drilling it this way?" Samuel asked, his golden eyes sharp.
"To make me look like a fool?"
"No. It's so you can practice the technique perfectly."
"I see, so you're going to tell me that practice makes perfect-"
Looking at Krey with a tense look, Samuel continued.
"You've practiced before, yes. But once you grow tired, your arms drop, your legs slow. Practice does not make perfect, practicing perfectly makes perfect. Engrave each step into your bones, into every fiber of your body. Do not practice until you get it right. Practice until you cannot get it wrong."
Krey nodded, the reluctance in his expression giving way to grim resolve, and continued his repetitions.
On a particular morning, Nixsen grew curious. Krey hadn't visited the library in days. She went to his residence and watched from a concealed spot. Her patience was rewarded when she saw two young men leave the building.
"No way. Does he swing for the other team? No no, there's no way Krey's into men." She thought, as mischievous played in her thoughts.
She followed them, surprised to see Krey with the silver-tongued, greedy young man who had bartered for a cut of their wolf reward. She moved stealthily through the city streets, but faced a problem once they passed through the gates: the open, lush field offered nowhere to hide. Improvising, she watched from a distance, saw them enter the forest, then hurried after them with surprising grace.
Once she caught up, hidden behind a thick oak, she watched Samuel put Krey through a merciless training regimen.
"...That poor boy." she whispered, a mix of sympathy and amusement in her voice.
A voice spoke softly beside her.
"My goodness, what are you doing here, Alison?"
Nixsen jumped, accidentally rustling the foliage and exposing their position to both Samuel and Krey in the clearing. Unbeknownst to her, Alison—who had noticed Nixsen sneaking about earlier—had followed at a distance, her own curiosity piqued.
"What do you mean? I only happened to be in the area..." Alison replied innocently, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face.
Before their conversation could continue, Samuel moved. In a flash, he drew a sword and launched himself toward the two women. Krey, seeing this, snatched up his own blade and lunged to intercept. 'One Sword Path.' He rolled forward, coming up on one knee just in time to block Samuel's descending strike.
"Move." Samuel growled, his expression a dark scowl.
"Why are you doing this?" Krey shouted, the force of the blow driving his knee deeper into the soil.
"They're with the Tercet. Who else would follow us into the forest!" Samuel snarled, his voice tight.
Krey gritted his teeth, pushing back with all his might. As he strained, a dark, navy-blue aura flickered around Samuel's blade. The pressure intensified, forcing Krey onto both knees, as if he were bowing.
Nixsen, seeing Krey in genuine danger, extended her hand.
"Light..!" she commanded, her voice resonant and clear.
"Form a condensed orb, bright as the sun." A searing blast of pure energy shot from her palm.
Samuel instantly summoned a second blade, crossing both swords to block the magical attack. The force shoved him back several feet.
"What was that? That wasn't a witch's chant..!" Alison gasped, staring at Nixsen.
Krey staggered to his feet, his legs trembling, and pointed his sword at Samuel.
"Stop! They're not the Tercet! They're my party members! My friends!" His voice rang with unyielding resolve.
Samuel looked closer, recognition dawning as he took in Nixsen's ashen hair.
"I see... It's just the cheapskate." he muttered, sheathing his swords.
"Goodness, what a harsh remark. I wonder who said such a thing. It almost makes me want to my fist into their face." Nixsen said sweetly, though her eyes were sharp.
"I wonder as well, since I was only talking to myself." Samuel replied coolly.
The tension broke. Krey's sword dropped from his hand, and he collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed by the fatigue of training and the strain of his desperate parry. At the same time, a trickle of blood escaped Samuel's nose. He wiped it away with a detached gesture.
"Are you quite alright, young man?" Nixsen asked, extending a hand.
"Yeah..." Samuel said, swatting her hand away.
He looked at his blade, then at Krey.
"What you saw around my sword... that was a sword aura."
"Teach me, Master!" Krey pleaded, still on his knees.
"Don't call me master.... It's not something that can be taught. I hope you weren't thinking of learning it make your life easier. And besides its not something that can be taught." Samuel said, his tone final.
Soon, the group stood together inside the guild hall. Samuel filled out a form at the reception desk, officially joining their party.
***
[Name: Samuel Bluebell Longsword]
[Registry: Graswald Kingdom]
[Party: Band of Outliers]
***